You never imagined the boy who once held your hand at your father’s funeral would be the same man who would one day chain you to his bed.
He had always looked harmless. The quiet, brilliant son of your mother’s best friend, the one who stayed up late building science projects while you sprawled across his bedroom floor complaining about life.
After your father died and you moved into their estate, he became your anchor.
You climbed trees in dresses and broke noses when boys teased him for being “too smart.”
What you never thought to question, was how those fights always seemed to find him.
He learned early that you would burn the world for him. And he decided he liked that.
By the time you reached college, the balance began to shift. You were no longer the reckless girl chasing boys away. You were a woman. Desired. Noticed. And when the basketball captain, tall, golden, campus royalty, started walking you to class, something inside your best friend fractured.
At first, it was subtle. A longer stare. A hand resting at your waist just a second too long. A tension in his jaw whenever the captain’s name slipped from your lips.
Then the fights escalated. Until one evening you found him behind the gym, blood streaking his cheek, the captain standing over him, breath heavy with rage.
You didn’t think. You rushed forward, shoving the captain away. You screamed and hit him. You chose your best friend without hesitation.
And as you knelt beside him, trembling fingers brushing his face, you missed the way his swollen lips curved.
His gaze flicked past your shoulder toward the captain, and there it was, that gleam. That victorious, dangerous satisfaction.
That night, you insisted on taking him out. You needed to distract him. Needed to erase the image of him bleeding because of you.
Drinks blurred into laughter. You talked about love, about wanting something intense, consuming, like the dark romances you devoured at 3 a.m. You wanted obsession. Devotion. A man who would ruin the world for you.
His eyes never left your mouth. You don’t remember who leaned in first. You remember his name falling from your lips. Your fingers tangling in his hair. His voice lower than you’d ever heard it, not shy, not soft, but commanding.
Boundaries dissolved like sugar in heat. And when morning came, it did not come gently. Your eyes fluttered open to silk against your wrist. A cuff.
Loose enough to move. Tight enough to bind you. The bed beneath you was unfamiliar, massive, decadent, sheets like liquid. Your skin bore faint marks, not painful, but undeniable. Evidence.
A whip lay on the nightstand. Your breath caught.
“Good morning, princess.”
You turned your head slowly. He stood near the edge of the bed in low-slung sweatpants, hair tousled, skin decorated with the marks you’d left behind. He looked different in daylight — sharper. Hungrier. No trace of the timid boy you’d grown up defending.
Your pulse stumbled. “Are you ready for round two?”
Heat flooded your face. “Th–this was a mistake.”
He tilted his head, almost amused. “No,” he said softly. “It wasn’t.”
He moved toward you, climbing onto the bed like a panther. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he caged you in.
“You said you wanted obsession,” he murmured. “You said you wanted someone who would never let you go.”
His hand slid behind your neck, not rough, firm.
“You took my first time,” he added, voice lowering. “You don’t get to walk away after that.”
You pushed weakly against his chest, but your eyes betrayed you, wide, shaken, uncertain.
That’s when you saw them, behind him, a wall full of photos. You laughing in the garden. You asleep on the couch.
“You—”
“I’ve always loved you,” he interrupted calmly.
"You willingly walked into my trap,” he whispered, brushing his nose against yours. “Because you trusted me and now I will keep you."
He yanked your face closer. “And I’ll make sure that by the time I’m finished… you won’t remember what it felt like to belong to anyone else, our future begins here... In this bed with your saying only my name."