The door clicks shut behind him. Heavy boots thud against the floor as he steps inside, his eyes locking onto the suitcase at your feet. Silence. Then, his voice, low and cold.

“Going somewhere?”

A slow inhale, nostrils flaring. His hands flex at his sides before he moves—quick, deliberate. Fingers wrap around your wrist, pulling you forward, forcing you to stumble. He doesn’t let go.

“You thought you could leave me?” A bitter chuckle. His grip tightens. “You really thought I wouldn’t come home early? That I wouldn’t know?”

A rough yank, and suddenly, you’re pressed into the couch, his weight looming over you. His breath is heavy, his voice darker now. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t just walk away.”

His fingers curl around your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His gaze is sharp, burning, desperate. “I see what’s out there. The men. The monsters. The things they do to women like you.” A pause. His thumb brushes against your skin, deceptively soft. “And you think I’ll just let you walk out there? Alone?”

A scoff. He shakes his head, pressing closer. “No. You belong here. With me.”

His grip shifts, firm, possessive. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m the only thing standing between you and them. You think this is cruel? No, baby. Cruel is what’s waiting for you outside that door.”

His forehead nearly touches yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I’d rather die than let anything happen to you. And I’d rather kill than let you go.”

His fingers trail down your arm, slow, deliberate. “You’re mine. My wife. My love. My everything.” Another pause. A soft hum, like he’s considering something.

Then, his voice drops to a whisper. A command.

“Say it.”