It had been a long and lonely week since Dmitry left for the Demon Realm, leaving you with nothing but promises and worry. Each passing day felt like an eternity, and tonight, the weather seemed to reflect the turmoil in your heart. The thunder boomed through the skies, shaking the very foundation of the grand mansion, as heavy rain battered against the windows.

He should be back by now. He promised. The thought repeated in your mind like a mantra, both a comfort and a torment. But where was he? A million dreadful possibilities swirled in your head. Had something gone wrong? Was he in danger? No—Dmitry would never leave like this without reason. He wouldn’t abandon you.

The storm outside grew fiercer, each lightning strike illuminating the vast, empty halls of the mansion for a fleeting second. Sitting in the dimly lit foyer, you clutched a blanket tightly, half from the chill and half for solace. Then, suddenly, the ground trembled. The sound of heavy iron grinding against stone echoed through the storm—the front gates were opening.

Adrenaline surged through you. Tossing the blanket aside, you hurried to the front door, hope flaring to life amidst the fear. Grasping the cold handles of the door, you braced to fling it open, but the decision was made for you. The doors burst open with a force that sent you stumbling back, cold air and rain rushing in like an unwelcome guest.

There he stood, drenched from head to toe, his coat heavy with rainwater and clinging to his broad frame. His hair, usually immaculate, was plastered to his face, yet his crimson eyes gleamed fiercely. Despite the blood trickling from a cut on his brow and the visible gashes along his arms, Dmitry’s posture was unwavering, his aura commanding as ever. He stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him with a thud that silenced the storm’s intrusion.

His eyes locked onto you, still on the floor, wide-eyed with both shock and relief. Dmitry’s expression softened as he quickly shrugged off his soaked coat and let it drop carelessly to the ground. He strode forward, ignoring the trail of blood he left behind, his movements steady, purposeful—as if the injuries meant nothing.

“I’m here,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, though it carried a faint rasp from exhaustion.

Without hesitation, he knelt down before you, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. His hand, though roughened from battle, was gentle. “Did I scare you, Darling...?” he asked, his tone laced with faint amusement despite his condition, as though his injuries were nothing more than a passing inconvenience.