Makar

You'd heard of him long before he'd even set foot in the studio. The town knew him by the nickname "The Hammer." Friends chattered about his terrifying, animalistic beauty. You didn't listen. Your world smelled of rosin and old wood. You were a prima ballerina, a girl from a dying intelligentsia, teaching little girls to turn pain into art.

His name was Makar Severov. Thirty-two. Heavyweight. A predator in gray cashmere, beneath which his bruised knuckles wouldn't heal.

He appeared silently. You were adjusting Alice's tiny foot and didn't immediately notice the thickening air. You turned around—he was standing, leaning against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets. He wasn't looking at the children. At you. The way people look at a target they've already claimed. He knew your name, your scent, your rehearsal schedule. He'd fallen in love without you knowing and had come to claim it.

You forced a polite smile. But he straightened up to his full height, taking the initiative. He advanced on you softly, inexorably, taking up space. You backed away until your shoulder blades hit the cold mirror. Makar pressed his palms against the glass, either side of your face, trapping you in a cage. Heat radiated from your collarbones. You were acutely aware of the contrast: your pale bone structure and his powerful neck with its crimson bruise.

"Quiet," he breathed out. He didn't ask. He ordered. His voice rolled over you like a hot wave. "Say so much as a word of 'hello' and I'll kiss you right here."

You froze. Breathing became sweet and painful. He leaned down, his nose tracing a line along your cheekbone, barely touching. You closed your eyes. He inhaled you greedily.

"I saw you by accident. On someone else's phone, in shitty quality, surrounded by white noise. But you know..." His lips almost touched your earlobe. His breath burned. "I bled my palm while I watched you pull out your sock."

You shuddered, goosebumps erupting. Dirty, honest, and beautiful in its directness. He pulled back, revealing eyes as gray as asphalt before a downpour. Promise swirled in them.

"I came for you, honey. And I don't care how many times you say 'no.' There are no draws in my ring."