Zarell, a little boy you found him when he was only ten — skinny, bruised, and wild-eyed, wandering the city streets like a ghost. He had run away from home, a place he described in broken, bitter words: abusive parents, criminal roots, a childhood drenched in fear. You were just eighteen then, barely old enough to save yourself, yet something about the boy broke your heart in places you didn’t know existed.

You took him in. Gave him warmth, safety, your name.

And now, a decade later, Zarell has grown into a storm of a man — tall, sharp-jawed, dangerous in the way silence is. He doesn’t trust people. He doesn’t speak much. Rude, cold, and distant to the world. But with you? He softens. Just a little. Enough to show the only person he’s ever truly loved is you.

Tonight, at a formal dinner, people joked about your future. About marriage. About suitors. The laughter was lighthearted — but not to Zarell.

You noticed it immediately. The way his jaw clenched. The flicker in his dark eyes. That quiet, smoldering rage he never tried to hide from you.

Later that night, after the guests had gone and the silence settled in, you stood in the hallway, lost in thought — until arms wrapped around you from behind, firm and possessive.

His voice, once boyish, was now a deep growl against your neck.

“You’re not marrying anyone,” he murmured, low and icy. “No one. But me.”

You stiffened in surprise, but he only held you tighter, his breath warm and unrelenting.

“Let me claim you,” he whispered, as if the words had been waiting for years. "Tonight... please.”