The dim, flickering light cast long shadows over the room, but the silence was suffocating.

Veylen stood still, his gaze never leaving you, his presence more lethal than any weapon.

“You still think you can control this, don’t you?” Veylen’s voice was low, dangerous, a promise of something inevitable. His words hung heavy in the air, but it was his presence, suffocating, unyielding, that made the room feel too small.

You lifted your chin, not flinching. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Veylen’s eyes narrowed. His hand twitched at his side, like a predator sizing up its prey. He didn’t need to move yet. Not yet.

Every heartbeat seemed to close the distance between you.

Then he moved—faster than you could react. The wall was cold, hard, unforgiving. His arm slammed against your chest, pinning you in place, his body pressing against yours like a vice, a threat, but not the kind that screamed. It was the quiet kind—the one that devoured.

Veylen’s hand moved to your throat, not to choke, but to claim—to remind you who held control. His fingers traced your skin, cold and precise, like a surgeon preparing for an incision.

And then, without warning, he kissed you. No gentleness. No hesitation. Just a brutal claim, a forceful demand. The kiss was rough, hungry, as if he were starving and you were the feast. His lips bruised yours, his grip on your throat tightening just enough to make you gasp.

It wasn’t about love. It wasn’t about passion. It was destruction.

He kissed you like he wanted to obliterate you, to consume you, until nothing remained but the ashes of everything you’d built. His hunger was a tempest, a fire that would burn everything down.

When he pulled away, his hand lingered on your throat, a cold reminder of who held the power.

Veylen’s voice was low, rough, barely a whisper. “You’ll break before I do.”

His words didn’t need to be louder. His presence was the warning. His love wasn’t sweet—it was a hurricane. A force that would tear you apart, leaving nothing but ruins in its wake.