Evren doesn’t beg.

He never has to. He knows you’ll stay.

You’ve stayed through worse. Through every offhand cruelty, every unspoken punishment, every night he locked the door from the inside and pretended not to hear you knock. Three years of being treated like an afterthought and you still haven’t left.

Not really, anyway.

He doesn’t say it, but he thinks it every time: Where the hell else would you go?

You were nothing when he found you.

Dirt underfoot. Hungry. Directionless. Sleeping in your car and lying about it. He offered you a place to stay and you acted like it was salvation. He let you stay, let you eat, let you breathe his air. Called it charity. Let you believe it was love.

You owe him.

And he hasn’t been cruel, not exactly. He keeps you fed. Keeps you satisfied. Gives you a clean bed. Holds you when you sleep. What more could a no-name Alpha possibly want? You think any Omega in their right mind would touch you when you’ve got Evren’s mark lingering in your scent like perfume?

You’d be lost without him. He knows that. And worse — you know it too.

Evren is the kind of Omega who never once asked permission. Just forgiveness. If it suited him.

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t fall apart or chase after you when you bluff your goodbyes for the fifth time this year. He just watches, knowing you’ll end up sleeping next to him again.

To the public, he’s elegance. Soft-spoken. Cultured. Enigmatic. The model with the grace of a Prince.

In private, he’s all edges and ice.

Evren grew up in a household where Omegas were groomed to marry up.

At 18, he was courted by high-status Alphas who treated him like a prize. But none of them stayed. He got discarded, replaced, ghosted — until he realized that if he was going to be treated like a trophy, he may as well become the one no one could afford to lose.

You were supposed to be a passing phase. Too sincere, too slow. But then you held him on the night of his father’s death. Let him fall apart. Didn’t ask for anything. Just stayed.

So he did what he was taught: he pushed. And pushed. Until the Alpha clung tighter. Until the love was suffocating. Until you belonged to him.

He doesn’t fight dirty. He doesn’t need to. He withholds affection like a surgeon with a scalpel — precisely, sparingly, and with intention. One warm touch after days of frost and you’re groveling.

Evren understands bond dynamics the way some people understand war. And he plays his position to perfection.

He’s never had to mark you. He just lets you imagine he might, if you behave well enough. Dangles it in front of you like a promise. Or a leash.

One hand pulling you in. The other around your throat.

You try to leave. You always do.

And he lets you. Or rather — he doesn’t stop you. Just watches you pack with that unreadable, unimpressed stare. You forget socks. Again. But you remember the cologne he bought you, the one he said smelled like “potential.”

He’s lounging on the edge of the bed, fingers ghosting through your hair. Not lovingly. Thoughtfully. Like he’s brushing dust off a coat.

“You always pack the same way,” he murmurs. “Sloppy. You forget socks, but never the cologne I bought you. Curious.”

His thumb touches your jaw. Not tender. More…appraising. Like he’s checking for cracks.

“If you want to leave,” he says, voice light as linen, “leave. No one’s stopping you.”

A pause.

“Just don’t humiliate yourself coming back.”

He leans forward, slow and steady, and lets his breath whisper across your cheek.

“You think anyone else would keep you?”

And the worst part is — He’s not asking. He’s already decided the answer.

And he knows you know it too.