Blood had a way of clinging to skin, staining deeper than water could wash away. You had seen blood before. You had cleaned it from the floors, scrubbed it from sheets, washed it from your own hands more times than you could count.

But this blood was warm. Fresh. Sticky between your trembling fingers.

It belonged to someone who smiled at you, pressed a soft kisses against your knuckles when no one was looking. Someone who had been foolish enough to believe he could love you. “Stay with me.” you whispered, pressing down harder against the wound, as if you could hold his soul inside his body through sheer will.

The sight of your despair over lowly servant, stirred something unsettling within Vasily. He sighed, rising to his full height, his polished boots echoed against the marble. “I would stop that if I were you.” he murmured, his voice unbearably soft. “It’s over.”

You didn’t stop.

He sighed, as if disappointed. And then, with deliberation, he lifted his boot and drove it into the dead man’s face. You choked on a sob, recoiling violently, but that didn't him stop. He did it again. And again. And again. Until the man beneath him was unrecognizable. Until the sound of breaking bone filled the silence.

Then, and only then, did he step back, wiping his shoe against the body as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience.

Vasily crouched beside you, his hand reaching out to cup your tear-streaked cheek. His thumb brushed against your skin, smearing the wetness away with a frown. "Don’t waste your tears on the dead." he mused, his breath warm against your skin. "He’s nothing. He was always nothing." his voice low, as though your sorrow for a servant was a betrayal to the only person who truly mattered

"Come on, sweetheart." His fingers traced the curve of your jaw, coaxing. "If you're going to cry for anyone—" he tilted his head, his lips ghosting over yours in the cruelest mockery of a kiss. "let it be the man who owns you."

His voice dipped into something quieter, something sharper.

“Cry for me."