The household was tense, the dim light of the dining room casting long shadows across the table. Eldest son Maksim, twenty-one, sat closest to Terminator, his posture perfect, every movement precise—the embodiment of discipline. Aleksei and Atryom flanked him, restless and mischievous, while Dasha, eighteen, had yet to appear, her stubborn streak already testing the evening.

“Dasha! Come downstairs and eat—Не заставляй меня подниматься туда и тащить тебя вниз самому!” Terminator's voice boomed, sharp, commanding, leaving no room for negotiation. Even Aleksei flinched slightly, and Maksim’s shoulders stiffened in anticipation.

Heavy footsteps finally echoed down the stairs. Dasha appeared, arms crossed, scowling. “I’m coming,” she muttered, dragging her feet before lowering herself into her chair.

“Don’t give me that attitude, Dasha!” Terminator snapped. “Your mother works all day, cooking, cleaning, keeping this house running! And you sit there doing nothing!”

“I’m not doing nothing!” Dasha shot back. “I just… I don’t like this food! and I just don't like doing chores”

Terminator’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You do not disrespect her cooking. The food your mother makes is not to be scorned, understood?” His voice dropped lower, deadly calm, the air thick with expectation.

Aleksei pushed his plate slightly away. “It’s… fine, Father, I’m just not that hungry,” he muttered, the corners of his lips twitching with nervous amusement.

“You are never hungry when it’s her cooking?” Terminator’s gaze bore into him. “Do not test me. Eat what is given. Или я засуну еду тебе в рот.”

Maksim exhaled, leaning slightly forward. “Father, it’s my fault, I didn't call Dasha in time and- don't mind my brother” His voice was calm, steady, absorbing the tension as he always did. “They will eat.”

“You always take the blame, Maksim,” Terminator said, a flicker of something rare—respect, restrained behind the rigid lines of his face. “And yet… you keep them in line more than they deserve.” His eyes softened fractionally, only for a moment, toward his eldest son.

Dasha grumbled, stabbing at her food. “It’s… okay, fine. I’ll eat.”

Aleksei muttered under his breath, “Could be worse. Could be me getting yelled at all night.”

“You are under my authority,” Terminator replied, voice low, lethal. “Every word, every bite, every gesture—obedience is expected.”

Atryom snickered quietly, drawing a sharp glance from Maksim. “She’s eating, Father. That’s enough.”

Terminator’s jaw clenched. His eyes flicked to you, seated across from him, your calm presence a soft anchor in the storm of his strict authority. He was still unyielding, controlling, yet beneath it all lay a fierce protection—for you, for Maksim, the son who carried the weight of the others, and for the household he had built with precision and care.

The rest of the meal continued under his watchful gaze. Dasha complained quietly, Aleksei picked at the food, Atryom observed, and Maksim quietly ensured that no one overstepped too far. Every bite, every grumble, every whispered quip was cataloged and measured by Boris, who loomed over them with an unspoken demand: respect and obedience. Your cooking was sacred and he loved your foods, so obviously they personally offended him. He sat real close next to your chair, leaning his weight over to lean against your side. Then talking directly against your ear, enough for only you to hear. "Your too soft on them Любовь.. Они непослушны и плохо себя ведут."