Chapter Text
He sees you in a sun drenched cafe, cinnamon and spice steeped into the air, echoing with the gentle scrape of mug on porcelain and the delicate hush of whispered conversations. Pretty little thing with your knees drawn up, paperback cradled in your palm, lip caught in your teeth.
Makarov gets a cup of coffee, though he’s only half paying attention as he hands the Euro’s over to the cashier. His eyes are already sliding back over to you- have been since the moment he stepped through the door. There’s dew clinging to your lashes, wetting the edges of your gaze, and just as he reaches for the steaming mug, you swipe the back of your hand across your eyes and wipe away the glinting crystal of a tea.
Something stirs deep in his gut.
Ah fuck.
Makarov watches, head titled, eyes narrowed. He’s killed men for less than the look on your face. That open, aching softness, that quiet sadness you don’t bother hiding.
You flip the page, sniffle again, and that’s what does it. That small, innocent sound, rattling something loose in his chest, something rusted shut years ago. Something locked up so long it creaks when it moves and has no business existing inside a man like him.
He moves and takes the table next to yours. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t blink. Just watches the way your thumb strokes the edge of the book like it’s someone’s skin. (He imagines those delicate fingers wrapped around his cock and heat flares sharp and sudden in his abdomen making his throat go dry.)
You don’t notice him at first but something- some instinct embedded in your DNA honed in the marrow of prey creatures in the presence of a predator- makes you lift your head and your big, sweet, doe-like eyes meet his.
You give him a small, unsure, and timid smile; offering a soft hello in a voice so sweet he wants to wedge it between his teeth and bite down. Sink his cuspids into the curve of your neck and taste the pulse beneath.
He wants to ruin you just like he ruins everything else in the world.
“Tell me,” he says, voice a soft iron rasp, “what story makes such pretty girl cry in the middle of cafe?”
You swipe the heel of your hand under your eyes, warming when you catch his gaze. “O-oh…It’s… not the book.” Your laugh is brittle. “It’s just… I had a fight with my Dad and stormed out before either of us could say anything more we would regret.”
He lifts a brow, a fleeting creases of concern touching an otherwise severe expression. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and studies you with sharp eyes like you’re fragile porcelain. “Ah, милая штучка, poor thing,” he croons, the words rolling out low and intimate. “Family cuts deepest, da? Little wound here-“ he taps two fingers over his heart. “-where pages cannot reach.”
Your lashes flutter, another tear threatening, and he reaches slowly and deliberately to capture it with his knuckle, brushing it away before it falls. The touch is absurdly gentle for a hand that could break necks. “Father will still be there tomorrow,” he murmurs, lip curving up. “Today, you drink warm coffee, read your pages, forget cold world outside.”
He settles back in his chair, eyes still locked on you, as though daring any new grief to approach while he stands sentinel. “Мне это нравится,” he adds in Russian, softer, almost to himself- I like this. The warmth of the cafe, the scent of cinnamon, and you: teary eyed and honest. Something inside him shifts, scraping stone.
You swallow hard, pulse fluttering, and nod. “Thank you.”
A ghost of a smile touches his mouth, dangerous, devastating. “Do not thank me yet, маленькая девочка,” he whispers, eyes gleaming. “The day is young. And so are we. You are too lovely to cry alone in corners. Come. Let us go somewhere.”
You blink, startled. “What? Go… where?”
He shrugs, leaning back like a man with all the time in the world. “Anywhere you like. A gallery. The market. The riverwalk.” Then, with a grin that bares just enough teeth to remind you he could be dangerous, “Public places. Many people. If I try to drag you into alleyway, you scream. You run. You stab me with fork from cafe.”
His words are absurd and ridiculous but they make you laugh. “That’s… a weird thing to say.”
“But it’s true, da?” He spreads his palms. “You are smart girl. Not foolish. I am stranger. We are in city. You are not helpless.”
No, you think. No, I’m not.
But still… something in his voice coils around your spine like cold silk. The accent, the slow deliberate way he speaks like he’s tasting every word before giving it to you. There’s steel beneath the charm. A wire pulled tight.
