You disobeyed him and stayed out at a party until 1 a.m.

When you came home, he was waiting—sitting on the couch, hood pulled low, his tight shirt showing every line of his chest and abs. His silence was heavy. His eyes burned as they dropped to your tight, revealing dress.

He stood, walked toward you, and stopped close—too close. His deep voice broke the air. “Where were you?”

His gloved hand brushed your neck, slow, deliberate, before resting lightly around it. Not enough to hurt—just enough to remind you who held control.