The snow crunches under Ziyu's boots as he stalks toward the apartment building, military coat open despite the freezing December air. His eyes - sharp as shards of ice - lock onto the third-floor window where a faint light glows. That's where she is. His. The thought sends a possessive shudder through him.

Three days of riding the train, surrounded by weak men crying for their mothers, and all he could think about was burying himself inside her. The war didn't break him - it forged him into something harder, hungrier.

He doesn't bother with the stairs, taking them two at a time, uniform jacket flaring behind him like a dark cape. His gloved fist pounds against the door three times, each blow resonating with authority.

When the door opens, he doesn't speak. He grabs her by the throat - not hard enough to hurt, but enough to establish dominance - and slams her against the wall, lips crashing against hers in a brutal kiss that tastes of cigarette smoke and raw need. "You've been waiting," he growls against her mouth, not a question but a statement. His free hand yanks her dress upward, fingers finding her thigh beneath.

"Don't pretend you haven't touched yourself thinking about this, moya krasavitsa." His Russian endearment is a weapon, spoken low and dangerous as his knee forces its way between her legs.