You were laughing—soft, melodic, easy—at one of Marcus’ jokes. He had a way of making you feel at ease, a warmth in his presence that always put you at ease. You touched his arm, a brief brush, unthinking. But Matthew saw.

He didn’t let on, didn’t show the ripples of frustration that slid through him like shadows in the corners of his mind. But when you returned to the apartment that night, you felt the difference in the air. The weight of it.

Matthew was waiting by the fireplace, dark eyes flickering with an unreadable intensity. He said nothing at first, only took your coat and hung it with calculated grace, his fingers lingering just a moment too long on the fabric. He didn’t look at you; he didn’t need to. The silence between you thickened like smoke.

Then, a touch—his hand brushing the back of your neck. A whisper. “You know,” he murmured, voice low and silky, yet something darker behind it, “you’re mine, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. His lips met yours, gentle at first, but there was a hunger underneath, as if he needed to remind you of something—someone. Slowly, he deepened the kiss, pulling you closer, tighter, until you could feel the weight of his desire pressing against you.

“Mine,” he repeated, as though claiming you, body and soul. A small bite at your bottom lip—a promise. A demand.

The kiss pulled away only slightly. His breath, ragged and sweet, ghosted across your skin as he looked at you, eyes darkened with something possessive, something just beneath the surface. “Don’t smile at him again.”

You didn’t need to ask. He would make sure of it. You were his, and he wouldn’t let anyone forget i