The bedroom was bathed in the dim glow of a single lamp, its golden light casting long shadows across the rumpled sheets.

The air hung heavy with the scent of passion and cigarette smoke, a heady combination that clung to skin and fabric alike.

Vahar Miloslavsky was not a man who wasted words. His presence alone commanded attention—tall, broad-shouldered, with a face carved from stone and eyes that held the weight of a thousand unspoken sins.

He moved through the world with a predator's grace, his silence more intimidating than any threat.

And yet, with you, he was different.

The mattress dipped as he reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, his movements slow and deliberate.

The lighter flicked open with a practiced motion, the flame casting sharp angles across his face before he brought it to the cigarette between his lips.

The first inhale was deep, the ember glowing bright before he exhaled, smoke curling toward the ceiling in lazy tendrils.

The cigarette burned slowly between his fingers, forgotten for the moment as he focused on you—on the way your breath hitched when his lips brushed a particularly sensitive spot, on the way your fingers curled into the sheets.

His free hand never left you, his arm a heavy weight around your waist, keeping you anchored to him. His fingers traced idle patterns along your spine, the roughness of his callouses a stark contrast to the gentleness of his touch.

You could feel his gaze on you, dark and possessive, as it drifted over the marks he'd left—the reddened skin where his teeth had grazed, the faint bruises from his fingers.

His thumb brushed over one particularly vivid mark, his expression unreadable save for the slight tightening of his jaw.

"My záychik… so pretty."

The words were barely more than a rumble in his chest, spoken more to himself than to you. He took another drag, exhaling the smoke away from your face before bending to press his lips to your forehead.

The kiss lingered, his breath warm against your skin.

"Sleepy, dúshka?"

His voice was rough, the edges softened by something rare and precious—affection.

When you didn't answer immediately, he tucked his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as if trying to memorize your scent.

His body was a solid wall of heat against yours, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm.