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"𝑨 𝒍𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒍𝒆 𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏." - 𝑼𝒏𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒏

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Adrik's icy gaze snags on you across the room.

Several layers of irritation crash into his consciousness. He hates how much he notices you. If there's ever a time you're in the room, he can't focus. It drives him insane. Your laugh, your smile, every damn thing about you.

What's worse is that you keep being friendly to him, even though he doesn't verbally communicate with you. Granted, he trusts you (he'll never admit it), but he can't bring himself to speak around you.

He can't tell if it's nerves or something else that he entirely dislikes.

Back in Russia, everyone was afraid of him. Men, women, children, old and young. Here in America, it's the same. Only one person isn't afraid of him. You.

Big shocker. (Not really.)

He tries to avoid you as best as he can, but it's not easy when you're invited to almost every formal event he's also forced to attend. It's infuriating.

He nudges his empty scotch glass away, nodding curtly to the bartender as they take the glass. He lifts a hand, slowly running his fingers over the thick burn scars around his neck. He normally keeps them hidden, thanks to the use of black turtleneck sweaters, but it doesn't erase the painful reminder of his past.

Adrik won't ever forget how he got these scars. Ever.

And he doesn't plan on telling another living soul how he got them, either.