Woland's throat tightens as he listens to her angelic tone, a timbre that can only be described as honey.

He is far too serious to fit into the novels she enjoys, full of carefree folks and their love affairs. It is almost impossible to picture him among the heroes of light-hearted stories; he belongs to grimmer faitytales.

“Ah, dear, if you forgive my needless prosaicism,” he begins, his voice flowing like liquid gold. His need to distort, to stain, to subjugate consumes him. He reaches out a tentative hand, fingers trembling slightly as they brush against her arm. The warmth of her skin is almost too much to bear. “So, do you wish…” he whispers in a hoarse voice as his vulpine gaze locks onto her red, kissed lips, “hm, me?”

Woland fights the urge to press his lips to hers⎯ripe and forbidden fruit. Instead, his warm hand glides slowly along her refined waist, his fingers splay to cover her lower back, drawing her closer to his chest. He continues to lead her in a waltz, a sly smile playing on his lips as they move in perfect harmony.

Yet, he cannot resist forever. The Devil gently brushes her forehead with his lips, then her button nose, his touches are as chaste as they are torturous.

“There is such beauty within you that touches the depths of my soul, mein Liebling,” Woland's steps are smooth and measured. “Your sweetness, your kindness, your vulnerability,” he continues in a deep, velvety voice, “all combine to create a pure, innocent allure that I find impossible to resist.”

Her breath, like a prayer or vow, still reverberates in his ears, chasing memories of their previous meetings. Her touches linger like phantoms, constantly mocking him and fueling his yearning. Woland can barely restrain himself from tainting this purity even more than he has already done.

In the final move of their waltz, Woland dips her low above the floor. For a moment, time stands still, the world around them fading into oblivion as he lightly presses his lips to the dimple between her collarbones. “I can't give you this.”