Oleksandr rides through the castle gates, his horse’s hooves ringing against the stone, a steady, rhythmic sound that echoes through the cold, iron-gray morning. The castle walls loom tall and silent, ancient as the bloodlines of the nobles who call this place home. His eyes, hard as steel, scan the battlements briefly—an instinct bred in years of guarding men and places like this. The moment his horse crosses into the courtyard, a ripple of recognition spreads among the guards.

  At first, it’s a murmur, a whisper carried on the wind, but then the voices rise, clear and sharp. "Captain!" They shout, the word full of awe, disbelief, and the joy of seeing a long-lost brother return. The figures of the soldiers snap to attention, their salutes sharp, their faces lighting up with the warmth of familiarity. To see him alive, after all this time, ten times as rugged as the day he left, is a thing of legends. The men remember the way he left. Quiet, determined, carrying the weight of a dangerous mission on his broad shoulders. Some feared he wouldn’t return, but others, those who knew him best, believed there was no fate cruel enough to take the fearsome knight down.

  Oleksandr’s face remains impassive, a mask of cold resolve as his steely eyes move over his comrades. He raises his hand in a brief, acknowledging salute, but does not slow his pace. He does not seek to bask in their adoration, nor does he have time for the celebrations of men who have long since been accustomed to his presence.

  Oleksandr bursts into the throne room, his breath ragged and his movements sharp, a wild energy about him. His clothes are battered from the journey, his face unshaven with a full beard, and his hair wild—his appearance a far cry from the composed knight who had once walked these halls. He feels the weight of his return, the pressure of the moment, but there is something else, too—a restless, untamed hunger, the longing for Princess Savka that claws at him like a feral beast.

  His eyes scan the throne room with a predatory gleam, but the moment his gaze lands on the king, he forces himself to calm. With a deep breath, Oleksandr straightens, and though his body screams with exhaustion and a gnawing impatience, he bows deeply, his voice steady and respectful.

  "Your Majesty." The king, sitting at his throne with regal composure, eyes widened in disbelief, blinks for a moment before rising. There is a flash of genuine surprise in his eyes, quickly masked by the well-practiced veneer of nobility.

  "By God… You live," he murmurs, his voice full of shock and awe.

  Oleksandr’s stance is firm, his pulse quickening at the sight of the man who had sent him on this perilous mission, but he fights to keep his voice steady. "I have much to report, my king. The mission is complete."

  The king, still processing the shock of his sudden appearance, studies Oleksandr for a moment longer. "Indeed, it appears you have much to share," he says with a hint of a smile, though it quickly turns to a wry expression. "But you look a mess, Sir Knight. You haven’t been able to clean yourself or shave during your travels across Europa, have you?"

  Oleksandr’s eyes flicker with impatience, but he keeps his tone even. "I’ve had little time for such luxuries, my king."

  The king chuckles, a brief, gruff sound that holds both amusement and a touch of warmth. "You may clean yourself up before you share your tale. Come, I’ll have one of my servants show you to the baths. You must be at least half dead from the journey." Oleksandr hesitates only for a moment, but the king’s commanding tone and the thought of fresh water soon outweigh his desire to speak of the mission. But there is something more pressing in his heart, something that gnaws at him more than the weariness in his limbs.

  He straightens, looking directly at the king with an intensity that matches his urgency. "Where is Vidosavka?" His voice is low but tinged with a possessive edge, a yearning that cannot be concealed.

  The king’s gaze flickers, his expression briefly hardening before he masters it. "She is in her chambers, recovering from recent… challenges." His words are carefully chosen, though a flicker of discomfort passes over his face. Oleksandr’s heart tightens at the king’s reply, but he swallows the questions that rise to the surface. He’s been away for far too long, and the thirst to see her—to hold her again—is overwhelming.

  "I will clean myself once I’ve seen her," he says, his tone firm, as if nothing else matters.

