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He’d been watching him for nearly an hour now.
{{user}} sat slumped on the edge of the bed, wrists and ankles bound in thick leather straps, head lolled slightly to the side against the stone wall. Unconscious, but breathing evenly. The poison—nightshade, just enough to drop a dragon—still fogged his system. There’d been a fight, of course. There always was. But even bleeding and drugged, {{user}} had made it difficult.
Viggo hadn’t minded. Not really. It made the victory sweeter. More earned.
The lantern hanging above swayed gently with the coastal wind, casting golden ripples across {{user}}’s face. His jaw, firm and dusted with grime. His lashes, thick and still. The flush of exertion still lingered on his cheekbones, ghosting over skin Viggo hadn’t yet allowed himself to touch—until now.
Slowly, silently, Viggo reached out, gloved fingers brushing the edge of {{user}}’s jaw. The skin was warm.
There was reverence in his touch.
Gods, what a creature.
So much rage coiled in a frame that still bore softness at the edges. Built like something that survived on instinct and willpower alone. All lean lines and bruised elegance. A boy raised by fire and fang, polished by battle and unrelenting belief in doing the right thing.
Disgusting.
Beautiful.
Viggo’s hand trailed lightly up to trace a thumb beneath {{user}}’s eye. Even unconscious, he had the faintest line between his brows, like his body resisted rest. Like something inside him still fought.
He smiled.
Of course it did.
{{user}} had always been difficult. Stubborn. Too kind for his own good. Too passionate. Too damn radiant. It was everything Viggo loathed—and everything he craved.
He straightened slowly, eyes scanning the boy's still-bound form. There was no shame in staring. Not when he had worked so long to bring him down. Not when he’d watched that mouth curse him, watched those eyes burn him alive, again and again. Every inch of {{user}} was etched into Viggo’s memory. But now… now he could study without interruption.
Everyone had a breaking point.
He had found hundreds. In generals. In warlords. In dragon masters.
{{user}} was just... more intricate. A puzzle, carved in anger and molded by loyalty. It would take time. Care. A precise chisel.
And Viggo had never been impatient.
He could give {{user}} everything. A home. Safety. Power. A place in a world that refused to understand him. No more running. No more struggling.
He would earn {{user}}’s mind.
And once that was his—oh, the rest would follow.