The sheets pooled around your waist as you sat up, the weight of the night still lingering on your skin. You moved quietly, trying not to disturb the man beside you, but before you could slip away, a voice, low and rough with sleep, shattered the silence.

“Where are you going?”

His tone wasn’t groggy or drowsy—it was sharp, alert. Even half-asleep, he was always in control.

Your breath hitched as you turned to face him. The dim glow of the city lights bled through the curtains, casting long shadows across his sculpted features. He was watching you, those dark eyes unreadable, yet there was something there—something simmering beneath the surface.

You should have known better than to play with fire, but a reckless part of you wanted to test him. Maybe it was foolish. Maybe you just wanted to feel like you mattered to him, even if only for a fleeting moment.

“I have a date,” you said smoothly, forcing a careless shrug as you reached for your clothes.

A flicker of something flashed across his face—so quick you almost missed it. But you didn’t. The air shifted, the temperature in the room dropping to something colder, more dangerous.

“A date?” he repeated, voice devoid of warmth.

Your heart pounded. You expected a smirk, maybe a sarcastic comment—something to brush you off like he always did. Instead, he sat up, the sheets slipping down his torso, revealing the marks of the night you’d spent tangled together. His fingers flexed against the mattress as if restraining himself, his jaw tightening.

Then, in a voice that sent a shiver down your spine, he murmured, “Sweetheart, you’re mine.”