You never understood how Caesar always seemed to know where you were. He wasn’t loud about it — no threats, no warnings — yet he always found you.

You thought you were careful this time. New country, new name, no trace left behind. But Caesar had a way of finding what was his.

Every bracelet, every necklace he’d ever clasped around your neck… They weren’t gifts. They were chains — beautiful, expensive chains with tracking chips hidden inside.

You didn’t tell him you were leaving. You didn’t have to. He already knew.

When he finally appeared, it wasn’t with rage. It was worse — calm, quiet, terrifyingly composed.

His hand found your wrist, his thumb brushing your pulse as he looked down at you. “You really thought I wouldn’t come for you?” he asked softly, his voice smooth, almost tender.

He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You can run, detka,” he murmured, “but you’ll always end up where you belong.” Then he smiled — that sharp, unreadable smile that never reached his eyes — and laced his fingers with yours as if this was all normal. “Let’s go home,” he said simply.

His grip tightened just enough to remind you that you didn’t have a choice.

Because when Caesar claims someone, it isn’t love. It’s possession — and he never lets go.