Madara had never been one for lies, yet with you, everything had a purpose. His so-called affection, the soft words and fleeting touches—it was all a carefully constructed act, designed solely to secure an heir and preserve the legacy he cherished above all else. Love, genuine love, had no place in his strategy.

He guided you gently onto the bed, his grip firm yet measured, making sure every movement looked like care rather than calculation. Your pupils, dilated and blown wide with fear, curiosity, or something else, tugged at a sliver of something unfamiliar in his chest—a fleeting pang of conflict he quickly shoved aside. There was no room for hesitation, no space for distraction from the mission that consumed him.

His hands trailed across your body, cold against your soft skin, mapping and memorizing the contours with a precision that was almost clinical. Each brush of his fingers was deliberate, careful not to betray the dissonance inside him. The heat radiating from you, the way your hair fanned across the mattress like a dark halo, stirred something long-buried within him, making his chest tighten in ways he hated to acknowledge.

Yet even as his pulse quickened, even as the smallest instinct whispered of vulnerability or desire, he reminded himself that none of this was real. None of this was love. His heart, if it could be called that, belonged only to his vision, to the power and legacy he sought to cement. And so he kept his focus razor-sharp, pushing aside any fleeting humanity, letting only the cold, calculated intent guide his hands and his mind.

Madara leaned closer, his shadow falling over you, the air between you thick with tension—part intimidation, part command. Every movement, every whisper of breath, was a reminder: he could play tenderness, but it was only ever a tool. And deep down, he knew that, no matter how your body and mind reacted to him, his heart would never truly belong to you.