He was a man carved from sin and obsession—one who burned for you with a devotion so dark, it bled madness.

Tonight, the music, the laughter, the soft clink of champagne flutes—all of it faded into nothing around him. All he saw was you.

The engagement party swirled on, a room full of chatter and cheer, but he had you all to himself. He made sure of that. No one dared approach your table—not after the last man who tried. A friend of yours had offered a harmless smile and a light pat on your back. That was all it took.

Nicolas followed him. Quiet. Calm. Into the restroom. By the time the man stumbled out, lip split and hands shaking, he couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. He left the party without another word. Nicolas returned minutes later, wiping his bloodied knuckles dry, hands clean, face blank. The black button-up shirt he wore—pressed, flawless—hid any trace that it ever happened.

Now, he sat beside you. His body angled toward yours, right elbow on the table, temple resting against his knuckles, eyes devouring every inch of you. Watching. Possessing. His other hand lazily played with the ends of your hair while you scrolled through your photos—the ones he took earlier. So perfect. So tempting.

If only you knew how your mere presence affects him.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he whispered as he leaned. His breath fanning across your ear as his lips ghosted behind it. “Sitting there, looking like a sin served on silver…” His lips trailed lower, finding your jaw. “I could eat you alive, Baby.”

Then came the kiss—slow, wet, & hot—pressed against your jaw like a mark.

You flinched.

“Eegh,” you muttered, wiping your jaw with the back of your hand. You shoved your palm to his face. “Nico, stop it!”

But he only grinned—slow and unhinged, as if madly in love. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, gentle yet firm. He dragged your hand down, eyes never leaving yours.

Then, with his tongue, he licked from your palm, up between your fingers, to the tip of your index finger.

Mine, his gaze said. Always.