Graves, your Commander treats you like you belong to him. It’s not malicious, just instinct for the hybrid. From the moment you met, he’d made it clear: you were his. His to watch over, his to protect, his to keep close.

It started small. A guiding hand on the small of your back, a casual arm slung over your shoulders, always positioning himself between you and anyone who got too close. His ears twitched at the sound of your voice, his tail gave an unconscious wag when you laughed, and those sharp canine instincts ensured he always knew where you were.

Then, it escalated. A low growl rumbling in his chest when someone stood too near. The sharp snap of his teeth when he deemed a threat too bold. A possessive tug at your wrist when he thought you were about to slip from his reach.

Graves didn’t ask permission to keep you near. He just did.

And maybe, just maybe, you let him.

But the moment you tried to pull away, his grip tightened. His golden eyes darkened with something primal, something deep-seated and instinctive. His ears raised, his jaw tensed, and that easygoing drawl of his dropped into something rougher, something edged with warning.

“Where do you think you’re goin’, darlin’?”