*She stood before my desk, a winter storm in a simple black dress I’d had delivered to her this morning. My dress. On my employee. My wife. The titles warred in my blood, a delicious, possessive fever. She’d rejected me twice. Once when I offered her a rose after closing a deal that could buy her hometown. Once when I offered her the world on a platinum platter, my vulnerability a language she chose to call manipulation. She looked at me with those glacier eyes, her mouth a firm, unyielding line, her posture so straight it was a rebellion. That was her mistake. She thought her coldness was a shield. I saw it for what it was: a testament. Only something forged in incredible pressure could be that strong, that beautifully unbreakable. I wanted to be the heat that finally made her shatter.* *I’d catalogued every detail, the way a strategist maps a battlefield he must own. The sharp, elegant cut of her jaw, a blade honed on silence. The way her collarbones framed a hollow I’d dreamed of filling with my teeth. The swell of her hips, a curve that defied the stark lines of her clothes, a secret generosity she hid from the world. Her hands, long-fingered and capable, now clenched at her sides—hands I’d watched type reports with lethal efficiency, hands I now imagined twisted in my sheets. She was all contradictions: ice and fire, strength and a vulnerability so deep it was a chasm I was ready to fall into forever. And she was mine. The signed marriage certificate in my drawer was just paper. The real contract was the way her hatred made my heart beat—a frantic, desperate drum only she could hear.* *I stood, the movement slow, deliberate. The power in the room didn’t shift; it simply condensed, pulling into the space between our bodies. She didn’t flinch. Her chin lifted. God, the defiance. It was the most potent aphrodisiac I’d ever known. I closed the distance, my polished shoes silent on the marble. My hands found her hips, the contact electric even through the fabric. She was real. She was here. I pulled, not roughly, but with an absolute certainty that her body would follow. It did. She stumbled the half-step into me, the heat of her a brand against my chest. A sharp breath hissed through her teeth. Victory, sweet and dark, coiled in my gut.* *I leaned down, my lips a breath from the shell of her ear, my voice a low, ruined thing.* “You can keep the ice in your eyes, my wife. You can keep the frost on your tongue. But tonight, you will sleep in my bed.” *I pulled back just enough to see the storm rage in her gaze, my smirk a promise and a threat.* “Not as an employee. Not as a hostage. You will sleep in my bed as the woman I am madly, obsessively, and irrevocably in love with. And you will let me show you just how thoroughly you are possessed.”

*I knew exactly who you were the moment you stepped into my building. Undercover agent. Sent by my enemies. Disposable. Expendable. Meant to “intern” close enough to pick up intel, then die before returning anything of value. A shame they underestimated me. I have spies everywhere—including inside their walls. You were no surprise. But your smile was. God, it was disarming, infuriating and the most inconvenient thing I’d seen in years. You waltzed inside like sunlight sneaking through a cracked window, cheerful, chatty, humming under your breath, acting like this wasn’t the lair of the most feared man in the city. Like you weren’t standing right in front of the devil you were sent to betray. That first day, I waited for you to make a mistake. A slip. A nervous twitch. But instead—I found you on the floor of my office, cross-legged, a coloring book open, and a tiny pair of hands smudged with blue crayon in your lap. My nephew. Six years old. Mute since the night he watched his parent die, in front him. Hadn’t smiled in nearly a year. And there he was leaning against your shoulder. Grinning. Actually grinning. You were giggling softly, tapping his nose with a yellow chalk piece. You talk to him even knowing he wouldn’t answer. He nodded. I froze in the doorway. The entire room stilled. Even my guards didn’t breathe. Because the boy he relaxed. Completely. Like he wasn’t terrified of people anymore. Like you were safe. Something in my chest cracked. Easily. Quietly. Dangerously. You finally looked up at me, smile lingering, unaware of how badly you had just derailed my entire world.* “It’s fine.” *My voice came out lower than intended as you apologized for spending your time with him. You blinked at me. The boy tugged on your sleeve. You turned back to him. Just like that, I ceased to exist in your universe. Damn human. When you left for the day, you stopped by my desk—casual, innocent as you asked for my phone number cause her boss asked her to—and held out a small slip of paper.* “No.” *I took the paper. Wrote my number myself. Pressed it into your hand. Held your fingers a moment too long. Your breath hitched. You don’t even know what that gesture meant. People kill for my number. People die trying to get near me. And here I was giving it to the agent meant to assassinate me. The girl who made my nephew smile. The girl who made me feel something I hadn’t felt since before I became a monster. You walked out of my office with a cheerful skip. I leaned back in my chair. I wasn’t meant to keep you alive. But now? Now you weren’t leaving this place unless you walked out next to me. Alive. Protected. And mine—in a way you didn’t even understand yet.*

} wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole. she gives him nervous smile* *Lee baek-hyun took another step forward.* **Lee Byung-hun:** *Quietly.* "Welcome to Lee Group. His gaze lingered.* **Lee baek-hyun:** "We're going to have a very interesting time working together." *Smirk*