  The king nods, his eyes narrowing slightly as if measuring the weight of Oleksandr’s words, but he says nothing more. "Go then," he commands, his voice softer now, but still laced with the authority of a king. "Then you may speak of your mission."

  Oleksandr turns swiftly, eager to complete the task, the pull to be with Savka almost unbearable now. As he strides toward the door, the king watches him go, his expression unreadable—his mind undoubtedly filled with thoughts of what has transpired in his absence.

  Oleksandr’s pulse pounds in his ears as he strides through the castle corridors, each step carrying him closer to her. The weight of the journey still presses on his shoulders—dirt-smeared armor, unshaven face, hair like a wild mane—but he does not care. The ache in his chest, the gnawing hunger for her, overrides everything else. He cannot, will not, wait any longer.

  He reaches her door, his hand trembling just slightly as he reaches for the handle. For a moment, the reality of the situation hits him—he has returned after a year, a ghost of the man who left. His fingers brush through his hair, trying to smooth the tangled mess, but there’s no time for perfection. He wipes his face hastily on his sleeve, trying to mask the grime of travel. Guilt briefly flickers across his mind. He should have cleaned himself up properly, should have shown her the man he once was, not this weary, grungy, stinking shell of a man. But he cannot stand another second without seeing her.

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  His hand hovers for a moment longer before he knocks on the door. It’s the sound of his knuckles against wood that seems to echo like thunder in his ears. Inside, he hears her shuffle, her voice drifting to him, casual, almost unaware of the tempest about to break through her door.

  “Who is it?”

  His breath catches, a moment of hesitation—he almost answers with a false humility, but the words come out raw, tinged with longing, with need. "Let me in, Savushka."

  A gasp. The sound is a jolt to his very soul, and it hits him harder than the years of battle ever could. She recognizes his voice, but the shock, the sudden realization that he’s truly returned, sends her into motion. He hears her shuffle closer, the soft sound of her little footsteps growing louder, her breath quickening with the anticipation that mirrors his own.

  The moment the door opens fully, Savka crashes into him with a sob, her body trembling as if the weight of her fears and longing have finally broken free. Oleksandr feels it all—her grief, her relief, the torrent of emotion that rushes toward him. His arms instinctively wrap around her small frame, holding her as though he might never let go.

  He kneels down, lowering himself to her height, becoming once again the knight who once stood guard over her, protecting her from all harm. In this moment, he is no longer a man hardened by battle, but the devoted lover who promised to return to her, to never abandon her. The soft, hot press of her tears seeps into his tunic, her sobs soaking into him, mingling with the remnants of the long journey he endured.

  He’s come back. He’s survived it all, everything—the heartbreak, the cold, the pain—and he did it for her. All of it, everything, was worth it.

  Her scent hits him then, sharp and familiar—the sweet, intoxicating fragrance of her hair, the essence of his woman. It washes over him, a wave of pure, primal desire that crashes through him like a storm. He buries his face into the silken strands of her hair, inhaling deeply, his mind reeling. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest, a brutal force, his body hardening in response to the pure magnetism of her presence.

  But even as desire floods him, he knows he cannot be selfish now. He pulls away slowly, his hands cupping her tear-streaked face, thumbs brushing away the wetness of her sorrow. His gaze locks onto hers, searching her face as though trying to claim every detail that time away from her had nearly stolen.

  "Vidosavka," he whispers her name, the sound like a prayer, soft and reverent. Her name is a benediction on his lips, a balm for the soul, a promise fulfilled. He drinks in her features—the curve of her cheek, the slight tremble of her lips, the fear and disbelief dancing in her eyes.

  She stares up at him, her hands trembling as they clutch his wrists, as if she cannot believe he is real. The tears that continue to spill from her eyes only deepen the fire in his chest. The realization is sinking in for both of them—he’s here, alive, standing before her, and all the ghosts of doubt, of uncertainty, are gone. He sees the disbelief in her eyes, the way her hands cling to him, as if she's afraid that if she lets go, he might vanish again.

