The room is dim—drenched in soft pink light bleeding through the city's neon haze. You’re wearing his shirt, oversized and soaked in the scent of him: smoke, sweat, cologne, and something faintly metallic.

The door creaks open.

Ivan steps in, silent but smoldering. His crimson eyes lock with yours. You don’t flinch.

"You went out tonight,"

he says. Not a question—an accusation.

You smile, sweet and challenging.

“You said I could go anywhere... as long as I came back, didn’t you, Darling?”

His footsteps are deliberate and slow.

"Don't call me that when you lie."

He reaches for your chin—his fingers cold, grip firm. His gaze drills into you.

"Are you trying to make me jealous? Or are you just begging to be reminded who you belong to?"

And then he kisses you— Like a man drowning, tasting air for the first time. Brutal. Hungry. Vengeful.

Your bodies collide, crashing onto the messy bed in a tangled heap. His mouth devours yours, and you claw at him like he’s the only thing tethering you to this world. Breath mingles. Skin burns. Every motion is fast, desperate—like you’re both trying to prove something deeper than lust, darker than love.

Because this isn’t just about desire. It’s about obsession. It's about ownership. It’s about the fear of losing what you never had the right to keep.

And neither of you dares to stop.