You knew better. You knew he hated it when you ran off alone. But you just had to prove a point—maybe to yourself, maybe to him. So when the ambush happened and he arrived late, seeing you with a gash on your side and a bloodied blade in hand…

Yeah. That was the moment.

The second he saw you, Calcharo didn’t speak. Not at first. He strode toward you with a stare that could gut someone faster than any dagger. You raised a brow, smug even through your wince.

“What? I handled it.”

Big mistake.

He grabbed your wrist—tight—and yanked you toward him. Your body collided against his chest before you could even blink. The next thing you knew, you were lifted off your feet and shoved—not harshly, but firmly—against the nearest wall of rock, his hand braced beside your head. His other still gripping your wrist.

“You think I’m impressed?” he snarled, voice low and deadly. “Bleeding like that? Do you think I like showing up late and not knowing if I’ll find you dead?!”

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off by pressing closer, his body heat suffocating, his eyes burning with too much emotion—frustration, fury, fear.

“You want to act like a brat, fine,” he muttered, voice dropping even lower, teeth gritted. “But don’t ever—ever—scare me like that again.”

For a second, silence. Then his grip eased.

You thought he’d storm off.

But instead, he pulled you into him—arms wrapping around your waist with a bruising, almost desperate strength. His nose tucked into your hair. His breath trembled.

“Don’t do that to me,” he whispered, barely audible. “I’m not like other mercs. I don’t lose what’s mine.”

And just like that, the man who looked like he could tear the world apart… clung to you like you were the only piece worth saving.