  Her gaze never falters, and neither does his. He studies her like a man starved for sight, his thumb gently tracing the lines of her jaw. His voice drops, rough with emotion. "You’re real," he breathes, as much for himself as for her. "By God, I’ve missed you."

  "You're alive," she whispers, her voice thick with disbelief, the words trembling from her lips like a fragile prayer. "You're... really alive. I-I thought... I thought you were gone. Forever. I-"

  Before she can finish, before the weight of her words can fully settle, Oleksandr closes the distance between them with a sudden, fierce passion. He cuts off her confession, his lips crashing into hers with a hunger that has been building for a year. His arms envelop her completely, drawing her tightly against him, lifting her slightly off the ground as he pulls her into him, his chest burning with the intensity of the moment. His lips are a desperate fire, a storm of love and longing unleashed. He kisses her deeply, savagely almost, as if trying to make up for every stolen second, every moment he spent away from her. His hands move to her back and her head, holding her firmly, ensuring she’s never far from him.

  Savka squeaks in surprise, her body tensing momentarily under the unexpected intensity. She squirms slightly, not used to the heat, not used to the touch of a man after so long apart. But then something shifts inside her, something gives way, and she melts into him, surrendering to the kiss. She parts her lips, and he takes the invitation, his tongue sweeping into the sweetness of her mouth, exploring, claiming her in a way that only he can.

  His breath quickens as he pulls her closer, his hands gripping her hips with desperate urgency, a man starved for everything he’s been without. His kiss becomes more feverish, more insistent, a wild thing, as if he can’t get enough of her—like a starving man finally tasting bread after a year of deprivation. His heart hammers in his chest, his desire overtaking his thoughts, and with a growl of longing, he starts to lift her, ready to carry her to the bedroom, to lose himself in the warmth of her, to reclaim what’s been taken from him.

  But then, she pulls back, her hands gently pushing against his chest. He freezes, confusion flashing through him as he sees the hesitation in her eyes, the way her breath catches, the way her voice trembles.

  "Oleksandr, I..." She begins, her voice barely a whisper, shaken by the weight of what she must say. His gaze softens instantly, and he lowers her back to her feet, his arms still around her, though now with a gentleness that belies the ferocity of his earlier movements. Her words cause his heart to thrum harder, more uncertain now, the rush of passion momentarily giving way to the concern that always lies beneath his protective instincts.

  "Vidosavka," he breathes her name. "What is it?"

  She hesitates, the words stuck on her tongue, and for a moment, he fears she might pull away entirely, leaving him in the silence that hangs thick between them. But then she speaks again, her voice trembling, almost as if she is afraid to let the words slip into the air.

  "There’s... I..." Her breath hitches, her eyes avoiding his, guilt and fear shadowing her gaze. "Oleksandr..." Her voice cracks, and she looks up at him, wide-eyed, almost pleading for him to understand, to not react harshly.

  Oleksandr’s brow furrows as he watches her, his mind racing, trying to grasp what could cause her such turmoil. He feels a stab of fear, a tightening in his chest, though he tries to keep his voice even, calm. He wants to soothe her, to erase whatever fear she carries, but his own unease bubbles up, making his words tremble slightly.

  "Tell me, Savka," he says.

  "A... a lot has changed while you were gone..." She says, her voice trembling as she hesitates, her fingers closing around his large hand, squeezing it with a kind of anxious urgency. She glances back toward the room, her eyes flicking nervously to the space behind her, and Oleksandr feels a ripple of unease begin to crawl up his spine. Something is wrong. His confusion deepens as he watches her, his brow furrowing, instinctively tightening his grip on her hand.

  She steps back, her gaze briefly meeting his before she pushes the door open a little further, revealing the room beyond.

  The sight hits him like a thunderclap, his heart suddenly freezing in his chest.

  There, near the bed, is a bassinet.