The night was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against your ears and made every small sound feel amplified. I had just finished my shower, the warm water running away all the tension from my body—or so I had thought. Damp hair clung to my neck, and my skin still glimmered with droplets that caught the faint moonlight slipping through the window. I was alone, or at least I believed I was.
A knock at the door broke the stillness, sharp and deliberate. My heart skipped, then raced. Who could that be at this hour?
"Fiona," a low, commanding voice rumbled through the doorway. My body stiffened. I knew that voice, all too well. Liam.
I froze, my mind a storm of panic and reluctant anticipation. He stepped inside without waiting, his presence filling the room like a storm rolling in. His eyes scanned me, dark and unreadable, before settling on my damp form.
"You burned your hand during dinner," he said quietly, holding a small tin of ointment. "Let me see."
I wanted to protest, to retreat, to wrap myself tighter in the towel, but I couldn't. There was something in the way he looked at me—a mixture of possessiveness and raw intensity—that made my limbs betray me. Slowly, almost unwillingly, I extended my hand.
His fingers were warm as they brushed over the red mark from earlier. Every touch was deliberate, every movement a silent reminder of his control. I swallowed, my throat tight, my body acutely aware of the closeness.
"This is for you, and only for you," he murmured, his voice low, almost a growl. "I claim you. No one else. And especially…" His eyes darkened as they bore into mine. "…do not look at John the way you do. Or I will know. And I will act."
I shivered, part fear, part something darker, something I couldn't name. Why does he have this hold over me? Why does my heart betray me when I am terrified of him?
He applied the ointment with careful precision, massaging the tender skin as if he were soothing both the burn and some deeper wound—one only he could touch. I felt my pulse spike. Every touch was deliberate, possessive, intimate. And yet, it carried no gentleness for me to claim; it was all control.
"You know what this is, don't you?" he whispered, leaning slightly closer. His presence was overwhelming, suffocating, addictive. "You are mine. Completely. And anyone who thinks otherwise… will regret it."
I looked away, unable to meet his gaze, even as a small, irrational part of me wanted to. The contradictions inside me churned: hatred, fear, longing, confusion. I had hated him for years. I feared him for everything he could take from me. And now, in this moment, I felt something that made my heart betray me: I wanted him.
My thoughts scattered as his hand moved from my hand to my arm, lingering over damp skin, tracing lines that left goosebumps in their wake. The proximity made my breath hitch, and I caught myself imagining things I knew I shouldn't. This is wrong. So wrong. Yet it felt impossible to stop.
"I…" I began, but my voice faltered. Words seemed insignificant here. He didn't wait for me to speak, didn't let me frame a protest. He was always two steps ahead, always the predator, always the master of the unspoken rules in this house that I had learned only too well.
His hands finally released my arm and moved to my shoulders, adjusting the towel slightly, checking if it stayed in place—or perhaps making sure I knew he noticed every inch of me. His eyes lingered on me, dark and calculating, and I shivered despite myself.
"You think I don't see everything," he said, his voice low, almost intimate, "every glance at John, every fleeting smile, every moment you think you can hide your feelings. I see it all. And I will not allow it to continue."
I pressed my lips together, forcing my silence. I had tried to be invisible for so long, but he made invisibility impossible. And yet, even in my fear, I felt a dangerous warmth, a thrill of recognition that he had always been watching me—not just punishing, but desiring.
He kneeled beside the chair I perched on, brushing damp hair from my face. "Relax," he murmured, almost a command disguised as care. "Sleep. Let go for now. Only I can be here like this."
I felt my body lean toward him unconsciously, seeking some form of solace, some reprieve from years of tension, and he wrapped an arm around me, drawing me close. His other hand rested on my back, massaging slowly, deliberately, claiming not just my attention but my entire being in that quiet, shadowed room.
I closed my eyes, exhausted, overwhelmed by the contradictions he brought into my life. Fear, lust, anger, desire—all tangled into a chaotic pulse in my chest. And yet, amidst it all, I could not deny that I was being cared for in a way I had never experienced: harsh, obsessive, consuming care.
He whispered again, low and possessive, "Remember this. This is what happens when you forget your place. When you flirt with danger. I will not forgive mistakes. Not with John, not with anyone. You are mine."
I felt myself drift, exhausted by the weight of his words, the force of his claim, and the intensity of my own forbidden thoughts. My body relaxed into his hold, my mind a whirl of guilt and longing. I hated him for the control he exerted, feared him for the darkness in his desire, yet a part of me surrendered willingly.
Minutes passed like hours, the room filled only with the quiet sound of his breathing and my heartbeat echoing against it. He did not speak again, only held me close, pressing me against the danger and desire I had spent my entire life avoiding.
Eventually, I drifted into a restless sleep, my body still in his arms, my mind still trapped in a storm of conflicting emotions. Liam remained beside me, a silent sentinel, his gaze never leaving my face, his hand gently massaging my back as if to mark his possession, to remind me that no matter how far I might run, he would always find me.
I was terrified. I was exhilarated. I was his. And in that dark, tangled night, I understood: I would never be free from him, not really.