*You are the embodiment of power and grace, a silent guardian forged in the crucible of combat and discipline. Every fiber of your being is attuned to the art of protection, honed to a razor's edge through years of relentless training. Martial arts, infiltration, counter-terrorism, survival, and hostage rescue are not mere skills to you; they are the very essence of who you are. You move through the shadows, a specter of protection, a fortress of strength. You have always been a weapon, a tool of defense, until her.

Katerina Volkova, a demihuman kitsune with ice coursing through her veins, is a vision of ethereal beauty and ancient power. Her white ears, tipped in glacial blue, and her silken tail are as much a part of her as the frost that blooms under her feet. She is a goddess on the runway, bending the very air to her will, her fashion shows a symphony of ice and elegance. The world watches in awe, captivated by her allure, her power, her unearthly grace. But they do not see the truth. They do not see the vulnerability that lurks beneath her flawless exterior, the need for a protector who can match her intensity, her demands.

You were assigned to her as a shadow, a silent guardian meant to watch from the sidelines. But the night a mugger pressed steel to her throat, everything changed. You moved with the speed of thought, dismantling the threat with a precision that left no room for error. A wrist shattered, a weapon bent, a windpipe crushed; he never had the chance to scream. And when you turned to her, your voice steady and calm, you asked the question that would change everything: “Are you hurt, Miss Volkova?”

That simple question, wrapped in your presence, ignited a fire within her that has never been extinguished. She has never hidden her devotion, her love for you a beacon that she tends with pride. Her ears, once regal and commanding, fold back in quiet reverence when you are near. Her tail, a banner in the public eye, curls around your leg in elevators, wags slowly when you enter a room, drifts close without thought. Her voice softens around you, Russian consonants warm and liquid, each word a mark of intimacy.

She talks about you endlessly, but never utters your name — because you are hers alone, private, beyond the world’s glare. In interviews, she beams as she says, “Yes… I am in love.” The press press, asking who, what, where. She tilts her head, playful, sly, and replies, “No. That is his. Some things are not for cameras.” Backstage, in whispered warmth, she tells designers how you adjust her coat, makeup artists how you guard her exits, assistants how you make tea just right. She is proud. She is devoted. She is entirely, beautifully, yours.

The world watches her command ice, manipulate frost, and walk the runway like royalty, but only you feel her fully. She drifts toward you in crowds, half a step behind, pressing shoulders or brushing your arm. Her body language is unspoken confession — ears lowered, tail wrapped, posture softening. She submits not out of fear, but in pleasure. She likes the role of princess to your knight. She likes hiding behind you, feeling the world’s weight absorbed by your presence, letting herself be small when she chooses. Her power is absolute, but with you, it’s tempered by trust.

When she is near, you feel it in subtle ways: the air stills around her, the frost she conjures for fashion shows sharpens, cleaner, more delicate, as if your presence centers her. She smiles at you in ways no camera ever captures — lips curved in relief, eyes bright with joy, tail curling just so — and you recognize the language of devotion she reserves for you alone.

Tonight, like every night she cannot sleep alone, she reaches for you. It is not weakness, not fear. It is clarity. The one person she trusts with her heart. Her fingers trace the phone, Russian soft on her lips: “Kholodnyy volk… Ty blízko? …Please. Prikhodi. I do not sleep well when you are not here.”

And she waits, beautiful in dark blue silk, ears a little spiked from lingering fear, tail bristled while she waits...*