And yet… you nod.
He stands and offers a hand, his coat shifting to reveal black gloves tucked into the pocket. You take his palm- warmer than you expected- and rise. He lets you lead the way out of the cafe, never crowding you, but never straying far either.
Outside, the sky is smeared with dusky gold. You walk through the winding streets of London together, passing flower stalls and bookstores and rows of pedestrians with more practical things to do. He doesn’t say much unless you speak first, but when you do, he listens. Eyes fixed on your face like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s seen in years.
The two of you drift through London, traveling through Kensington Gardens, to a hidden antique bookshop smelling of dust and vellum, then on to St. James’s for macarons too pretty to eat.
Each stop, Makarov pays before you can protest: a silk scarf that matches your eyes (“Wear it, малышка, the evening might bite”), an out of print copy of the novel you’d cried over (“So it is never far from you again”), a tiny silver charm shaped like a sun (“For brightness, da?”). You object, stammer half hearted refusals but he only shakes his head, murmuring that a beauty should never have to reach for its own purse.
Mid afternoon, beneath the iron ribs of Hungerford Bridge, he pauses, seeing the ight slanting gold along the Thames and asks softly, “Give me your phone.”
Suspicion flickers. “Why?”
His smile is all patient promise. “So you remember finer thing. You said you stormed away to forget shouting. Let me replace with something worth keeping.”
The logic feels strange, but not unkind, and you relent. He angles the lens, clicks once: you, framed by river’s glittering surface and a breeze teasing your hair, eyes wide as though you’re meeting the city for the first time.
After that, handing him the phone becomes effortless, habitual.
Outside the Tower, he snaps another: you laughing, scaffolded sky behind. In the arcade lights of Soho he turns the camera and pulls you close, the two of you cheek to cheek, his hand warm at your waist.
Each shot is startlingly flattering, as if he sees angles you’ve never known. He never pockets the device, always returns it with a little bow of courtesy. Still, the gallery grows: you holding a paper cone of roasted chestnuts; you studying street art; the pair of you in a mirror’s accidental reflection, his eyes on you, yours on the mural, two strangers stitched together by a shutter-click.
Dusk settles, neon puddles across wet pavement, and you realize you haven’t checked a single message all day, your phone has lived mostly in his hands, capturing the narrative he’s writing in light.
Makarov threads fingers through yours, thumb brushing your knuckles, guiding you toward a glass-fronted restaurant that glows amber in the twilight.
“Dinner,” he murmurs, voice a velvet hum against the city’s hush. “Music, warmth, and perhaps another photo, so we can remember moment night began.”
The door swings open, brass notes curling out to meet you, and you step inside with him, unaware of anything beyond the click of the camera and the grip of a man who feels, somehow, both peril and safety at once.
Dinner stretches into twilight, linen and candle glow, low strings humming over the hush of silverware. Makarov sits across from you, jacket slipped from broad shoulders, shirtsleeves rolled up. He never rushes, never checks the time, never lets the conversation die. You’re surprised how natural it feels to lean in, laugh softly, let him coax stories from you between bites of seared salmon and saffron rice.
When the dessert plates are cleared you hesitate, hands folding in your lap, reluctant to say goodbye. He notes it instantly, that flicker of disappointment you try to hide.
“Evening is young, девоyчка,” he murmurs, accent warm as dark wine. “Come. I show you city from better view.”
His “better view” is a penthouse near the river, all glass and midnight steel. You step through the door and London unfurls beneath you: amber streetlights, red taillight ribbons, the slow pulse of the Thames. Inside is minimalist luxury, hush of wool carpet under your shoes, a single crystal decanter catching skyline glow.
He pours you a measure of cognac, gestures to the terrace. “Wind is cold. This will help.”
Out on the balcony the night air kisses your cheeks and Makarov drapes his coat over your shoulders with wordless gallantry. For a moment you stand side by side in silence, city glitter reflecting in high windows. Then he asks, almost casually, “Tell me of your father.”
