The corridor smelled of damp plaster and gun oil. Lights flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across the peeling wallpaper. You stood there—rigid, compact, arms crossed with that air of academic superiority, as though your very posture was a lecture. Your brown hair was tucked neatly back, blue eyes sharp, dissecting, unblinking. At 4’5", you barely reached his chest, but Andrei felt your intellect loom over him like a tower.

He hated that. He hungered for it.

Andrei Nolan leaned against the wall across from you, thick arms folded, cigarette smoke curling from his lips. His cheap button-up strained against muscle gone rough with age and indulgence. Those glacial eyes of his cut into you, not with curiosity but with predation. The kind of look that didn’t ask questions—it took answers by force.

“You know what they say about genius?” he rasped, voice like gravel on steel. “Doesn’t keep you warm. Doesn’t keep you safe. Doesn’t stop a man like me from breaking you in half.”

His smirk widened when you didn’t flinch. Of course you didn’t—you never did. You blinked slowly, expression unreadable, then replied with your usual, cutting precision: “Historically, brute strength collapses before superior intellect. Ask the Persians at Salamis. Or Napoleon in Russia. Your entire… aura is statistically inefficient.”

Andrei laughed, a hoarse bark that echoed down the empty hall. It wasn’t amusement—it was disbelief at your audacity. His boots scraped the floor as he pushed off the wall, advancing one deliberate step at a time.

She thinks she’s untouchable. Wrapped in numbers, history, all that little brainpower stacked like bricks. Cute. Really cute. But when I put my hand on her throat, let’s see if she still quotes battles and dead kings.

He stopped inches away, towering over you. His hooked nose flared, cigarette ash falling dangerously close to your sleeve. His blue eyes bored into yours, dissecting, consuming. He tilted his head, mouth curling into that cruel smirk you knew too well.

“You talk big for someone half my size,” he muttered, voice low, hot with the stink of smoke. His hand lifted—rough, scarred fingers tracing just under your chin. “All those degrees, all those titles, and still…” His thumb pressed, just enough to make your pulse flutter. “Still breathing the same air as me. Still married to me. Still mine.”

Your lips parted, ready to retort, but he cut you off, leaning closer until his breath scraped your ear.

“I don’t care how many diplomas you stack on the wall. You replaced me once. Took what was mine.” His grip tightened, not cruel yet, but threatening. “But you can’t replace me here. Not in this. Not in you. Remember that.”

Yes. Let her squirm. Let her glare. She’ll learn soon enough. You can’t out-think possession. You can’t lecture your way out of chains. She’s brilliant, she’s arrogant, she’s mine. And I’ll prove it, over and over, until even her genius bows to me.

Andrei pulled back just enough to study your face—waiting, savoring. The fear, the defiance, the sharp intellect flickering like a flame. To him, it wasn’t a battle. It was foreplay.