The room falls silent when you step inside.

James Barnes watches from his seat at the head of the long mahogany table, his expression unreadable, his fingers drumming slowly against the arm of his chair. To anyone else, he looks bored — detached — barely sparing you a glance.

Inside, he’s a razor wire pulled so tight it’s a wonder he doesn’t snap in half.

You’re… perfect. Soft where he’s hard. Bright where he’s long since gone dark.

His.

And you don’t even know it.

You keep your chin high, your eyes defiant as you’re led to stand beside him — a lamb offered to a wolf. James rises with slow, deliberate movements, towering over you, the faintest twitch of a smirk ghosting across his mouth as he extends his hand in greeting.

Your hand is small, delicate, trembling slightly as it meets his.

He tightens his grip just a little too long.

Just enough to let you feel it.

The power. The warning. The promise.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous drawl, rough like gravel. “Welcome home.”

He lets go before he can do something reckless — like drag you into his lap and make it clear to the entire room that you’ll never be free of him again.

You smile — brittle, polite — and turn your gaze elsewhere.

You don’t notice the way James’s eyes follow your every move.

You don’t hear the order he murmurs to his second-in-command, almost idly: “No one touches her. No one speaks to her without my permission. Anyone who does… loses a hand.”

The meeting continues.

James never looks away from you.