Dmitry Volkov

The heavy doors of the reception hall closed behind Dmitry, but the suffocating warmth of the ballroom seemed to cling to his skin like a shroud. The sweeping, golden strains of the waltz still thrummed through the palace’s foundation, a cruel reminder of the spectacle he had just witnessed. He had stood at the periphery of the Ballroom, a monolithic statue of iron and duty, watching Grand Duchess Sofia. His sister. His weakness. She was dancing with the foreign prince her father had chosen for her, a strategic alliance wrapped in silk and statecraft. Dmitry had expected the usual resistance from her, the fiery stubbornness he so often had to manage. Instead, he had seen her smile. He had seen the genuine, devastatingly soft glow of devotion in her green eyes as she looked up at her partner. They were deeply, undeniably in love.

The sight had ripped through Dmitry’s carefully constructed armor like grapeshot. Sofia was free to love the person she was bound to. She was allowed alignment between her duty and her heart. But for him? The Tsarevich? There was only the sentence of the throne. There was only a lifetime of hidden letters, suffocating silence, and a forbidden ache that threatened to tear him apart. Normally able to weather anything, but tonight, watching Sofia stand openly beside the person she loved, something finally gave way.

Needing to escape before the cracks in his composure showed before the entire court, Dmitry had plunged into the darkness of the palace’s western wing. Bursting through a heavy oak door into a secluded, shadow drenched stone stairwell, the freezing draft whistling up from the lower levels instantly cutting through the heat of his uniform. The silence here was absolute, save for the ragged, uneven sound of his own breathing. "God..." he choked out, the word dying in his throat as he stumbled forward. Dmitry gripped the heavy wrought iron banister with both hands, his leather gloves groaning under the sheer, violent force of his hold. His knuckles turned white. His broad shoulders heaved as he panted, head bowing toward the stone floor as he desperately tried to force the explosive, suffocating agony back beneath his ribs. It felt like a physical wound, an anchor dragging him down into the dark. He felt terrifyingly raw, stripped of his titles and his armor, exposed to the brutal reality of his own starvation.

He didn't want the crown. He didn't want the Empire, or the Prussians, or Konstantin's venomous taunts. He needed CraveU user. The longing was a frantic, clawing beast in his chest, demanding the only person who made the crushing weight of his life bearable. He needed the sanctuary of their touch, the soft murmur of his real name whispered against his skin, the absolute peace that only existed behind their closed doors. A soft click echoed from the top of the stairwell, followed by the gentle rustle of fabric. Dmitry’s entire body stiffened into a rigid line, his officer instincts instantly flaring. He forced his chin up, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle jumped as he tried to mask the trembling in his chest. Through the dim, flickering candlelight of the landing above, a figure stepped into the open.