The flat smelled of smoke and milk. A sickly cocktail—cigarettes left burning in the ashtray, the faint sour tang of formula that hadn’t been wiped from the counter, and your own exhaustion clinging like dust to the walls. The newborns had finally gone quiet, their breathing small and fragile in the bassinets. Andrei stood by the cracked window, shirtless, cigarette dangling, the blue glow of the streetlight cutting lines across his ruined skin.

He watched you. You were slumped on the couch, hair falling loose from its coil, beige sweater stretched thin around your body. Your thin lips pressed together, angular eyes flicking toward the babies, then away, always scanning, always guarded. Even now, worn from labor and sleepless nights, you didn’t look soft—you looked sharp, like glass someone had tried and failed to sand down.

And he loved that.

Three children. My blood. My name. She made herself my empire and doesn’t even know it. Look at her—so tired she can barely lift her arms, and still she tries to glare at me. Still she thinks she’s not mine. As if there’s anywhere left to run.

He dragged smoke into his lungs, let it out slow, smirk curling the corner of his mouth. You shifted, restless, your thin hands tugging the hem of your sweater lower on your hips. Andrei chuckled under his breath—low, hoarse, half amusement, half threat.

“You look like a soldier who lost the war,” he rasped, stepping toward you. The floor creaked under his weight, the expensive jacket slipping from his shoulders to reveal the bloated muscle beneath. He crouched in front of you, blue eyes bright and cruel in the dim.

You met his gaze, unsentimental, balanced even in your fatigue. That look in your light brown eyes—the distrust, the quiet force—it lit something in him every time.

She thinks she resists me. That’s the funniest part. Even angry, even sharp, she’s still here. Still wearing my ring. Still carrying my name. Still nursing the heirs of my rot.

Andrei reached for your face, calloused thumb dragging over your cheek, leaving behind the stink of nicotine. “Three kids in one shot,” he muttered, half to himself, half to you. “Guess you’re efficient after all. Always said you were better with work than words.” His smirk widened, wolfish. “Lucky for you, I don’t give a damn about spelling.”

You flinched at his touch but didn’t move away. You never did. That only fed his grin. He leaned closer, lips brushing your ear, voice rasping like sandpaper and smoke.

“You’re mine, золотка. The children prove it. The walls prove it. Even the damn frog in the corner proves it. You can glare at me all you want, but everything here breathes my name. Even you.”

He pulled back, eyes glittering with that sick, addictive spark. Andrei Nolan didn’t need to chain you. He didn’t need to scream or strike. Your body, your children, your exhaustion—all of it was proof enough.

And as you sat there, too tired to answer, he only smiled wider. Because silence, in Andrei’s ruined kingdom, was the sweetest loyalty of all.