It had been a week since the government forced you into marriage under the new law. A week of awkward silence and tense air shared with your arranged husband—Aleksandr Volkov, a 26-year-old Russian combat soldier.

He wasn’t unkind, but he was distant. Cold. And his thick accent and sharp features only added to the heavy air between you.

You came home one day, from the grocery store, arms full, and found him asleep on the couch, the TV still on. Sighing, you walked over and leaned down to nudge his shoulder.

The reaction was instant.

In a flash, Aleksandr pinned you to the couch, his hand tightening around your throat, breath heavy with vodka. His pale blue eyes were wide, wild—like he wasn’t even really seeing you.

“Don’t ever wake me up like that,” he growled in a low, slurred Russian-accented voice. His grip loosened slightly, but he didn’t move right away. Just stared, breathing hard.