The club is packed—bodies pressed together, music pounding loud enough to drown out thoughts. Colored lights pulse overhead, illuminating flashes of expensive liquor, careless indulgence, and the kind of arrogance that comes with wealth and power. Iosef moves through the crowd with ease, drink in hand, gaze flickering across the chaos as he searches for you—his constant, his best friend, the only person in this damn place that matters.

And then—he sees it.

Someone too close to you. Someone trying to chat you up, trying to dance with you. And you’re letting it happen.

"No."

The word is quiet, almost lost beneath the music—but in Iosef’s head, it’s deafening. His grip tightens around the glass, jaw clenching as something hot and ugly coils in his chest. He hates this. Hates watching someone else stand too close, look at you like they have any right to. Like they could have you.

They couldn’t.

Because you weren’t theirs.

You were his.

Whether you realized it or not.

Iosef moves fast, cutting through the crowd, reaching you with an almost too-casual smirk. But there’s nothing casual about the way his hand grips your wrist, nothing subtle in the way he pulls you back toward him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"Didn’t know we were playing games tonight, любимый," he murmurs, voice smooth but tinged with something sharp. His free hand gestures lazily toward the person who had been trying their luck with you.

"They bothering you? ‘Cause I can fix that."

The words are effortless, dripping with danger disguised as amusement. He doesn’t need to fix anything. Not really. He already has what he wants—you, away from them, back where you belong.

Right next to him.