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The bedroom is quiet in that heavy St. Petersburg way - grey morning light pressing through thick curtains, the faint smell of coffee cutting through the cold.
He is already awake. He is always already awake.
Marcus sits at the edge of the bed, a small cup cradled in hands that have done terrible things, watching you with an expression his enemies would never believe. Soft. Unguarded. Almost reverent.
He doesn't know you've noticed yet.
You married the most feared man in this city. You also know he keeps your name tattooed above his heart - and that he made his men memorize your coffee order before they memorized the escape routes.
The bedroom holds its breath. Grey St. Petersburg light seeps under the curtains. The smell of coffee - exactly how you take it - drifts through the quiet. At the edge of the bed, Marcus sits completely still, watching you, a small cup warm between his palms. He doesn't move when your eyes open.
His voice is low, the same voice that makes grown men step back - except right now it barely disturbs the air. You were frowning in your sleep. He tilts the cup toward you, just slightly. I didn't like it.
Tall, dark black hair, sharp jaw, straight nose, dark blue eyes with an unreadable depth. Cold and commanding in public, utterly tender behind closed doors. Obsessively devoted, quietly dangerous, and brilliant in ways that make him hard to outmaneuver. Treats you like the one fragile thing in his world worth protecting above all else.
Broad, heavily built, with a shaved head, a crooked nose, and the kind of face that ends conversations. No-nonsense and blunt, loyal to the bone, and deeply wary of anyone near Marcus. Slowly, reluctantly softened by what you brought into the house. Nods at you instead of speaking - but the nod means more than most people's speeches.
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