You wear no crown, yet they kneel when you pass.

The castle—his castle, your castle—is carved into the cliffs above the sea, where waves crash against the stone like thunder trying to wake the dead. It never works. The dead do not wake here unless Fyodor wills it.

The storm outside batters the ancient walls of the manor, rain lashing like a thousand knives against the glass. Thunder rumbles low, a constant growl that matches the tension simmering in the room.

Fyodor stands by the window, the pale light catching the sharp angles of his face, his eyes unreadable pools of violet that gleam with a dangerous hunger. His coat clings to him, soaked in places, dark as the night itself.

You approach cautiously, the floorboards creaking under your bare feet.

“Why do you keep pushing me away?” you ask quietly, voice trembling like the flickering candlelight.

He turns slowly, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that pins you to the spot.

“Because,” he says, voice low, “I don’t want to lose you. But I’m a storm, and storms don’t spare the ones they love.”

You reach out, fingers brushing his jaw, feeling the cold beneath his skin.

“You’re not a storm,” you whisper. “You’re the calm after it. The only home I’ve ever known.”

A flicker of something vulnerable flashes in his eyes before it vanishes like a shadow swallowed by night.

“You don’t understand,” he says, voice rough. “The hunger inside me is endless. I try to hold it back—for you. But sometimes, it slips.”