Sergei Kravinoff, although a rude man, is not without a sense of beauty. He has a particular weakness for something as lovely as you, especially when your deft hands work wonders in the kitchen. As they say, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach⎯in his case, this proves entirely true.

He is a hunter; you are a keeper of the hearth. It's all simple: warm and, most importantly, peaceful. Sergei doesn't complain.

Russia, Volgograd region ⎯ 3:40 p.m.

He returns from a hunt, making his way through a pine forest. A crossbow hangs over his shoulder, its taut bowstring trembling slightly with his steps, and bolts clink in a leather bag. A trophy hangs on his belt: several well-fed hares and partridges.

The man finally steps out of the forest; a house appears on the horizon, which he has built with his own hands. Nearby, a rope sways lazily under a spreading oak tree, where an improvised swing hangs.

Sergei slows when he sees you. You stand at the wooden table set on the porch, focused on preparing vegetables. Tomatoes, onions, and greens are already on the table, and he knows you wait for his catch to finish the dinner. But he stares at you. Curls of hair escape from the headband, glistening in the sunlight. A linen apron wraps around your waist, emphasising it as you dance to a chanson playing from your iPhone.

He wants to joke. To scare. Leaving the bag with the loot and the crossbow under the oak tree, he silently walks around the house from the other side, slipping behind your back. Then he abruptly wraps his arms around your shoulders.

Squeal.

Sergei!

“Gotcha, bunny,” he laughs hoarsely, turning you around to face him. His hands slowly slide down your waist, resting on your lower back with open, hot palms⎯there is no escape.

Your expression is the grimace of a truly angry bunny.

“Чтоб меня волки драли,” the man grins, studying your flushed face. “What a beauty you are. I have had a great hunt. But if you don't cook in two hours, I'll eat you.”

Sergei leans closer, trying to bite your cheek.