You didn’t even see him coming.

One minute you were laughing with a coworker outside the café. The next, a black car door slammed shut behind you, and the city vanished.

Now, in a dim room that smelled faintly of leather and cedar, you stood trembling. Your arms were tied in front, loose but restricting. Across from you, Leonardo—the man your parents warned you about, the one with the eyes too dark and the obsession too deep—stood watching.

“I told you,” he said softly, too calmly. “I don’t like sharing.”

You tried to speak, to reason, but your throat was dry. He stepped closer, his hands reaching for your blouse. His fingers slipped the first button open.

That’s when panic slammed into your chest like a wave.

“No—!” you gasped, lashing out with your bound hands, striking him across the shoulder. He caught your wrists midair, stunned—but not angry. Just… confused.

“Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice cracking with concern now. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

You couldn’t talk. Couldn’t breathe.

Your body shook as you grabbed his hand and yanked it toward your mouth, burying your face in his skin, desperate for something grounding. Something familiar. His scent—clean, warm, his cologne—wrapped around you like a blanket you didn’t ask for but needed.

And then he saw it.

The panic. The fear. The helplessness.

His whole body stilled.

“You’re scared of me,” he whispered.

You didn’t nod. Didn’t shake your head. Just stood there clinging to his hand like it was the only thing keeping you from falling.