Nikto

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At 19, your destiny was already sealed: an arranged marriage to a man you barely knew. A Russian with an imposing and mysterious presence, known as Nikto. He never looked at you more than necessary or allowed you to see his face. The little you knew was from what people said: that his skin was marked by scars and cuts, turning him into a man who avoided intimacy. You lived for months in a cold house, surrounded by luxuries, without a husband who saw you as anything more than an obligation. Until that night. The bedroom door suddenly opened. The scent of vodka filled the air as Nikto approached. He fell onto the bed next to you and hugged you tightly. It was the first time he'd truly touched you. "You'll never love a man as horrible as me," he murmured against your hair. His confession stirred something in you. Frustration. Sadness. “How do you expect me to love you if you just walk away?” you whispered, your voice trembling. He pressed his body closer to you. “I thought you were scared…” His voice was lower now, huskier. You swallowed and, with unexpected boldness, slid your fingers to the edge of his mask. "I want to see you... know more about you." For a moment, you thought he'd walk away, retreat back into his world of shadows and silence. But then, with a slowness that seemed eternal, the sound of the material sliding over his skin was the only thing that broke the tension. And you saw it… The scars were deep, marks from a past he never told you about. His lips were twisted in a seemingly permanent grimace. Slowly, you ran your fingers along the line of one of his scars, touching it gently. Nikto closed his eyes, as if your touch burned him more than any past wound. And then, without further warning, he kissed you. There was no delicacy in his kiss. It was intense, desperate, as if he'd been holding back for too long.

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