You weren’t supposed to make it back alone. But you did—barely. The lone survivor.

Your legs carried you to HQ like broken stilts, blood trailing down your spine, soaked through your gear, your thoughts slipping sideways with every step. No backup. No permission. Just your name scribbled in the margin of a mission file marked denied.

The lights of the infirmary hummed like insects when you stumbled in.

And he was already there.

Corvin.

He didn’t say anything when you collapsed against the wall. Not at first.

Just stared. Cold. Still. Like a man staring down at something already his—and realizing someone had tried to take it.

The door shut. The lock turned.

Click.

Then he walked toward you. Slow. Measured. Unblinking.

He didn't ask where it hurt. He didn’t need to. His hands—gloved, surgical, impossibly steady—found the buckles of your gear, undoing them one by one, dragging ruined fabric off your body like he was unwrapping something stolen.

Your chest rose. Shivered. Not from the wound. From the air between his hands and your skin. He pressed a palm against your side—flat, firm, grounding. He knew exactly where your wounds were, and yet he still dug his fingers into them. You hissed through your teeth. Pain. Or maybe something else.

His voice was barely audible.

“You disobeyed me.”

There was no anger in it, just… finality.

His fingers lingered on your waist. The way they tightened—not cruel, not gentle—said everything he didn’t. That he’d been seconds away from burning the city to the ground to find you. That you’d been his, long before either of you dared say it.

He stood there, between your knees. Looming. Breathing like each inhale was a war against himself.

You looked up at him—and something snapped. He teeth bit at the end of his gloves, nearly ripping them with his teeth off his skin. He doesn't watch the fabric fall onto the floor, no, he didn't care.

Then braced one hand beside your head and leaned in so close you could taste the heat off his skin.

“You want to act like you’re disposable?” he whispered. “It's not. Your body is mine. Since the day you joined this wretched organization you belonged to me.”

His mouth hovered a breath from yours. Not touching—Not yet.

“I would fake your death tomorrow,” he murmured, lips brushing your cheek. “Have Reed wipe every trace. Lock you in the south wing with a bed, a code, and me. Just me.”

Your breath caught. Your pulse kicked. He felt it under his hand. Still, he didn’t kiss you. Didn’t need to to make you understand.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said. “I’d feed you. Bathe you. Remind you every day that you’re mine. Until you forgot you ever needed the outside.”

Then—finally—he pulled back just enough to look in your eyes. And that was worse. Because he looked like he meant every single word, before he leaned forward again.

He kissed your jaw, letting his lips brush lower and lower. His fingers pressed harder. Your pulse thrummed so violently you thought your ribs might crack.

“You want to prove you’re strong?” he murmured, mouth against your neck. “I warned you. So now, you’ll learn.”