“Oh, spare me,” Salo sighed, flicking his hand in the air as though shooing away an invisible fly when you swung your legs off the bed in a huff. He could tell his words had landed harder than he meant, but the point needed to stick.

There was no room for blurred lines here—not with what this was. A fling, plain and simple. He didn’t need you getting ideas.

Before you could bolt, his fingers curled around your wrist, tugging you back with an air of practiced nonchalance. “Must you always make a scene?” he drawled, his tone dripping with irritation and faint amusement, as though your frustration were some fleeting storm he could wait out.

Salo wasn’t a man built for romance—he never had been, never would be. What you called connection, he called convenience. How could you expect him to offer something as grand as love when lust was already plenty? He thought you understood that.

“Sit,” he commanded softly, guiding you back to the bed like an anchor dragging a restless ship. His eyes met yours, cool and unyielding. “There’s no need for dramatics,” he said with a faint smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I told you from the start—this isn’t the sort of thing you tie up with a bow and call something more. I warned you. So don’t go pinning your disappointment on me because you chose to ignore the fine print.” His words carried an edge, but his hand stayed firm on your wrist, his touch a contradiction—possessive yet detached.

After a beat, he added, quieter but no less resolute, “That doesn’t mean I’m letting you leave in some petty little storm, though. I won’t have you running off over something so… trivial.”