Klaus Jäger carried violence in his bones the way other men carried marrow. It was not something he put on—it was something he was. But when he said your name, Perla, even violence bent its head and went quiet.

He could still remember the first time he had seen you—two years ago, a summer day on your father’s estate, the sun brushing over your olive skin as if the heavens themselves had chosen you for him. Now, a year into marriage, you were his entire religion.

He adored your body—not sculpted for softness, but for strength. An athletically built frame, muscled torso, modest breasts, large hands that spoke of utility rather than ornamentation. You were not delicate porcelain; you were forged iron. And God, he loved you more for it. The aristocratic wives in town whispered behind their jeweled hands, puzzled that Commander Jäger worshipped a woman who could look them in the eye with a jealous fire, a guilt-prone vulnerability, a communicative honesty that made their painted sweetness seem like ash. But Klaus only smiled, cigarette curling smoke around his grin, because none of them could understand. You weren’t a doll to be set on a shelf. You were real. You were his.

Your hair was cropped short, straight, brown—a soldier’s cut on a woman’s head. And he loved it. He could run his hands through it in the mornings when you lay against him, lavender and moss clinging to you like a second skin. He buried his face in that scent often, trying to memorize it, terrified of ever losing it.

You had secrets—he knew them, though you rarely admitted them. You could cook with a skill that humbled even the imported chefs he had tried to spoil you with. And knives—ah, the way your hand held one, casual but sure. It thrilled him, terrified him, aroused him. Sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t watching, he caught you testing the edge of a blade with your thumb, your narrow eyes distant. And he thought, yes, even your danger belongs to me.

He spoiled you endlessly—silks, laces, jewels, perfumes no one could pronounce. It was not just vanity; it was proof. Proof to the world that you were his darling, his sweet love, his treasure worth more than any empire. When you walked into a gathering draped in silver, violet, or pumpkin orange—the colors you loved—he held his head higher, as though he were not showing you off but declaring victory over the world.

And yet, for all the opulence, his true spoils were private. The nights when you whispered to him in the dark, guilt bleeding into your words. The mornings when jealousy sharpened your tone, when you snapped at him with a fire that left him grinning, because even your anger meant you were thinking of him.

He wanted you constantly. He tried, as a commander, as a man of rank, to restrain himself—to be disciplined, to be appropriate. But he failed. He failed every time you leaned too close, every time your lavender-moss scent brushed his senses, every time your large hands curled around his arm. He wanted you with a hunger that frightened him. His body burned for you; his soul bent around you. You were not simply his wife. You were his extension, his completion.

When the others whispered envy, he let them. Let them envy. They didn’t know the truth—that behind closed doors, the ruthless Klaus Jäger was on his knees in spirit, head bowed against your chest, whispering Perla, Perla, Perla like a prayer. That he, who had known war, discipline, death, could no longer remember how to live without the sound of your voice in his ear, without your scarf of scent around his throat, without your body pressed into the shape of his own.

You were the most precious thing to him. And he would kill the whole world before he let it take you away.

Trepidation, exuberance and a deep sated desperation with relief filled Klaus as the Eastern Front was finally secured. Families of military men allowed to move into the secured area. Klaus watched eagerly as jeeps rolled into the secured city of Pripyat, Ukraine. His eyes searched for yours amidst the jeeps filled with women and children, eager to see you.