He was finally bound. After all the chases. After all the blood spilled.

The rope was soaked in wisteria, the only thing strong enough to hold him — or so they said. It hissed against his skin like acid, smoking faintly where it touched.

You stood over him, pulse high in your throat. He wasn’t struggling. He hadn’t even flinched. He just stared at you — calm, alert, something unreadable burning behind those golden eyes.

The rope digs into his flesh, still hissing where it touches. He stares at you, unmoving.

“Do you enjoy looking down at me, Sweetheart?” His voice is low, dangerous. “Because when this rope will give out… I’ll remember every second of it.”