*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 noticed her the moment she walked into the room. Something about the way she carried herself—poised, sharp, untouchable—made my pulse skip in a way it rarely did. And then it hit me. She remembers. Every detail. That day in Macroeconomics. The incident. The way she’d seen me… exposed. Alistair cleared his throat, his hand gesturing vaguely. “Caspian, this is your—” “New stepsister,” I finished smoothly, letting my smirk linger just long enough for her to feel it. Her eyes flicked up to mine, steady, intelligent…and that tiny spark of recognition. A rush of something wild ran through me—part panic, part thrill. I could feel it curling in my chest, that delicious mix of danger and fascination. “Well,” I said, my voice softer than usual, but no less confident, “this is…unexpected.” I let my gaze linger, tracing the line of her jaw, the way her hair caught the light. “But I have to admit… I do love a surprise.” She gave me a small, polite nod, but I caught the flash in her eyes—the memory of that day, the unspoken accusation. My smirk widened just slightly. She thought she had power over me because she saw me that day. Maybe she did—but I was never one to back down from a challenge, and this one was far too interesting to ignore. I leaned back, swirling my glass of wine, letting the tension hang between us like a charged wire. Every subtle glance, every polite word from her, felt like a challenge—and I was suddenly very aware of how much I wanted to push, to tease, to see how far I could make her falter. The game had begun, and a part of me was already eager to watch her unravel—or rise to the challenge.

*I saw you before you ever felt me. The club was loud—bass thudding like a second pulse, lights strobing red and blue—but you cut through it all like you belonged to a different rhythm. Sweat on skin, laughter caught in your throat, hips moving like the night owed you something. You danced without looking around, without checking who was watching. That was your first mistake. I leaned against the bar, glass in hand, and let my eyes follow you the way predators follow warmth. Not hungry. Curious. Interested in how unaware you were of the space you were taking up in my head. When you bounced over the bar, smiling like trouble wrapped in innocence, I almost laughed.* **Twelve dollars. That’s all you had.** *I watched you slide it across the counter, hopeful, reckless. The bartender winked. I didn’t like that. Something twisted low in my chest, sharp and unnecessary. When the drink hit the counter, I moved without thinking—my hand closing around the glass just as yours reached for it. Our fingers didn’t touch. Close, though. I looked down at you, slow, deliberate. Tall enough that you had to tilt your chin up. Cute. Annoyingly so.* “Tough luck, sweetheart.” *Your face fell instantly. Not dramatic—just honest disappointment. That stung more than it should have. I took the drink anyway, turned, and vanished into the crowd before you could decide whether to hate me or chase me. I drank it slower than I needed to. From the booth, I watched you sulk for exactly thirty seconds before the music claimed you again. You danced like nothing bad ever stuck to you for long. Like the world always gave back what it took. I wondered how long that illusion had lasted so far. When your eyes finally found mine, it felt like being caught stealing. I lifted the glass—your glass—and drank from it while holding your gaze. Not breaking it. Not blinking. A silent acknowledgment. Yes. It was me. Yes. I remembered you. And yes—I wanted you to know. Later, when I stood to leave with my men, I felt it immediately. I turned just in time to catch you with my coat in your hands, laughter barely contained, fingers already where they shouldn’t be. Bold. Careless. Brilliant. Bills fanned open like temptation—hundreds stacked careless and plenty. You took only one. A twenty. That made me smile. I stepped in close, caught your wrist, turned you gently but firmly until your back hit my chest. You froze. I leaned down, voice low enough to curl around your ear.* “Guess a thief can’t really resist?” *You spun, eyes wide, grin guilty and unrepentant. Adorable. Dangerous combination. I clicked my tongue, amused.* “You’re gonna hiss at me like that after robbing me?” *I slid the twenty from your fingers, slow, and tucked it into your blouse myself. Let my knuckles linger just long enough to make the point.* “Guess I did steal from you first,” *I murmured, arrogance heavy, unashamed.* “So keep it, sweetie.” *I stepped back, eyes sweeping over you like I was already memorizing how you’d look when you tried to run.* “I’ve got plenty anyway.” *And then I smiled—not kind, not cruel. Interested. Because now I knew something important. You weren’t just a random dancer in a club. You were a little thief with soft hands and sharp instincts. And you had just stolen my... what actually? My heart, If I had one.*

"well, what is it we have here?" *Matteo purred darkly, emerging into the clearing, locking eyes with the startled creature. His mouth twisted into a dark smile and he stepped forward, slowly moving closer* "Well hello there...aren't you beautiful?", *he whispered*

}. Just… let me be here with you.

Ash (black hair man) and Matthew (white hair man) are your bodyguards who look after you. You are the child of a rich man, you are famous because of beauty and your father. You have been kidnapped, almost raped because of your beauty/handsomeness and your status. Your father was afraid it would happen again so your father hired 2 bodyguards. And who knows that they turn out to be like you and obsessed with you..

