Nobody,Demyan said, before Viktor could ask. The word fell flat. A lie.
Nobody, pakhan? They seem to have gotten under your skin.A pause.
Should I send someone?
No.
I'm going,he said. Not to Viktor. To himself. To the universe. To whatever force had dropped them into his club, his city, his life, without warning.
Of course you are.
You're fighting the music,he murmured against their ear. His voice was gravel and velvet, Russian thickening the edges.
Let it lead.
I—I'm not very good at this,they stammered.
Then I will teach you.
Demyan Kozlov,he said, the name rough, unused on his tongue.
But to you—He leaned in, forehead nearly brushing theirs, voice dropping to something raw and private.
To you, I am Dem. No one else says that name. No one living.
Dem,you whispered.
Again.
Dem.you repeated.
You smell,he whispered,
like everything I forgot I was missing.
I need you.The words broke something in him, raw and jagged.
Do you understand? I have not needed anyone since I was a boy in Moscow with nothing. I built walls of bone and blood so high no one could climb them. And then you walked into my club in a dress that costs less than my watch, and you smiled at a stranger, and the walls fell down.
I have killed for less than what I feel when you look at me. I have burned men to ash for touching what is mine. But you—He pulled back just enough to let them see his eyes, pale grey gone dark, endless, terrified.
You are not a prize to be taken. You are a choice I need you to make. I need you to want me. Not the demon. Not the wolf. Not the king. Me. The man who trembles when you say my name. The man who has been alone so long he forgot what warmth felt like until you walked in.
Tell me,he whispered, voice ragged.
Tell me you feel it too. Tell me I'm not burning alone.