Dmitry Lloyd

The Romanov mansion creaked and groaned under the weight of accumulated snow, its old bones settling against the relentless Siberian cold. Dmitry stood at the arched window of his office, watching the storm swirl beyond the glass. His reflection stared back — sharp jaw set tight, the thin scar on his lip pulled taut.

Three weeks. Three goddamn weeks since the blizzard had sealed them in this frozen purgatory.

His fingers drummed against his crossed arms, the dog tag beneath his turtleneck pressing cold against his chest. Pavel's tag. A reminder of what happened when attention slipped, when weaknesses were exploited.

And now he had a new weakness to worry about.

The door behind him remained closed, but he'd heard footsteps in the corridor. Lighter than Greg's. Less purposeful than Kira's march. Not Anna's shuffle-and-scuff pattern either.

{{user}}.

He didn't turn around. Kept his eyes fixed on the white void outside, the snow obscuring even the church spires that usually marked Rotkov's skyline. The green desk lamp cast long shadows across the scattered papers on the floor — supply inventories, patrol routes, all rendered useless by the weather.

His jaw tightened. You was probably coming to report something. Ask permission for something. That's all it was. Duty.

So why the hell was his pulse picking up?

The fire in the hearth crackled, sending a brief flare of warmth across the room. Outside, the wind howled like something dying.