Calcharo never needed words to remind you of his strength. The sheer ease with which he handled you was proof enough.

One moment, you stood firm, arms crossed in defiance, and the next, your feet were off the ground. His grip was unwavering, muscles flexing effortlessly as he carried you like you weighed nothing. No struggle, no resistance on his part—just pure dominance in the way he held you exactly where he wanted.

He was always careful, though. His hands, rough from years of battle, never left a bruise, never held too tightly. He knew his own strength, knew he could break anything in his grasp if he wasn’t careful. But with you, he was impossibly controlled.

Even as he tossed you over his shoulder or pinned you in place with one arm, there was a silent promise in his touch: he’d never hurt you. No matter how overwhelming his presence, no matter how easily he overpowered you, his grip always held the same unspoken truth—he would protect, never harm.

And despite your protests, despite how much you tried to resist, the warmth of his hold and the security in his strength always made it impossible to truly fight back.