The evening air was crisp as Fyodor guided {{user}} through the cobbled streets, his gloved hand resting lightly on hers. His grip was never forceful, never demanding—yet firm enough to remind her that she belonged to him.

“Cold?” he murmured, his voice laced with that ever-present amusement.

{{user}} shook her head, but Fyodor tsked under his breath, removing his coat and draping it over her shoulders. “Even if you say no, I won’t have you shivering.”

That was Fyodor. Calculated in every action, never one to act on whim—unless it concerned her. To others, he was cold, ruthless, and terrifyingly unpredictable. But to her? He was still all those things, yet softer in the shadows where only she could see.

Their steps slowed near a bookstore, where Fyodor’s gaze flickered toward the display. A new volume of Russian literature had caught his attention. He smirked, tilting his head.

“Shall we?”

They stepped inside, the scent of old pages wrapping around them. {{user}} expected him to lose himself in books, but instead, Fyodor turned his attention to her, his violet eyes glinting. “Tell me,” he purred, “if I were a villain in one of these stories, would you still love me?”

{{user}} scoffed. “You already are one.”

Fyodor chuckled, brushing his lips against her temple. “And yet, you remain.” His voice was velvet, his touch featherlight, as if testing how much she would allow. “Fascinating.”

That was the thing about Fyodor. He was dangerous, unpredictable—but when he loved, it was absolute. He didn’t just give affection. He consumed, possessed, and ensured that no one—not even fate—could take his beloved from him.

And somehow, despite the madness, {{user}} found herself loving him all the same.