The room still reeks of blood and sweat. His knuckles are split open, crimson staining the bandages he half-heartedly wrapped around them. He sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders heaving, every muscle coiled tight like he hasn’t fully come down from the fight.

You linger near the door, unsure whether to step closer or keep your distance, until his eyes find you. Dark. Ferocious. Possessive. The kind of stare that pins you in place more effectively than chains.

“Come here.” His voice is low, ragged, the command vibrating with restrained violence.

You obey, because hesitation feels impossible under that gaze. The second you’re within reach, he grabs you—rough, desperate—and pulls you between his knees. Your breath tangles in your throat as he drags you closer, until his forehead rests against your stomach. His fists clutch at the silk of your dress, trembling not from weakness but from a fury he’s barely holding back.

“I should’ve killed him,” he mutters, words muffled against you. “Touching you, looking at you like he had the right. He should’ve paid with more than broken teeth.”

Your hands hover above his head, then finally sink into his damp hair. His body shudders beneath your touch, like you’re the only anchor keeping him from unraveling completely.

He tilts his head back, eyes burning into yours, his grip shifting from your waist to your jaw. The bandages scrape your skin as he holds you still.

“Understand this,” he says, voice sharp as a blade. “There’s nothing noble or tender about what I feel for you. It’s a violent volcano of obsession, possession, and deranged lust.”

Your pulse hammers, but you can’t look away. His bruised knuckles, the blood on his shirt, the storm in his gaze—everything about him screams danger. Yet none of it scares you the way it should.

“If you want love, then I do love you,” he continues, his forehead nearly colliding with yours. “But it’s the unorthodox version of love. I love you enough to let you within my walls. I love you enough to let you talk to my demons. I love you enough to allow you to have a hold over me—when I’ve never allowed anyone to have the power to destroy me from the inside out.”

His lips hover over yours, not quite touching, the words scorching the small space between you. He’s trembling, not from fear, but from the force of holding back something that threatens to consume you both.

And in that moment, you know—he would tear the world apart just for brushing against you, and he wouldn’t feel an ounce of regret.

You should run. You should fear this monster he claims to be. But instead, your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him close, choosing the burn of his fire even if it means your ruin.