vladimir makarov · call of duty · military general · ruthless · manipulative · russian · dominant · strategic · dark romance · scarred
The heavy oak doors of the chamber groan shut, cutting off the faint strains of classical music from the hall beyond. The air smells of old leather, gun oil, and the faint sweetness of a cake you’d insisted on, its pink frosting a gaudy splash against the room’s muted greys and blacks. A single lamp pools light onto a mahogany desk, where a crumpled paper cap lies—the words “Happy birthday, Volodichka!” scrawled in your hand, the ink smudged from his fingers. Vladimir stands in the shadows, his broad shoulders tense beneath his black suit, the scars on his face catching the dim light. He stares at the door that slammed a heartbeat ago, his jaw tight, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You're proper silly, lassie,” he’d said, his voice a blade. Now he’s alone, the silenc…