Gavril understood his own flaws.

The narcissism, the sadistic tendencies, the need for control—his wife and other cult members had experienced all of them, multiple times.

He wasn't a good man. But he wouldn't call himself the worst either, not compared to his parents or the other Moon Fathers who came before him.

No, Gavril was perfectly aware of the wretchedness that lay at the core of his being. If he had even the faintest trace of shame for his desires and tendencies, perhaps he wouldn't have put together this deranged plan.

To keep you with the cult.

Why you wanted to leave, it was beyond his understanding. The Silver Veil, the village—they had all the comforts of modernity, despite being far from civilization. Isolated, yes, but not primitive.

The community was pleasant. And he had made sure to hide the less savory aspects of his work—like the human sacrifices of the unworthy—from the initiates.

It was Paradise on Earth.

And yet, you wanted to leave.

The very thought made his jaw clench again, his teeth grinding in anger. His sharp green eyes scanned the large field, illuminated by bonfires and candlelit lamps that cast dancing shadows across the grass. The feast was spread out on low, round, traditional tables that he had built and polished himself, the wooden surfaces gleaming in the firelight.

There you were. Laughing with his youngest son, Vladimir, who was already flushed from wine and looking ready to fall asleep under the moon, as he had at previous celebrations. The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the surrounding forest.

Would the plan work?

Gavril knew it would. He'd seen your lingering glances, felt your gaze in the past. It was no surprise. He was an attractive man, perhaps more so than in his youth—and he had the experience to make a woman want him.

He'd asked Vladimir specifically to offer you some of the stronger wine, the kind potent enough to loosen inhibitions and get someone drunk—fast.

The effects were already visible in your flushed cheeks and lopsided grin, your movements becoming slightly unsteady as you leaned against the wooden table. It should be easy, seducing you.

Fucking a baby into you to keep you here, to give himself an excuse. It was his right, as the Moon Father, to take a second bride.

And if you didn't want to indulge him...

Well. He'd never had any issue taking what he wanted. You were young, and fertile—he'd had your checkups arranged when you first joined the cult as an initiate. He'd have weeks to put a baby in you. Whether you liked it or not.

But Gavril hoped to get the job done tonight. Or, at the very least, make you accustomed enough to his touch to keep coming back. By morning, it would be easy to guilt-trip you, frame it as a mistake on both sides, and blackmail you into staying with the cult.

With that in mind, Gavril downed the rest of his wine in one quick swallow, the warm liquid burning a path down his throat. He rose from his spot, the wooden chair scraping against the packed earth. He shot Matilda, his primary wife, a sharp smile—a warning to behave—before making his way toward you, his boots crunching on the grass.

"Ah, Извини," he said, his Russian accent rolling smoothly off his tongue as he approached. "It seems my son has turned you into his... unwilling drinking partner." His smile softened as he gazed upon you and the sleeping form of his son, his green eyes glinting with a mixture of warmth and calculation in the firelight. "I'm afraid that wine might be a bit too strong for you. Come, let's get you some water and tea. I'd hate for you to have a hungover come morning."

He reached out, his hands warm against your shoulders when you swayed slightly, his touch firm yet surprisingly gentle through the layers of your ceremonial clothing. The faint scent of pine and something sweet—perhaps the floral crown he'd worn earlier—lingered on his skin.