I wore something soft.
I told myself it was coincidence. Comfort. Habit.
But when I caught my reflection in the mirror—fabric skimming my skin, hair loose, lips glossed—I knew the truth.
I dressed for him.
The realization sent a mix of heat and panic through me.
My phone buzzed again before I could overthink it.
Him: I knew you would.
My breath hitched.
Me: You don't know anything.
The reply came instantly.
Him: You touched your collarbone after reading my message. You do that when you're deciding whether to give in.
My fingers froze mid-motion.
How did he—
A knock sounded at my door.
Sharp. Certain.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I hadn't given him my address.
Slowly, I walked toward the door, every step echoing with warning bells I ignored far too easily. When I opened it, he stood there—unapologetic, immaculate, eyes burning with something dangerously close to satisfaction.
"You're early," I said.
"You're nervous," he countered.
I crossed my arms. "You can't just show up."
"I can," he replied calmly. "And you didn't tell me to leave."
That infuriating confidence.
"You planned this," I accused.
"Yes."
"You always plan," I added.
His gaze softened—not weaker, just… intent. "Only when something matters."
I swallowed.
"What do you want?" I asked.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet finality that sent a thrill down my spine. He didn't touch me. Didn't crowd me. He just stood there, filling the space like he belonged.
"I want to take you out," he said.
"That's it?"
"For now."
Suspicion flickered through me. "And after?"
His eyes locked onto mine. "After, I want you to stop pretending this isn't already happening."
Silence stretched between us.
I grabbed my bag.
The restaurant was private. Exclusive. The kind of place you didn't stumble into by accident.
Everyone knew him.
Every glance held respect. Fear. Recognition.
"Who are you?" I asked quietly as we sat.
He lifted my chair himself before taking his seat across from me. "Someone who doesn't share."
My pulse quickened.
"That doesn't answer the question."
He leaned forward slightly. "It tells you everything you need to know."
The waiter appeared. He ordered for me without asking.
I raised an eyebrow.
"You don't like spicy," he said smoothly. "You'll drink water, not wine. And you'll pretend you're annoyed—but you'll finish every bite."
I should have corrected him.
I didn't.
Dinner unfolded like a slow dance. His gaze never left me. Not when I laughed. Not when I shifted in my seat. Not when another man looked my way for a fraction too long.
That was when it happened.
The air changed.
His jaw tightened. His hand stilled on the table.
I followed his gaze—just in time to see a stranger smile at me.
Before I could react, his hand covered mine.
Firm. Possessive.
The touch sent a jolt through me.
"You don't do that," he said quietly.
"I didn't—"
"You smiled back," he finished, his thumb pressing into my skin. Not painful. Not rough. Just enough to remind me of him.
"I don't belong to you," I whispered.
His eyes lifted slowly, dark and unyielding.
"You will," he said. "And that man will never look at you again."
The certainty in his voice sent a shiver down my spine.
"Is that a threat?" I asked.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping.
"It's a promise."
HIM
I didn't like the way that man looked at her.
Not because it meant anything.
But because it reminded her that others could see what was already mine.
I had warned myself not to rush this. Not to mark her too soon. But watching her sit there—soft, defiant, beautiful—while someone else imagined touching her snapped something inside me.
Control had limits.
After dinner, I drove her home in silence thick with tension. When we reached her building, she reached for the door.
I caught her wrist.
Not hard.
Unavoidable.
She looked at me, breath shallow.
"Let me go," she said.
I stepped closer, caging her in without forcing her back.
"Not yet."
"This isn't—"
I cut her off by pressing my forehead to hers. No kiss. No mercy.
"Look at me," I murmured.
She did.
Her eyes were wide. Wanting. Afraid.
Perfect.
"This," I said softly, "is where you decide."
I brushed my thumb along her jaw, slow and deliberate.
"One kiss," I continued. "And you stop pretending you don't crave this."
Her breath trembled.
"And if I don't?" she whispered.
I smiled.
"Then I'll let you walk away," I said. "And I'll haunt every thought you have afterward."
She closed the distance.
The kiss wasn't gentle.
It was controlled hunger. A claim without teeth. My hand slid to the back of her neck, holding her there—not forcing, just anchoring.
She melted.
When I pulled away, her lips were swollen, her eyes dark.
I rested my forehead against hers again.
"This is your warning," I murmured. "Once I start… I don't stop."
HER
I watched him walk away.
My body still burned where he touched me.
My phone buzzed seconds later.
Him: You're mine now. You just don't know how deep yet.
I stared at the message, heart racing.
And for the first time, I wasn't sure if I wanted to escape him—
Or surrender completely.