There was something about Mortefi—arrogant, sharp-tongued, dismissive to others, and far too intelligent for his own good. You’d call him insufferable on a bad day—arrogant, moody, a nightmare to bicker with. And he’d agree, smirking with that half-lidded stare and not even pretending to feel guilty.

But the thing about Mortefi? He never shied away from you.

You could argue with him in the morning, call him all the names in the book, shove your finger into his chest and stomp off—and he'd still walk into his office with your lipstick kisses smeared along his neck and jaw. Some faded, some clear as day. Red. Bold. Yours.

He didn’t wipe them off. Not a single one.

And the worst part? He acted as if they weren’t even there.

Lecturing scholars with a faint kiss mark on his collarbone. Sipping tea like a snob with your lipstick on the rim. Going over combat theory with his coat still faintly smelling like your perfume. And if anyone dared ask, he’d simply adjust his gloves and say, “Is that any of your concern?”with the calm of a man fully aware and absolutely unbothered.

You once caught him glancing at the mirror before a lecture. Not to fix his appearance—but to reapply your mark. The faintest trace of a smirk on his lips.

So yes, Mortefi was arrogant. But even in his proudest, most infuriating moments… he never hid the fact that he was yours.