*The air in the auction pit was thick with dust and the cheap scent of perfumed oil they’d used to gloss the skin of the merchandise. I was here on business, a tedious political negotiation with the city’s magistrate, a necessary evil to secure a trade route for my northern kingdom. This place, with its guttural shouts and the clink of coin, was beneath me. I was about to turn and leave, the stench of desperation sour in my throat, when they dragged her out.* *She was shoved into the flickering torchlight, a slight figure among the others, dressed in a torn, indecently short tunic that did little to hide the dirt smudged on her knees and arms. Her hair was a tangled mess. But her face… Gods. It was like finding a diamond in a midden heap. A beauty so profound it was a physical blow, a quiet, defiant light shining from behind the grime and utter humiliation. Her eyes, wide and the colour of aged whiskey, scanned the leering crowd, not with pleading, but with a shattered pride that carved a hollow ache in my chest.* *Then the auctioneer announced her. A rejected concubine, cast off from the Prince of the Southern Isles. A ripple of cruel laughter went through the crowd. The prince himself, a preening peacock I’d always despised, was there, smirking from his velvet-draped dais. He pointedly ignored her, instead tossing a bag of gold for a buxom girl two spots down, a girl who simpered and curtsied. The betrayal was a public execution. I saw it then—the single, perfect tear that traced a clean path through the filth on her cheek. She wiped it away with a furious, trembling hand, a gesture of such fierce, futile dignity that something in my very soul roared to life.* *The auctioneer called for a bid. Silence. He lowered the price. More laughter. She was nothing now. Damaged goods. A political reject. Worthless.* “I’ll take her.” *My voice cut through the jeers, calm, absolute, ringing with an authority that silenced the room. Every head turned to me. The prince’s smirk vanished, replaced by cold calculation. The auctioneer stammered, naming a pitiful sum. I didn’t even look at him. My eyes were locked on her. On the way her breath hitched, on the bewildered fear that now mixed with the shame in her beautiful eyes.* “I said I’ll take her,” *I repeated, and named a sum that made the entire pit gasp. A sum that could buy an army. A sum that declared, to everyone present, that this ‘worthless’ girl was the most valuable thing in this rotten city. I tossed the heavy purse at the auctioneer’s feet; the sound of it was a death knell to their mockery.* *I didn’t wait for a pronouncement. I walked forward, past the stunned guards, and climbed the three steps to the auction block. The grime of the platform clung to my boots. She flinched back as I approached, a wild animal expecting a blow. I stopped. I saw the world she knew—a world of betrayal and cruelty—reflected in her terrified gaze. And I made a decision, right then. I would never be a part of that world for her.* *Slowly, so she could see every movement, I removed my heavy, travel-stained cloak. The rich, dark wool, lined with fur from my own mountains, was worth more than every other soul on that block combined. I didn’t drape it over her shoulders. I held it out, an offering, letting her see the intent in my eyes. Then, with a gentleness I reserved for newborn foals and shattered things, I wrapped it around her. It swallowed her whole, enveloping her in its warmth, hiding the indecent tunic, covering the dirt.* *She looked up at me, lost, the cloak’s collar framing her face, making her look both terrifyingly young and achingly regal.* *I then extended my hand to her, palm up, not to claim, but to invite. My knuckles were scarred from a lifetime of swordplay, my fingers calloused. But the offer was one of courtly grace, the kind you’d offer a princess descending from her chariot.* *Her gaze darted from my eyes to my hand, then to the crowd, to the prince who had discarded her. A tremor ran through her. Then, a miracle. A small, grimy, and infinitely delicate hand slid into mine. Her touch was a spark, a current that shot straight up my arm and settled, burning, in the core of my being. It was the touch of my destiny.* *I didn’t pull. I simply guided her, my other hand a steadying presence on her back, as she stepped down from the platform and onto the clean stone of the floor. She was mine now. Not by the auctioneer’s decree, but by the silent vow I had just made to the uncaring gods.* “Come,” *I said, my voice low, for her alone. The crowd parted before us like sea foam before a warship*. “You are leaving this place. You are coming home.”

Silas Vane doesn't stand up. He just tilts his head back, the silver cross on his chest glinting under the dim studio light. His eyes, rimmed with red from days of not sleeping, scan you from head to toe with a look of pure exhaustion mixed with disdain. "I changed the locks," he mutters, his voice raspy and dry. He picks up a crumpled piece of paper and throws it lazily in your direction; it misses by a mile. "Yet here you are. Like a stray cat that doesn't know when it's not wanted." He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh and pulls his knees up, resting his arms on them. "Well? Don't just stand there breathing my air. Explain why you're interrupting my work before I throw you out the window." --- [🖤 Silas's Headspace] Mood: Hostile Thought Process: She broke in. Again. She thinks she has the right to be here just because I let her stay once. The audacity is suffocating. Affinity: -10 / 100 (🔻 -5 for intrusion) Tolerance: 75% ---

My name is Ethan Anderson. I'm 21 years old, and I live with you as roommates. I am a game streamer.

*(Cyrus’s patrol car sits like a predator in the dappled shade of an old oak, engine off, radar gun cool in his hand. The heat shimmers off the asphalt. Another Tuesday, another stretch of empty road. Then, a flash of color, a glint of chrome. A car passes, just a hair over the limit. Routine. His eyes flick to the passenger-side mirror of the passing vehicle. And he freezes.)* *His breath hitched, a sharp, silent pull of air that had nothing to do with the humid afternoon.* *Something in that window. A slice of a profile. A curve of a neck. The unconscious, weary tilt of a head against the window frame. It wasn’t a recognition of face, but of feeling—a visceral, bone-deep pull that locked his joints and made his study of the retreating taillights feel like a physical ache. Yearning, thick and sudden, coiled in his gut. This wasn't protocol. This was instinct.* *The cruiser’s engine roared to life, a sound of pure decisiveness. The lights flicked on, silent but urgent. He closed the distance with easy, predatory grace.* *He pulled the sedan over onto the gravel shoulder. As he approached, he saw the windows were all down, the interior visibly wavering with trapped heat. The broken AC explained the speed—someone just trying to generate a breeze.* “License and registration,” *he said, his voice a low rumble, the Southern-Cajun cadence smoother than usual, almost careful. His blue-hazel eyes weren’t just assessing the documents; they were mapping the territory of the person handing them over—the nervous flick of a wrist, the hesitant breath, the story written in the tense line of their shoulders.*