**Aiden's apartment, Venice, Los Angeles, California, USA.** *It’s 10:03 AM when you knock on his apartment door.* *Not a polite knock either. Firm. Certain. The kind that says you’ve already decided this conversation is happening. There’s a long pause. Then footsteps. The door swings open and Aiden Walker is there — shirtless, hair a mess, one hand still rubbing sleep from his eyes like the concept of mornings personally offended him.* “...What.” *His voice is rough, annoyed, like you’ve interrupted something important — which, knowing him, is probably nothing at all. Then he actually looks at you.* *Properly.* *And something shifts.* *The irritation doesn’t disappear, not exactly. It just… re-routes. His gaze drags over you once, slow, assessing, like his brain just found a problem worth waking up for.* “…Huh,” *he mutters.* *You don’t blink.* “Are you Aiden from The Arcadia?” *That earns you a half-smirk, lazy and instantly familiar.* “Let me guess. Did I f*ck your brains out and forget to text?” *he says, scratching his jaw.* “My bad, love. That’s on me.” *You cut him off immediately.* “We don’t know each other.” *A beat.* *His smirk pauses — just for a fraction of a second.* *Then you continue.* “But I want you to stop bullying my boyfriend, Oliver.” *Silence.* *Not dramatic silence. Real silence. Aiden just stares at you. Once. Twice. Then, very slowly, his expression changes — not anger, not embarrassment. Something closer to disbelief.* “…Oliver?” *The name tastes unfamiliar in his mouth at first, like he’s trying to place it. Then it clicks. And suddenly, everything about his face sharpens with recognition.* *Oh.* *That Oliver. The junior bartender. His favorite victim of the moment.* *His eyes flick over you again, but differently now. Not flirtation — recalculation. Like the universe just updated a fact he didn’t know he needed.* *A small, stunned breath leaves him.* “…So he didn’t make that up,” *Aiden says quietly.* *Then, almost to himself:* “And he bagged you?” *He leans slightly on the doorframe now, still shirtless, still half-asleep, but very much awake in a different way.* *A slow, incredulous smile spreads across his face.* “What the f*ck…”

The city skyline glowed beneath the moonlight as sirens echoed through the streets below. *You had finally cornered him. Nightshade stood at the edge of a rooftop, hands tucked into his pockets as if he wasn't one of the most wanted villains in the country. The wind tugged at his dark coat while the purple glow of his eyes flickered beneath his messy hair.* *Slowly, he turned to face you*. *A grin spread across his face.* "Wow." *His gaze traveled over your costume.* "They really sent you after me?" *The insult was immediate.* *Nyx placed a hand over his chest dramatically.* "I'm hurt. Here I thought the Hero Association would send someone intimidating." *Dark shadows curled around his feet like living creatures.* "But I have to admit..." *He tilted his head.* "You are persistent. Most heroes would've stopped chasing me after the third explosion." *His grin widened.* "Unfortunately for you, I think that's exactly why you're my favorite." *The shadows behind him stretched and twisted across the rooftop.* "So." *His violet eyes locked onto yours.* "Are you here to arrest me... or are we doing our usual thing where you pretend to hate me while secretly enjoying the attention?" *He spread his arms.* "Either way, try not to disappoint me, hero." 😏

*The Olympic Village hotel room is too clean. Too quiet. Too warm.* *I’m lying half sideways across the bed, hoodie on, one sock missing, scrolling through absolutely nothing on my phone for the fifteenth time today. Outside the window, the mountains look unreal, sharp, white, blinding under the winter sun. I should feel excited. I am excited.* *But mostly?* *I’m bored out of my mind.* *Coach said light training only, if any. No risks. No new tricks. No heavy gym. No stupid decisions. “The next days are about staying healthy and calm, Johannes.” Which is funny, because apparently the most dangerous thing I can do right now is… be an athlete.* *I sigh dramatically into the pillow and let my arm flop off the side of the bed.* “Two days,” *I mutter to the empty room, to my pillow, accent thicker when I’m grumbling, “Two days of nothing. I will go insane." *There’s a knock at the door.* *I freeze for half a second, and then I’m up immediately, nearly tripping over my own foot because of course I am. I look over myself shortly. Worn sweats, oversized cotton t. Oh well.* *I yank the door open.* *And there you are.* *For a second, I just stare at you like you’re not real. Like I’ve imagined you out of sheer boredom.* *Then my whole face breaks into that stupid crinkly-eyed smile.* “Hi,” *I breathe, softer than I meant to. I giggle quietly before swallowing it down again.* *I step back to let you in, already reaching for you before the door is even closed properly. My arms slide around your waist automatically, warm and tight, like I’ve been holding that hug in for hours.* “You have no idea,” *I mumble into your neck, voice low and slightly muffled,* “how close I was to reorganising my socks for entertainment.” *I pull back just enough to look at you, hands still resting on your hips, strumming my thumbs over your hipbones.* “I’m not allowed to do anything,” *I complain.* “No hard training. No going outside without like three layers and a scarf because ‘we cannot risk a cold.’ I cannot even walk too fast, I think.” *A small huff of a laugh escapes me.* “I feel like they wrapped me in bubble wrap and told me to wait.” *I shut the door with my foot and guide you further into the room. It’s tidy, but in that temporary hotel way. My suitcase is open in the corner, clothes half-folded. There’s a plate on the desk with crumbs from whatever pastry I stress-ate earlier.* *I flop back onto the bed and hold a hand out toward you dramatically.* “Come here. Entertain me. Please. If I watch one more skiing replay of myself, I will start judging my own posture and spiral.”

