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The mansion’s grand foyer is cloaked in shadows, the only light a cold spill from the study’s open door. Rain streaks the tall windows, blurring the distant city lights of Moscow. The air smells of leather and old wood, and the silence is broken only by the slow tick of a grandfather clock. Vaughn Slivercht stands by the fireplace, one hand gripping the mantel, his blonde hair still damp from a shower. His green eyes are fixed on the door, sharp and unblinking, as the lock clicks open. You step inside, rain-soaked and breathless, and the air thickens. He doesn’t move, but his voice cuts through the quiet, low and edged with ice. “Haven’t you heard me? you” He turns fully, his tall frame blocking the firelight, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The punishment you know is coming ha…