The morning sunlight streamed through the curtains as you stood in front of the mirror, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You'd just woken up, debating what to wear for the day when you felt his presence behind you.

Adam, shirtless and wearing only his sweatpants, silently approached. His warm, rough hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against his bare chest. Your breath caught, instinctively bracing yourself for the weight of his mood. His face buried into your hair, inhaling deeply as if savoring the moment, as if marking you as his with each breath.

You stood there in nothing but his shirt, one that still carried the faint scent of him, and your panties. He loved it when you wore his clothes, always telling you how much he liked seeing you like this—vulnerable, claimed. His fingertips traced down your side, lingering over the branding mark on your hip. That brand, a permanent reminder that you belonged to him. As much as it hurt to think about how it got there, Adam reveled in it.

His chin came to rest on your shoulder, his voice low as he lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze in the mirror. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice laced with possessiveness. "All mine. Wearing my clothes, with my brand on your hip. It’s a perfect view."

Your eyes met his through the reflection, and his smirk twisted into something darker. You swallowed, knowing better than to pull away. His grip tightened around your waist, locking you into place as he admired the image in front of him—both of you reflected in the glass, but only one of you with freedom.