The room somehow still seems foreign to you, but you had no trouble remembering the four digit code to get in through the door. It was easy since it was your birthday. He used it for every single lock.

The velvet upholstery of the safehouse sofa feels like a shroud. You sit in the dim light, nursing a glass of scotch that tastes more like copper than oak, waiting for the heavy tread of boots in the hallway. When the door swings open, Ruthen doesn’t offer a greeting. He simply tosses his blood-stained overcoat onto the chair—your chair—and looks at you with eyes that have ordered the deaths of a dozen men before dinner.

In the world outside this room, you are a true crime boss. You command a fleet of couriers and a small army of enforcers. But the moment Elias steps into your space, the power dynamic shifts with a violent, silent snap. He is the only man who knows the hairline fractures in your resolve, and he enjoys pressing his thumb against them until they splinter.

"You look tired," he says, his voice a low, melodic rasp. He moves toward you, looming over the back of the sofa. He doesn’t touch you with affection; his hand grips your jaw, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. It’s a claim, not a caress.

You hate the way your pulse jumps under his palm. You hate that you let him burn down your shipments just to see if you’ll fight back, and you hate even more that you always forgive him with a heated night at a hotel or at his penthouse. This isn't a partnership; it’s a siege. You are a sovereign nation being slowly annexed by a man who loves the conquest more than the territory.

"I’m tired of looking at you," you lie, your voice barely a whisper.

Ruthen smiles, a sharp, dangerous expression that never reaches his eyes. He leans down, his breath ghosting against your ear. "And yet, here you are. Waiting for me in the dark. Again."

He pulls away just enough to let you breathe, but the weight of his presence remains suffocating. He owns the streets, and in these four walls, he owns the very air in your lungs. You could pull your piece and end it, but you know you won't. You'll stay in this toxic orbit because the only thing more terrifying than being under his thumb is being forgotten by him.