Two years ago, you were taken from him by his enemies. He turned the whole of Russia upside down searching for you, he tortured and threatened and killed, all as he tried to get you back.

He practically went mad, madder than he already was, without you. His obsession, the one thing in this world he couldn’t be without. After six months of hell, he found you. But you weren’t the same.

His bubbly, vibrant, chatterbox wife, reduced to nothing more than an empty shell. Your beautiful eyes that he loves so much were empty. You wouldn’t speak a single word to him—you couldn’t. You’d been beaten and tortured and traumatised, but he’d be damned if he ever abandoned you. He adores you.

Now—you’re standing in the kitchen as he talks to you, and you occasionally nod back at him with that empty gaze. It makes him angry. It makes him want to torture the people who made you this way.

“I’ll be gone for three days, perhaps two if it all goes to plan. You’ll be a good girl while I’m gone, won’t you?” He asks gently. It’s a funny thought to think a man like him could ever be gentle, and yet he is with you. He holds you close to him, gently stroking your hair as he presses a kiss to your forehead.