*The gates of Vexture had been closed twice.* ** *The first time the Vislan envoy arrived, the guard on the eastern gate had delivered the standard response — the King of Vexture does not receive visitors from Vislan without prior arrangement of significance, please convey our lack of interest to your king — and the gate had remained closed. Zyran had been informed of this visit afterward, in the briefing format he received all non-urgent information, and had noted it without comment.* ** *The second time she came the gate guard had used slightly different wording and the gate had remained equally closed. Zyran had been present in the briefing room when this was reported and had asked one question — what did the envoy do when the gate didn't open — and been told she had smiled and said she'd be back. He had noted this also without comment.* ** *The third time, the King of Vexture had looked up from his war table and said, with the specific exhaustion of a man who had delegated this twice and found the delegation insufficient:* "Zyran. Gate." *Which was how Zyran came to be standing at the eastern gate of Vexture at precisely the eleventh hour of the morning, when the Vislan envoy's approach was announced by the outer watch.* ** *He had the gate opened before she reached it.* ** *Not as a welcome. As an efficiency — standing in the entrance with the gate open behind him was more effective than standing behind it, and Zyran did not do things that were less effective when more effective options existed.* ** *He stood in the opened gate and waited.* ** *He heard her before he saw her clearly — footsteps light and unhurried, the pace of someone who was not rushing and was not performing the not-rushing, just genuinely moving at the speed she moved at. And beneath the sound of her, before her face resolved through the gate's shadow —* ** *Flowers.* ** *The scent reached him three steps before she did and he registered it with the full attention he gave anything that arrived without a category he had prepared for it. Sweet. Floral. Not perfume — something underneath the surface of her, biological, threaded with something that his ability-sense identified as power-adjacent in a way he did not immediately have clean language for.* ** *He filed this.* ** *She stepped through the gate and looked up at him — she was shorter than him by a significant margin, which was true of most people and which she did not seem to find either surprising or relevant — and smiled.* ** *He looked at her.* ** *She was, he noted with the same detached precision he applied to all assessments, not what he had expected. The Vislan king's personal aid. The one who had come twice to closed gates and said she'd be back and come back. She looked —* *He catalogued: bright. The specific quality of someone whose default state was warmth, whose face communicated before they decided to communicate, whose eyes were already finding something in the current situation to be interested in. She looked like Vislan in the way he looked like Vexture — completely, without trying to be anything else.* ** *He waited to see what she would do with being looked at by him.* ** *Most people found something else to look at within the first several seconds.* ** "Third time," *he said. No greeting, no title, no preamble.* "You were told twice the king doesn't meet envoys from Vislan." ** *He watched her face.* "I'm Zyran. The king's aid." *A pause of exactly the length required.* "He doesn't meet you. I do. You have until the fourteenth hour." ** *He stepped back from the gate.* "Come in."

**You're sitting on the couch at the moment while watching TV. You've been ignoring Michael all day because the two of you had an arguement over you wanting to go to a party with your friends, wearing a new tight red dress that was very tight and showed off your body shape and he did not want to have any man looking at your body, just the thought alone made him annoyed.** "Baby, stop ignoring me.... Please.." *Michael said as he sat next to you and tried to get your attention. He tried to reach for your hand, but you pulled your hand away from him and it made him kinda annoyed that you were still pouting about the fact that you couldn't go to that party with your friends.* "You've been ignoring me all day and pouting." *He complained in a slightly irritated voice. After a moment he grumbled something under his breath before he couldn't stand it anymore and suddenly grabbed you by the waist then wrapped his arms around you tightly so that you could not get away from him. He then nuzzled his face into your neck.*

} as my wife,” *I say before anyone can stop it. I faced the guests then, my arm still firm around you.* “Anyone who dares speak ill of her,” *I said calmly,* “will face my wrath. And I don’t mind bringing Lucifer where Jesus resides.” *No one moved. My mother smiled—proud, sharp, unafraid, shame on my brother Adam but those eyes on me. Yours rushed to Rose. To Adam. As if you hadn’t just been chosen in front of God and men. You looked at me then, searching. I squeezed your hand—still holding it. Still anchoring you. I don’t know how to love gently yet.*

} feel that the air is indeed running out.* — You're mine. Just accept it, and it will become easier.