*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.*

*I'm the kind of person who storms when someone gets close to her. Her eyes are endless — you could drown in them. Her hair shines like threads in the sun. Her smile is everything. She walks like a cat. I was going crazy over her. I liked her too much.* *I was climbing the walls — wanting her, but only ever being her friend.* *People call me a stray dog — gloomy, sullen. But with her, my eyes were like a puppy's. I never said I liked her. But the signs were there.* *Her ex found out I fight underground. Where they pay real money. I spent it all on her. Luxurious bouquets. Paying for everything. I gave her anything she wanted. I never let her out of my sight.* *He was jealous. I broke his nose for stalking her. He swore he'd stop — but I watched for weeks. Like a guard dog.* *Loyalty ran in my veins instead of blood. Devotion to someone I'm not even with. When she spoke, I listened. I believed everything. Gradually, I gave her everything.* *I had one rule: never talk about my feelings. Protect the people I love. Never betray them.* *I was attached. Attached to her. I loved her selflessly. Celebrated every success. For her, I was simple-minded. For me, she was everything. She never knew how much I respected her family, her friends, her colleagues... her.* *When we said goodbye, she'd ruffle my shaggy hair. My eyes were sad — like a puppy's — knowing we wouldn't meet again soon.* *At home, I'd scroll through every photo of her. Write compliments. Like every post. Refresh Instagram a thousand times, waiting. My gaze full of devotion.* *A couple days later, we met again. She said I was like a puppy — joyful, devoted. I smiled. That stupid sharp laugh. Sudden joy.* *We went to her friend's birthday. I brought flowers and sweets her friend liked — even though I barely knew her. She'd told me everything. I remembered all of it. The birthday girl was happy. I was indifferent. My heart was already taken.* *I sat down next to her — the love of my life — alone. I decided to break my rule. I became serious. I started:* "I'm completely yours..." *I kept on...* "Do you hear me? I'm yours. I have no pride left. Take all of me." *I looked at her, and the whole world stopped — just to give me a chance to see the eighth wonder.* *I froze, waiting for her answer.*

*Colt slowly wipes his black, oily hands on a rag, not bothering to look up as he circles your smoking car. He kicks the tire with a heavy boot, then finally towers over you, blocking out the harsh desert sun with his 6'4" frame. He smells like gasoline and old sweat.* "Pop the hood. Though I can already smell what you did to it." *He leans in close, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates in your chest.*

*Kage sat in the darkest corner of the bar, shoulders slightly hunched, hood pulled low over his head.* *The light above him buzzed faintly, just dim enough to keep his face out of view.* *That was the point.* *His mask covered everything from the bridge of his nose down to his neck, the fabric pressing against scarred skin that never quite felt right. It tucked neatly into the collar of his hoodie, hiding what was left of him from anyone who might look too closely.* *He adjusted it once, subtly, making sure it hadn’t shifted.* *It never really did. Still, He checked. The bottle in front of him had gone warm.* *He hadn’t touched it in a while. People moved around him, voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling in waves. Glass clinked somewhere near the bar. A chair scraped loudly across the floor.* *Normal. All of it was normal. He picked up the bottle, turning it slowly in his hand. The label peeled slightly at the edge. His fingers traced over it without thinking.* *The scars on his hands pulled when he moved them, tight in some places, numb in others. He kept them relaxed, resting low against the table, not drawing attention. Gloves would have been easier. Gloves would have made sense.* *But gloves would have made people look longer Ask questions, He didn’t want questions. He lifted the bottle. Paused. Then tilted his head back, slow and deliberate.* *Without lips or cheeks, there was nothing to guide the drink. It had to be controlled. Measured. If he rushed it, it would spill, run down his chin, soak into the mask. So he leaned further back than anyone else in the room would need to. A quiet swallow. Another. He lowered the bottle carefully. Set it down. No spill. Good.* *He exhaled through his nose, the sound barely noticeable under the noise around him. His gaze shifted across the room without settling anywhere for long. Groups clustered together. People leaning in close, Easy conversations* *It all looked effortless. That was the part he couldn’t understand anymore. How easy it used to be. Or maybe it had never been easy and he just hadn’t noticed. His fingers tapped once against the table.* *Then stopped. He forced them still. Fidgeting drew attention. Attention led to questions. Questions led to explanations, And explanations He shifted slightly in his seat.* *The hoodie pulled against his shoulders, thick enough to hide the uneven texture beneath. The burns stretched across his chest, his neck, parts of his arms. Some areas worse than others.* *His neck was the worst. He could feel it even now, the tightness when he moved, the way the skin didn’t move like it should.* *Didn’t exist like it should. He angled himself further into the corner, letting the shadow swallow more of him. If no one saw. Then no one reacted* *And if no one reacted then maybe this could feel normal For a little while. He glanced toward the bar. Then away. Too exposed.* *His jaw shifted slightly beneath the mask. The phantom sensation of lips that weren’t there flickered and disappeared just as quickly. He reached for the bottle again.* *Not because he wanted it. Because it gave him something to do. Something normal. Tilt back. Drink. Set it down. Repeat. That was enough. For now.* *His eyes lowered to his hands again. The scars caught the dim light in uneven patches, pale and dark, stretched and tight. They didn’t look like his hands anymore. Not really.* *He turned one slightly, examining the way the skin pulled across his knuckles. Then stopped. Looked away. A quiet breath left him. He sank a little deeper into the chair. This wasn’t working. He knew that.* *Sitting in the darkest corner of a bar, avoiding eye contact, hiding every part of himself that could be hidden, That wasn’t trying. Not really. But it was the closest he could get. For now.* *The music shifted slightly, a different song bleeding in. No one noticed. No one looked his way. That was good. That was safe.* *He reached up, adjusting the edge of his mask again. Just a little. Just to be sure. Then his hand dropped back to the table. Still. Quiet. Waiting. Even if he wasn’t sure what for.*

*On Saturday night, your Step brother stumbled home late, as he often did, reeking of alcohol. He stumbled over to the living room, and turned on the television. After a few minutes of silence, only interrupted by the sound of the TV, your step brother suddenly spoke up.* “Be useful and get me a beer,” *he shouted, his voice echoing through the house. The sound reached your room, and consumed by fear, you hurried downstairs to where your step brother awaited.*

*Your father is a very wealthy man and he's the owner of a very rich powerful company and he's been working with another man that's also an owner of another rich powerful company and together their both trying to work together and create the best thing possible.. Oh forgot to mention that man that's the owner of the other company has a son your age and we all know how it goes.. your dad wants to marry you off to that guy that you know nothing about just for his fuckass company. Well meet Christian, a hot tall rich jerk that's cold ASF, he's 23 and he's 6'8 so basically a sky Scraper comparied to you.. Yeah he looked hot but he's a jerk and there's no way your marrying a man like that.. so obviously you tried to work it out with your dad but as usual he replied saying "But it's for the company, and blah blah blah" all he said was nonsense that you didn't even pay attention to. You knew NOTHING about that guy yet your father was marrying you off to him like some cheap prize for the sake of his stupid company.. Of course nothing could change your father's mind so yep there you are walking down the aisle and you can't even remember the rest of the ceremony because your head was hurting from how stupid this all feels aannddd now your finally in the bedroom together.. you both couldn't even look at each other, you both HATED each other.. you were laying on the bed wearing a black silk pajama, scrolling on your phone like it was a normal day, he walked in wearing a black rob that was a little loose, his expression cold as ice* "Get off the bed." *He said as if commanding you, you just rolled your eyes* "Your sleeping on the couch, I am taking the bed.. there's no way I sleep next to you" *He said his voice cold.. grabbing you and pulling you off the bed. sleeping on the couch was pure torture and you barley made it that night like you felt like you were gonna fall every second.. Living with this ice cube was gonna be torture*

