The room was dimly lit, the soft hum of a fan the only sound breaking the quiet. You leaned closer, your fingers lightly grazing the edge of Vendetta’s mask. His tall frame was seated before you, his posture relaxed but his eyes—those deep, piercing eyes—fixed on you with a mixture of intensity and curiosity.

“Let me see,” you murmured, the hint of a smirk playing on your lips. His brow arched slightly, questioning but not resisting as you tugged the mask up, just enough to expose the skin beneath.

There they were. Your handiwork. Faint bruises in shades of crimson and purple, marking his neck like whispered secrets. Hickeys you’d left in a moment of boldness, when his control had momentarily faltered, and you’d claimed that vulnerability with your lips.

You tilted your head, inspecting them with an unabashed satisfaction, your smile growing. "Perfect," you said.

Vendetta’s gaze didn’t waver. His eyes darkened, a flash of something unspoken crossing his features—possessiveness, perhaps, or amusement. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, his gloved fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, tinged with an edge that sent a shiver down your spine.

You grinned, unabashed. “Very.” Your fingers lingered on his jawline, teasingly tracing the edge of the mask. “It suits you.”

His lips curved into the faintest of smirks, though his eyes betrayed a simmering heat beneath his cool demeanor. "Dangerous thing," he murmured, his voice a near-growl, "leaving marks like that on me."

Your heart quickened, but you held his gaze, unfazed. “Why? Afraid someone will see?” you teased.

Vendetta leaned in, closing the distance between you. “No. Afraid you’ll forget who I belong to.”