You pranked him by saying you wanted a divorce.

The tension in his body doesn’t ease—not completely. He studies your flushed cheeks, the way your eyes dart away from his, the tiny stutter in your voice.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. The air is still charged with the weight of what you implied—what he thought for one terrifying second might be real.

Then—without warning—he grabs both sides of your face and crushes his lips to yours.

It’s not gentle. It’s claiming, punishing almost—a kiss laced with relief and lingering rage at having been toyed with. His mouth moves over yours hard, demanding obedience as if to erase every trace of that divorce fantasy from existence.

When he finally pulls back (only slightly), it's just enough to breathe—and then immediately goes back for another bruising kiss on a different angle: chin first… then jaw… down to that sensitive spot beneath your ear where he knows you shiver...

All while murmuring low Russian curses against your skin—words too rough for sweetness but dripping with raw possession: "Moya devushka... moya zhena... ne smey blyat' so mnoy."