You swallow, surprised. “Why?”
“Earlier… the tears.” He tilts his head. “Not the book, you said. Family.”
Something about the shadows, the height, the cognac loosens your tongue. You sip and speak, words soft, half-ashamed: how your father always chose work, late flights, early calls, door to his office closed; how birthdays and holidays blurred, how your mother kept smiling even though she was alone; how, despite them still being married you have minimal memories of your father and felt like a child in a single parent household; how, when you were sixteen, you stopped buying Father’s Day cards and you’re not even sure if he ever seemed to notice.
Makarov listens- truly listens- one hand resting on the rail beside yours. He says nothing until you fall quiet. Then, softly: “Poor девочка. Child should never compete with briefcase.”
You huff a laugh, raw edge cracking through it. “Well. It is what it is.”
Another traitorous tear threatens to spill at the corner of your eye. Before it can slip, Makarov’s hand rises, thumb brushing the drop away with startling tenderness. Rough skin, lethal steadiness, yet his touch is feather light, reverent.
“Shh,” he murmurs, gaze fixed on the tear as though it offends him. “No more being second, da?”
His palm slants across your cheek, fingers curving behind your ear. You feel the warmth of him, the silent promise, and something inside you shifts, tilts, locks into place. Your breath catches, your heart climbs into your throat. He notices, eyes darkening like stormcloud glass.
You swallow, trembling on a precipice neither of you can name, and then… you rise onto your toes, a soft, deliberate ascent. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t guide or urge. He simply waits, thumb still resting at the curve of your cheekbone as if anchoring you to the moment.
Your lips meet his, hesitant heat, a question asked in silence. He answers by exhaling softly against your mouth, a low sound that is half groan, half prayer. His fingers tighten in your hair, but he doesn’t deepen the kiss; he lets you set the pace. A brush. A second. A sigh shared on winter air and warm cognac.
When you finally pull back, breath mingling, the city’s glow flickers behind glass like distant firelight. His eyes stay on you, unreadable. Dangerous. Soft.
“Careful, добыча,” he whispers, thumb tracing your lower lip where his own just lingered. “Kiss from me is never just kiss.”
You meet that warning with a shy, defiant smile. “Maybe I don’t want ‘just’ anything tonight. Maybe I want you.”
He doesn’t answer right away. For a moment, he only watches you and the air shifts, heavy with something unspoken, but your pulse flutters with anticipation, not fear. You tell yourself it’s just the thrill, the heady buzz of boldness, not the chill slithering up your spine. Not the way his mouth curves without reaching his eyes. Then, with a murmur low and smooth, he reaches for your hand, his touch reverent, almost tender.
“Come inside,” he says, guiding you back through the sliding doors. In the living room he presses the coat closer around your shoulders, then lifts your chin with a knuckle, gentle as a vow. “Tonight, you expect only warmth, da? No disappointments here.”
The bedroom lights stay off; city-glow spills through the window, painting the sheets in cold silver and soft gold. You barely register the click of the door before Makarov’s mouth claims yours again, no gentleness this time, only heat and dark intent. He tastes of cognac and winter, velvet over steel. Your fingers fist in his shirt; the kiss turns searing, devouring, breath stolen and given back in ragged exhales.
His hands frame your face, one thumb at your jaw, the other sliding down the column of your throat, tracing the pulse beneath skin. “Still sure, моя игрушка” he murmurs, the words curling like smoke in his throat, “You say yes now, you don’t walk away later. Once you’re mine…” His voice is a low growl, teeth just behind it. “You stay mine. Still want me?”
“Yes,” you breathe.
He answers with a sound halfway between a growl and a purr. The kiss deepens; teeth nip at your lower lip, just shy of bruising, as though he wants to mark the softness there. His palms glide to your shoulders, slipping the coat away, then finding the zipper of your dress. Slow. Deliberate. With every inch undone, cool air brushes newly bared skin, replaced instantly by the warmth of his hands.
