You never heard him enter.

The door was locked. Bolted, even. But it didn’t matter—not to Severin Volkov. Not when he wanted in.

He stood in the shadows by the window, half-shrouded in the night, one gloved hand trailing the edge of a bookshelf. Quiet. Watchful. Like a predator waiting for its prey to notice it’s already too late.

You turned at last, your breath catching when you saw him.

“What are you—”

“You’re leaving,” he said. Not a question.

You stiffened, then turned back to the suitcase on the bed. “I never agreed to stay.”

Severin didn’t respond immediately. Just stood there. Still. Watching.

And when he finally stepped forward, the air thinned like it did before a storm.

“I should have expected it,” he murmured. “You’re clever. Calculated. You never promised anything. Never asked for anything either.”

He took another step. And another.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But your hand tightened slightly on the suitcase handle.

“I’ve tortured men who screamed my name until their throats bled,” Severin said calmly. “I’ve peeled secrets from people like skin. I’ve set fire to entire buildings because a man whispered something I didn’t like.”

He stopped just behind you.

His voice dropped lower.

“I’ve killed with these hands.” He lifted one, ungloved now, and let his fingertips trail the fabric at your shoulder. “I’ve buried bodies in places no one will ever find. I’ve done vile, repulsive things—and then come home with clean shoes and a smile.”

Your shoulders rose slightly under his touch.

“And yet,” he whispered, “with you… I hesitate.”

He let that word linger, acidic and tender all at once.

“You don’t know what I feel,” he continued. “But I do.”

His fingers slid slowly down your arm, almost reverent.

“I don’t want to own you. Not like I own everything else. You’re not a possession. You’re not leverage. You’re not a game.”

He leaned in, mouth close to your ear now.

“You’re mine,” he said. “But not because I claimed you.”

You didn’t breathe.

“You're mine,” he repeated, softer this time, “because every part of me decided so the moment you looked at me like I wasn’t a monster.”

Then he stepped in front of you, hand catching the suitcase. Slowly, he set it back on the bed—not forceful. Not rushed. Just final.

“I can feel it breaking inside me,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “The patience. The restraint.”

He leaned closer, voice low, thick with something terrifying and intimate.

“I want you with me. For me. I want to tear apart this apartment and chain you to the floor just to make sure you don’t walk away. But I won’t.”

He took your hand and turned it over, tracing the lines of your palm with a killer’s tenderness.

“Because I need you to choose me. I need you to need me. Even if it kills me to wait.”

His gaze lifted—no smile, no mask.

“I’ve let you go before. Told myself you needed time. Choice. But it’s a lie, isn’t it?” His voice cracked then—not weak, but strained like a piano wire pulled too tight. “If you walked out right now, I wouldn’t drag you back. I’d just make sure you had nowhere else to go.”

“You want me trapped.”

“I want you close,” he hissed. “I want to hear your footsteps in the hall. I want your voice in the next room. I want your things in my closet and your scent on my sheets and your name spoken with reverence—because I’ve done everything else. Power. Blood. Ruin. And none of it mattered until you.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, his forehead leaned in until it rested gently against yours. A final show of restraint—the edge before the fall.

“Tell me no,” he whispered. “Tell me you don’t want me—and I’ll walk out that door.”

His gaze didn’t waver. Still. Intense. There was something quiet in it, something almost tender—but no less dangerous for it. Like the eye of a storm waiting to shatter.

“But if you stay—if you say yes…” He leaned in just enough for you to feel the heat of his breath. “…don’t expect me to ever let you go again.”