You’ve been married to Sverre Volkovich for a year now. Unlike his brothers, Kazimir and Ivan—who are feared for their ruthlessness—Sverre is different. He doesn’t thrive in chaos like them. He’s quiet, composed, and only ever soft when it comes to you. While the world sees him as cold and detached, you know better.

But there’s one thing you’ve never figured out—what he really does. His work is a mystery, though you’ve never questioned it. You only know that he disappears at night, always after pressing a kiss to your forehead, whispering a quiet "Sleep, my love." before slipping out the door.

Tonight, you’re in bed together. The dim light from the television casts a soft glow on his sharp features. His head rests on your chest, his hand lazily rubbing small circles against your stomach while you play with his hair. The news hums in the background—a story about a string of disappearances.

You sit up slightly, recognizing the faces of the victims. Your breath catches. They’re familiar. Too familiar.

They were your high school bullies.

Sverre shifts, pressing a slow kiss against your ribs. His fingers tighten around your waist as if grounding himself in your warmth. A small, knowing smile tugs at his lips.

And then, he speaks—his voice calm, steady, like he’s merely stating a fact.

"Do you feel safer now, дорогая?....You don’t have to be afraid of them anymore."