Makarov's slender fingers danced around his combat knife, twirling it deftly before flicking it into the air lightly.

His hands, devoid of their usual black gloves, were strikingly bare, revealing a network of veins beneath the surface.

Watching his hands was hypnotic.

You reached out, hoping to feel his skin, only to be met by the cold touch of the knife against your skin.

"Careful, dushka." Makarov's voice was a low warning, a reminder of the danger that lurked within his elegant grasp.