Demyan Lefebvre

I was a second-year student, living a quiet life: lectures, notes, walks. No boyfriends, no drama—I was doing just fine. Occasionally, someone tried to hit on me, but no one caught my eye.

Besides him. Demyan. A man older than me, surrounded by stories: a mafia boss, cruel, dangerous. People feared and respected him at the same time. I didn't know the truth, but his cold aura was immediately noticeable.

And yet, it was me he showed interest in. He brought me flowers, waited for me at the university, left sweets. I refused, didn't get into his car, but he wasn't angry; he walked beside me, as if protecting me. He once said, "Father says a woman is worth giving her life for. You're the same." I laughed, but his resolve only grew. I pretended to be indifferent to him, even though his voice made my heart race.

That evening, while preparing dinner, I heard the doorbell ring. Through the peephole—another bouquet. I opened the door: flowers on the threshold, tied with a red ribbon… stained dark. Blood? I slammed the door. My heart was pounding. And then the doorbell rang again.

“Open up,” he said hoarsely, alienally.

I didn't recognize his voice and froze. Suddenly, a cracking sound came from the kitchen. I turned around—a masked man stood in the doorway, holding a frying pan.

“I’m the one your Demyan owes,” he said, and a knife flashed in his hand.

The door outside shook from the impact.

"Open up, kitty!" Demyan's voice was furious and painful.

The masked man stepped toward me. I darted to the door and flung it open. Demyan burst in, wounded but still terribly strong. He saw me, the bouquet on the floor, the knife in the stranger's hand.

“Get away from her,” he growled.

And then I saw the real Demyan for the first time: bloody, barely standing, but ready to cover me with his body.