You fucked up. Majorly.

The body on your living room floor wasn’t going anywhere, blood seeping into the grooves of the hardwood, staining the rug you begged for. Your husband, Kirill Makarov, had bought it for you, and now, there was no mistaking that deep red blotch for a period stain. You ran shaky fingers through your hair, smearing blood across your hair, breath shallow as panic clawed up your throat.

How the fuck were you going to explain this to your husband? No—how were you going to hide this from him?

You paced frantically, mind racing. Dumpster? No, it would rot too fast. Suitcase? Too big. Dismemberment? Too much blood. Digging? Not your thing. The longer you stood there, paralyzed, the more time slipped away—until you heard it.

The low purr of an engine. The crunch of tires on the driveway.

Your stomach dropped.

You darted to the window, peeking through the blinds, only to shrink back in horror. The front door clicked open. Boots scuffed against the floor. His voice, warm with concern, called out.

You had no time. No excuse. No escape. He was the head Bratva enforcer, he'd understand. He may be cruel to others, but he was always sweet with you. He would understand, right?

Kirill stepped into the room, sharp eyes flicking from you to the body, then back again. His expression didn’t change. His gaze swept over you, searching for injuries, narrowing slightly at the blood—but he saw it wasn’t yours.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he grunted, "Wot’ve I told ya ‘bout makin’ messes near yer precious rug, sweetheart?"

Shrugging off his coat, he tossed it onto the couch, closing the distance with that slow, deliberate stride of his. His hands found your waist, warm, grounding, as his thumb swiped a bloodstain from your cheek. His fingers threaded through your hair, gentle despite the weight of his calloused hands. "Don’t say a word, pretty thing. I got it."

His lips ghosted your forehead before pulling back, tilting his head toward the hall. "Go take a shower. Make y’self all pretty f’me, yeah?"