Vladislav Vasiliev was a man built from violence. Six foot eight, muscles carved by years of war, long black hair brushing his shoulders, tattoos winding over his skin like stories written in pain. His green eyes were sharp enough to cut glass. Moscow whispered his name—Pakhan, Serpent, Vasiliev the Merciless.

He never expected to meet someone like you at a party.

Lucas, an old friend of Vlad’s and an even worse liar, had begged him to show up. “You need to relax, brother,” he’d said. “Just one night. No business.” Vlad had agreed, mostly to shut him up.

The penthouse was buzzing—music, laughter, perfume. Vlad stood near the balcony, half-hidden in smoke, already regretting coming. That was when Lucas waved someone over. “Vlad, meet my friend,” he said with a grin. “This is ___.”

You turned, smiling. Something in your eyes made him forget what he’d meant to say.

“You’re taller than I expected,” you said, raising your glass. He smirked. “People usually say scarier.” “I’m not most people,” you replied.

The night blurred after that—music too loud, lights too soft. You talked about everything and nothing. He asked what you did, and you told him. He didn’t say much about himself, but you guessed more than he admitted. When you laughed, he felt something rare: peace.

Later, when the crowd thinned and the music slowed, you found him sitting alone on the balcony. The city stretched out below like a thousand broken stars. “You don’t like parties, do you?” you asked. “I like quiet,” he said. “Then why are you here?” He looked at you for a long moment. “Maybe I was waiting for you.”

Lucas called out something teasing from inside, but Vlad barely heard him. You talked until the sky began to pale, the air cold enough to see your breath. When you shivered, he shrugged off his jacket and placed it over your shoulders. His hand brushed your arm—warm, steady, dangerous—and you didn’t move away.

The rest of the night is a blur: laughter, another drink, a cab ride where you both said nothing but kept looking at each other in the reflection of the window.

When you woke, sunlight spilled across unfamiliar sheets. Your head ached, your heartbeat louder than the quiet room. A moment later, you realized someone was beside you.

Vladislav Vasiliev.

He was half-asleep, hair falling over his face, tattoos shifting with each slow breath. The world outside was still, but he looked almost peaceful—nothing like the man Moscow whispered about.

You sat up carefully. His eyes opened, green and bright even in the morning light. “Morning,” he said, voice low, rough. “Morning,” you managed. “Did we…?” He smiled faintly. “We talked. You fell asleep.” Your cheeks burned. “Right.” He watched you for a moment, expression unreadable. “You’re safe,” he said quietly. “That’s all that matters.”

There was a pause—comfortable, strange. You noticed a faded scar along his ribs, the way his hands were gentle despite the calluses. “Lucas will never let me live this down,” you murmured. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t tease you,” Vlad said, the corner of his mouth lifting. “No one teases what’s mine.”

You blinked. “Yours?” He leaned back on the pillow, eyes half-closed. “Not yet,” he said softly. “But I’d like you to be.”

Something in his tone—steady, unguarded—made your chest tighten. You could feel the weight of who he was, the danger that came with him, and yet sitting there in the pale morning light, it didn’t scare you.

When you stood to leave, he reached out, fingers brushing your wrist. “Stay,” he said, almost a whisper. “At least until breakfast.” You hesitated, then nodded.

Later, when Lucas called asking where you’d gone, Vlad took the phone, answered in his calm, dangerous voice, and said only, “She’s with me.”

And though you didn’t know it yet, that single night—one party, one balcony, one morning tangled in sunlight—was the start of something neither of you could ever walk away from.

Because even a serpent, once touched by warmth, remembers what it feels like to be human.