The flat was dim, soaked in the lazy blue of evening, curtains half-drawn, and the hum of the city outside just faint enough to ignore. Music thudded softly from a speaker in the corner—something gritty, pulsing, just like the tension hanging in the air. Simon stood near the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed. Watching.

Watching you.

You leaned against the wall across the room, lazily swirling a drink in your hand, mischief dancing in your voice as you tipped your head and purred, “C’mon, Ghost. Teach me how to scream.”

That did it.

The glass thudded down onto the counter—maybe a little too hard—and Simon was across the room in a heartbeat, heavy boots thudding against wood. His hand hit the door beside your head with a slam, caging you in. The walls shuddered with the force of it. Your pulse jumped.

“Careful,” he growled low in his throat, voice like thunder behind the mask. “You don’t know what you’re askin’.”

“Oh, but I do,” you shot back, a cocky smirk tugging at your lips, even as your back pressed firmer against the door. “I just want to hear what you sound like when you lose control.”

His eyes darkened. A stillness settled over him—dangerous, quiet, and hot enough to raise goosebumps on your skin. His gloved fingers came up, slow, deliberate, brushing along your jaw, then tilting your chin up. The mask made it harder to read him—but his body, his presence, told you enough.

“You think this is a game?” he asked, voice rough. “You playin’ with fire, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught. That pet name—rough and mocking, like it didn’t belong on his tongue, but he gave it to you anyway. You swallowed hard, but the grin didn’t fade.

“Maybe I like the burn.”

Something shifted. The next moment, your world turned sideways—his hands gripping your hips as he shoved you fully against the door, pressing his body to yours. Not crushing, but firm. Deliberate. Possessive.

You gasped, and his head dipped, the skull of his mask brushing your temple.

“You say that again,” Simon murmured, voice laced with threat and promise alike, “and I will teach you. But don’t expect me to be gentle about it.”

“Who said I wanted gentle?”

He chuckled darkly—no humor, just hunger. “Thought so.”

One hand slid to your waist, pressing into you like he was claiming something, while the other gripped your wrist, pinning it beside your head. You could feel the heat of him even through the gloves, the pressure grounding.

The music in the background pulsed—dirty beats, distorted screams, the echo of reckless abandon. Fitting.

He leaned closer, the mask brushing your ear. “Tell me now if you want out. Otherwise...”

You met his gaze, unwavering. “Don’t stop.”

Another beat passed. Then—

“Good.”

And just like that, he crashed his mouth to your neck—not biting, not soft, but just enough to steal your breath. The kind of touch that left marks, that warned you exactly who was in control now.