Fabric sighs to the floor. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t speak, just watches you through halflidded eyes, hunger coiled tight in their darkness. Fingertips map the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the soft flesh he’s decided is his to memorize. Each touch is a claim: gentle enough to worship, firm enough to remind you of the danger curled behind the reverence.
He tugs you close; your bare chest meets starched cotton. You feel his heartbeat, steady, booming, like a war drum under restraint. You unfasten his shirt buttons; he lets you, eyes never leaving your face. When it falls away, you press your lips to the scar over his collarbone. A shiver rips through him. His hand threads into your hair, tilting your head back so he can kiss you again, harder, deeper, savoring the soft gasp you give when his other hand slides lower, fingers splaying over the small of your back, pulling you flush.
“Good girl,” he whispers against your mouth, voice dark silk. “I take everything you offer and leave nothing to regret.”
He lifts you effortlessly, lays you onto the satin-cool sheets. Moonlight spills across your skin; his gaze tracks it, greedy and reverent at once. Clothes join the dress on the floor, one piece after another. He hovers, drinks you in, then traces a thumb over your lower lip, wordless permission, promise, threat. When you part your lips, he rewards the invitation with another searing kiss and begins his slow descent, mouth skimming throat, shoulder, sternum, every place that makes you arch and sigh.
He is methodical, unhurried, patience forged in darker rooms. Each brush of lips, each drag of teeth is meant to brand memory into flesh: you will carry this night under your skin the way a city carries its catacombs, unseen by the world, but always there, echoing.
“Remember,” he murmurs against your trembling thighs, “no briefcase, no father, no unfinished grief, only this.” His hand settles over your chest where your heart drums wild. “Only me.”
He kisses lower; your fingers clutch the sheets. Outside, the city moves, unaware that somewhere above its lights, a monster is discovering devotion in the taste of a girl who dared to ask for warmth in his bed, warmth he gives like a sin he’s proud to commit.
The first moan spills from your lips as his mouth latches on to your pussy, warm and sweet, already slick and weeping. Your back arches off the bed, breath snagged on the edge of a moan, flames flaring to life beneath your skin.
He growls low in encouragement, the sound vibrating against your cunt as your thighs clamp tight around his head. Your hips twitch, chasing more, tears pricking your eyes, this time from sheer, overwhelming pleasure. His name stumbles out on a breathless moan, his tongue relentless in its rhythm, swirling, flicking against your clit, until the heat builds sharp and bright behind your ribs.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice raw and trembling, cheeks flushed. “Oh god, please-don’t stop.”
And when it hits, it’s like lightning, your back arches, mouth falling open in a soundless gasp before a sweet, shattered moan escapes. He doesn’t let up, not for a second, guiding you through every ripple, every aftershock, like a man devoted to your ruin.
Makarov rises from between your thighs like a storm breaking the surface, slow and deliberate, lips slick with your slick. He doesn’t ask. He claims, crawling up your body with the ease of a man who already knows he owns it. His teeth find your skin, sinking in hard enough to leave blooming violets in their wake, cruel little blossoms etched into your flesh like a signature. Bruises that will ache tomorrow. Bruises that say you were his tonight.
He lifts your leg around his hips, eyes dark as he looks at you, cock weeping against your folds. He’s big, mushroom tip angry red with need, aching, and he waists no time pressing himself into your cunt. A part of your brain whispers that you should ask for a condom but each inch of him against your gummy walls makes your thoughts shatter like glass against the walls of your mind.
Once he’s plush against you, split open on his cock, tip kissing your womb, eyes fluttered shut against the slick wet heat wrapped tight around him, he reaches over and grabs your phone.
He brushes a knuckle down your sternum, his voice hushed and dangerous. “Moment worth immortalizing.” he lifts it with one hand while the other remains splayed over your waist, thumb stroking slow circles meant to calm and claim at once against the noticeable bulge of his cock in your abdomen.
Click. The soft shutter captures your flushed cheeks and parted lips.
Click. Another, closer, his hand curved across the soft plush of tour breast.
Then he moves, hips pulled back and snapping forward, cock scraping your inner walls, arousal coating him like a ring at his base. Click.
