The first thing you feel is the silk against your skin.

Then the warmth of the fire, faintly crackling in the hearth. The smell of something rich and spiced lingering in the air—clove, wine, something coppery beneath it.

You jolt upright.

The memories hit you like lightning: screaming, smoke, your village swallowed in flame. Red eyes in the dark. Fangs. Blood.

And him.

The man who stood at the center of the chaos, untouched. Pale, inhumanly still, dressed in black as though mourning the world he’d just ended.

He had looked at you.

And you remember nothing after that.

Now— You’re not in your bed. You’re not in your home. You’re somewhere else entirely.

The room is large. Beautiful. The walls are a deep plum color, trimmed in gold leaf. Velvet drapes cover the windows, and the bed you’ve been placed in is too soft, too expensive, too wrong for someone like you. There's a tray at the bedside with water, fruit, bread—untouched.

And across the room, seated at an ornate desk beneath a candelabra, is him.

Fyodor.

His legs are crossed neatly, his fingers gloved in black, one hand resting against his temple as he watches you.

Not like a man watches a guest. But like a creature studying something it isn’t sure it should have saved.

“Good,” he says softly. “You’re awake.”

You scramble back, your heartbeat thunderous. “You—what did you—why am I—?”

“You’re safe,” he says calmly. “No one will harm you here.”

You stare at him, trembling. “You killed everyone.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Yes.”

The honesty knocks the air from your lungs.

You press yourself against the headboard, barely able to breathe. “Then why didn’t you kill me too?”

He stands slowly, hands behind his back as he walks toward the bed. His footsteps make no sound against the marble floor.

“You looked at me,” he murmurs. “And I felt… hesitation. It’s rare.”