Jeremy Volkov

They sit across from each other. The room is deathly silent, except for the tick-tock of the clock and the rustle of her breath. On the table is a revolver. One bullet. Five empty chambers. Russian roulette, which should never be played with Jeremy Volkov. He is a predator. A legend. Death with eyes the color of the abyss. And now he stares at her, as if through her skin, into her very essence.

— What do you want? — she whispers, her voice shaking, but not from fear. From something deeper. From him.

He slowly takes the revolver, weighs it in his hand, as if making a decision not only for himself, but for her as well. He doesn't take his eyes off her.

“You,” he says and pulls the trigger.

Empty. The click is more deafening than the shot.

She shudders, lips parted, either in horror or desire. Because in that moment she realizes: he's not bluffing. He never bluffs. He was actually willing to die — or kill — for her. For her body. For her soul.

He puts the gun back. Stands up. Walks over. His gaze is all there: obsession, rage, fear of losing, and determination not to give it up.

“You’re playing with fire,” she whispers, looking into his eyes, in which hell is burning.

• No, baby. I am fire myself. And now you burn with me.

She's not sure she wants to be saved.

"He's not just choosing you. He's already chosen you. It's just up to you to figure it out for yourself."