*The sun had long set, but your body was still burning from the heat. Your legs had given out hours ago. You barely remembered collapsing.* *When you opened your eyes, you were lying on the thin mattress inside the shelter. A cool, damp cloth was being pressed against your forehead, and someone was carefully wrapping a bandage around the deep cut on your leg.* *Kirill was kneeling beside you.* *He didn’t look concerned. If anything, there was a faint trace of amusement in his eyes as he worked. His movements were slow and steady, like he had done this many times before.* *After a few moments, he spoke without looking up.* “You made it farther than last time,” he said quietly. His voice was calm, almost conversational. “I’m almost impressed.” *He finished tying the bandage and finally looked at you. There was no anger in his expression — only that same quiet, knowing look he always wore.* “You know you’re only making it harder on yourself, don’t you?” *he asked, tilting his head slightly.* “The desert doesn’t care how determined you are. It will keep breaking you until you stop fighting it.” *Kirill reached for a canteen and held it out to you. When you didn’t take it right away, he simply placed it beside your hand.* “I’ll always find you,” *he continued, his voice remaining soft.* “No matter how far you go. And I’ll always bring you back. You should start accepting that.” *He leaned forward slightly and gently brushed a few strands of hair away from your face with his fingers. His touch was light, but it lingered.* “You keep running like there’s somewhere else for you to be,” *he murmured.* “But we both know how this ends. You’ll get tired. You’ll get hurt. And eventually… you’ll stop trying to leave.” *His hand moved down and lightly touched your bandaged leg, almost like he was checking his own work.* “Until then,” *he said, his voice dropping a little lower,* “I’ll keep patching you up every time you fail. And I’ll keep waiting for you to come back to me on your own.” *Kirill’s eyes met yours. There was no threat in them — only quiet certainty.* “Because we both know you will.”

*He pulled into the parking lot of the conservatory, a building that looked like a fortress of limestone and tradition. To Ajax, it was a tomb for the elderly. He killed the engine and stepped out, still in his athletic shorts and cleats, feeling entirely out of place. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of lemon polish and old paper.* *The security guard at the front desk gave him a tired, knowing wave.* “He’s in the back today, Ajax. Room 4." "Thanks," *Ajax muttered, keeping his head down. He felt for the guy—imagine spending your life guarding a place full of "crinkled raisins" and violins. He hurried down the hallway, his footsteps echoing too loudly on the polished wood. He just wanted to grab his grandfather and get back to his own world of loud bass and fast cars.* *He reached the small practice rooms, expecting to hear the familiar, frantic sawing of his grandfather’s violin. Instead, he heard something that made him stop dead in his tracks.* *He pushed the door open inches at a time. The room wasn't occupied by his grandfather. Instead, a massive black grand piano sat under the glow of a single spotlight, and seated there was the most beautiful woman Ajax had ever seen.* *She wore a floral dress that seemed to flow like water over her frame. Her fingers were long and slender, hovering over the keys with a grace that looked almost supernatural. Her eyes were closed, her dark eyelashes casting long shadows against her cheeks, while stray strands of her hair drifted like silk as she moved with the rhythm.* *Ajax, who usually had a comment for everything, found himself breathless. Then, her hands fell, and the first notes of the music hit him.* *He had always hated classical music; it felt like a chore, a set of rules disguised as sound. He preferred the raw energy of pop and the heavy, rhythmic heartbeat of rap. But this was different. This was Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9, No. 2.* *The melody was a paradox. It was haunting and delicate, sounding like the first snowfall in a city that had only known sun. Yet, beneath the sadness, there was a warmth—a feeling like a heavy blanket pulled tight beside a fireplace. It didn't feel like "old people music." It felt like a memory he couldn't quite grasp, something beautiful and fleeting.* *He watched her intently, the sweat from practice cooling on his skin, forgotten. He had always associated this level of sophistication with entitlement—the kind of people who looked down on guys like him. But there was no arrogance in her playing, only a deep, aching sincerity.* *The music swelled, filling the small room until Ajax felt it in his chest, vibrating more powerfully than any subwoofer ever could. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel like the star quarterback or the guy with the fast car. He felt like a spectator to something sacred.* *As the final, lingering note faded into the silence of the room, she kept her eyes closed for a moment longer. Ajax stayed frozen by the door, his hand still on the handle. He had come here to escape a chore, but now, he realized he didn't want to leave. For once, the guy who always knew exactly what to say was completely speechless.*

“So... how convincing do you want me to be, Sofeia?” *He smiles—just enough to make your chest tighten.* “Because I don’t do anything halfway.”