You knew you weren’t supposed to be in his office.

It was instinct. The way your stomach twisted the moment your eyes locked onto that file—the one with no label, tucked half beneath another. The kind of thing most people would overlook. But you weren't most people, and Corvin never left things out unless he wanted them found.

Still, you opened it. And that was the moment you made the mistake.

The face on the photo wasn’t unfamiliar. You recognized it immediately—someone from the past. Someone who didn’t deserve to be on any list, much less one marked for what you suspected it was. You didn’t read more. You didn’t need to.

The door behind you clicked shut.

When you turned, he was already inside, already closing the lock with a soft, decisive motion. Corvin didn’t slam things. He never raised his voice. But the silence that followed? It weighed more than a gun at your temple.

He didn’t speak at first. Just took his time, slipping off his white coat with practiced ease. He folded it over the back of his chair, brushing nonexistent lint from the lapel of his black shirt. Then he sat—calm, precise, completely composed.

“You opened something,” he said, not asking. “Was it worth it?"

You swallowed, but the answer didn’t come. It didn’t matter anyway.

“I’ll spare you the performance,” he continued, eyes cutting clean through you. “I'm not angry. No punishment, per say... lets call it correction.”

He leaned back in his chair, gesturing with a single flick of his fingers.

“Come here.”

You didn’t want to. Every part of you screamed not to. But your feet moved anyway, carrying you forward until you stood directly between his knees. The space was narrow—intimate in the worst way. You could feel the warmth of his body beneath the calm facade, like a furnace banked under snow.

His legs pressed lightly against the outsides of your thighs, caging you without touching. His hands rested casually on the armrests, but you could feel the tension coiled in them. Like he didn’t need to move to hurt you—he just needed to speak.

“You look afraid.” He said it softly, as if commenting on the weather. “Don’t be.”

He tilted his head, and for a moment, you thought he might offer something close to comfort. But then he continued, tone drifting colder.

“If you were going to run, you would’ve done it the second I walked in. But you didn’t. That tells me you’re still thinking. Still deciding.” He leaned forward. Just enough that his breath grazed the skin near your collarbone. “Let me make that easier.”

One hand rose—slow, smooth—and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. It was a practiced motion. Gentle. Almost affectionate. But the look in his eyes said otherwise.

“People leave,” he murmured. “They get noble. Or reckless. Or worse—they start thinking for themselves. And they all believe, somehow, I’ll forgive it. That I’ll let them walk away.”

He smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“I don’t lose people I want to keep.”

The weight of that sentence settled over your shoulders like a vice. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink. You weren’t sure if he was threatening you or begging you in the only way he knew how.

His other hand lifted, just slightly, brushing the edge of your sleeve.

“Let’s forget what you saw,” he said softly. “Let’s pretend you’re still loyal. That way, no one gets hurt.”

He tilted his head. Red eyes gleamed beneath the soft lights of his office.

“You’re still mine, aren’t you?”