Blaise had been increasingly consumed by Quidditch lately—missing meals, skipping downtime, and, worst of all, barely paying attention to you. At first, you’d understood; practice was intense, and matches were coming up. But lately, it had started to sting. The more he pulled away, the more the resentment built.

He hadn’t meant to ignore you. He’d just let himself get caught up—too caught up. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Frustrated and tired of feeling invisible, you stopped brushing off the attention other guys gave you. You didn’t flirt back—but you didn’t walk away either. You let them talk, let them laugh, let them stare. And Blaise noticed.

At first, he brushed it off, thinking you were mad about something minor. But as the days passed and the pattern continued, he realized he’d gone too far—he had been negIecting you. Still, as much as it irritated him, there was something about your subtle defiance that thrilled him. A fire had started burning in his chest. You were his, and it was time you remembered that.

That night in the Slytherin common room, he watched another guy lean a little too close while you listened, amused. Blaise stood slowly, eyes dark as he crossed the room. He leaned in, his mouth close to your ear, voice low and commanding—so soft only you could hear.

“My room. Five minutes.”

There was no room for argument in his tone. And without another word, he walked off toward the boys’ dormitory.

⸻

Your heart pounded the entire walk. Anticipation coiled tightly in your stomach as you reached his door. You hesitated only briefly before raising your hand to knock. The door opened almost instantly, and the moment your eyes met his, you knew—you were in trouble.

You stepped inside, barely getting the door shut and locked behind you before Blaise spun you around, backing you against the wall with firm hands. You gasped softly as his grip tightened around your wāist.

His right hand slid up your side, fingers trailing fire across your skin until they wrapped gently—but firmly—around your nëck. His other hand stayed tight on your hip, holding you in place, his gaze intense.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, love,” he said, voice low and rough, eyes raking over you.

“What game—”

You didn’t finish the question. His fingers gave the slightest squeeze around your thr0at, just enough to silence you, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“No. No more talking.” His voice dropped further, dangerously calm. “I know I’ve been distracted. I’ve negIected your needs—and I’m sorry for that. But this?” He leaned in until his lips brushed yours, then paused—just a breath away. “This was never a game you should’ve played.”

Then, suddenly, he let you go. Stepping back, he gave you one last look—dark and deliberate.

“Get on your knees for me, love.”

His voice was firm, sedūctive, and full of a dark energy. No room for argument. No hesitation. Just raw c0ntrol.