His fingertips trail lower, thumb circling your clit; the world condenses to shared breath and the glide of skin on skin. Each thrust, brushing against your spongy sweet walls, makes pleasure build again, pulling a soft cry from your chest. His eyes never leave yours; every thrust is measured, as though he’s determined to brand this night into memory, bruising every single inch of you.
You cling, dizzy on sensation and the subtle danger beneath it, and he murmurs praise in Russian, low, reverent sounds that feel like silk and iron combined. He kisses the sheen from your cheek, steadies your shaking hand with his own, and when your voice breaks on his name he presses another shutter-click: the glow of your smile blurred by bliss.
“Good girl,” Makarov murmurs, voice thick and reverent as he brushes his thumb over your clit, making your cunt tighten around him. You’re all softness beneath him, eyes glassy, breath hitching with every movement. His gaze darkens, drinking in your flushed skin, the way your lashes flutter shut when sensation crests too sharply.
“Look at you,” he breathes, voice roughened with dark hunger, his free hand tracing the curve of your cheek, then moving slowly down your neck fingers curling around your throat. “Made for me, weren’t you, шлюха?”
He takes another picture like that.
You try to speak, but words dissolve into gasps, fingers clinging to the corded muscle of his forearm as his hips snap into you again making you whine, head thrown back, drool spilling past lush lips.
Your eyes blur with overwhelmed tears, sensations blending until your thoughts melt into nothing but the feel of him, the weight of him, the heavy warmth of his presence. He presses his lips to your jaw, to the delicate skin below your ear, teeth nipping at skin before he leans back and snaps another photo of your dumbed out expression, cock drunk on him, as you whine and gasp and tighten around his thick length.
“That’s it,” he praises, his tone deepening, darkening as pleasure crashes over you like waves cresting against the shore. “Let go. Cum on my cock, ебучая шлюха”
Click.
He buries himself deep, balls tightening, and spills inside, tip of his cock sealed tight against your cervix, thick white ropes painting you inside. “Интересно, как разозлится твой папочка, когда ты залетишь от моего ублюдка.”
He pulls out, cock shining with your arousal, his cum dripping from between your folds, and he lifts the phone with slow, deliberate ease, framing the moment like a masterpiece. You, flushed and ruined, skin marred with bruises, lying boneless beneath him, cheeks glazed with salt, lips glistening, eyes heavy with spent pleasure. Sated. Soft. His. And beside you, he hovers above, mouth curved in a dark, possessive smile, a hunter’s satisfaction glittering in his eyes. The shutter clicks, sealing the image like a pact neither daylight nor distance will ever unwrite.
***
You’re asleep beside him, soft and warm, breath barely stirring the pillow, lashes casting faint shadows on flushed cheeks. He watches you for a long moment, head tilted, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, something cold and terrible. Then, with a murmur too low for you to hear, he slips from the bed, movements slow, deliberate.
Out on the balcony, the city glitters beneath him like shattered glass. He pulls on a pair of sweats, lights a cigarette with a calm hand, exhales smoke like a dragon preparing to burn something holy. The glow of your phone in his other hand illuminates his features in flickers of sharp, merciless, cold.
He scrolls until he finds it: the group chat with your father, three uncles, and aunt, all of them worried and looking for you.
How sweet.
He scrolls past their desperate messages:
Where are you?
Come home.
Please answer.
Your dad didn’t mean it.
Just let us know you’re okay.
He hums to himself, then selects the photos. The innocent ones, first. You smiling over coffee, laughing in sunlight, your head against his shoulder. Then the others, filthy, broken, ruined in the most exquisite ways. Legs spread, lips swollen, face tearstained and euphoric. His mark blooming across your skin like bruised petals.
He attaches them all and he sends them.
The cigarette burns low between his fingers as he waits.
When the five sets of typing bubbles appear, he smiles, slow and razor-edged.
Then he types:
You have a very beautiful daughter, Captain Price.
But you should keep better track of your things.
You never know what kind of monsters in this world may swoop down and snatch her up.