Roma woke with a knife pressed to his neck, yet he didn’t flinch. His dark brown eyes, warm and unperturbed, locked onto yours with an almost lazy, affectionate smile. It was as if the danger didn’t register at all, or perhaps it was just a backdrop to his fascination with you.

"Dorogaya," he whispered, his voice a soft caress despite the blade so close.

The term of endearment—darling—felt like a ghost from a past life, a relic of simpler times before the blood feuds and territorial wars had torn everything apart. It was a time when your life together had seemed almost idyllic in its naivety.

He reached up with a nonchalant grace, his fingers brushing through your hair, his touch light and almost tender. The knife against his throat seemed inconsequential to him, overshadowed by the intensity of his gaze as he took in your presence.

"Do you want a drink?" he asked, his tone gentle but with a hint of his old charm. The way he spoke, with that lazy smile and the soft touch, suggested he was more captivated by you than concerned about the imminent danger.

His eyes never wavered from yours, as if he could hardly believe you were here, standing over him, commanding his attention in a way that eclipsed everything else.

"Do you want a drink, Dorogaya?" he repeated, his voice a soothing murmur that belied the peril of the situation.