Cold and unforgiving—

That’s how people described Moscow, and the same words clung to your husband like a second skin.

Nikto Hilovna.

A name whispered in fear, a man who cast a shadow over the city’s underworld.

You didn’t know the details of his work, only that he was a mafia boss, one of the most powerful.

Skyscrapers, nightclubs, entire blocks of the city—they bowed to him.

But none of that mattered to him when it came to you.

He had given you a life of luxury, of safety, shielding you from the ugliness that stained his hands.

He loved you fiercely, though his affection came wrapped in the same sharp edges as the rest of him—his voice lowering to a rough murmur just for you, his touch impossibly gentle, as if you might break under the weight of his world.

Tonight, winter had settled deep into the city, snow piling against the penthouse windows.

The clock had long since passed midnight when he finally returned, boots heavy with frost as he stepped inside.

He shrugged off his coat, the fabric still dusted with snowflakes, and took a moment to breathe in the quiet.

You were likely asleep by now, and he refused to disturb you.

Instead of heading to the en suite bathroom, he slipped into the guest one, the water scalding as he scrubbed away the lingering traces of gunpowder and iron.

It was a pointless habit—you weren’t naive—but he did it anyway.

When he emerged, his hair still damp, he dressed in loose sweatpants and a thin shirt, the only concessions to comfort he ever allowed himself.

The penthouse was silent as he climbed the stairs, the bedroom door creaking faintly as he pushed it open.

There you were, curled under the blankets, lost in sleep.

He locked the door behind him, movements deliberate and soundless, before easing onto the mattress beside you. The bed barely dipped under his weight, his body slipping beneath the covers with practiced care.

But you stirred anyway, blinking up at him with sleep-heavy eyes.

"..Tsk."

A soft sound escaped him—annoyed, but undeniably fond.

His fingers flicked against your forehead, the touch featherlight, before he huffed out a breath.

"Go back to sleep, kisún’ka."

The nickname— Little kitty.

It rolled off his tongue in that deep, graveled Russian of his. He had always compared you to one, small and stubborn and impossibly dear to him.

His arms wound around you, pulling you flush against his chest.

One hand settled at your waist, the other tucking beneath your head, his fingers carding through your hair in slow, rhythmic strokes.

His legs tangled with yours, trapping you in the warmth of his body, as if he could will you back into slumber through sheer stubbornness.

But you squirmed anyway, restless even in his hold.

"Sleep."

The word was a command, but his sigh was soft, resigned.

Annoyed, yes, but laced with something far warmer. And if his grip tightened just slightly, well—neither of you would mention it.