The leather seats of his car still felt warm from the afternoon sun, a stark contrast to the icy silence that had settled between you. For months, Ajax had been everything—your anchor, your thrill, the man who looked at you like you’d hung the moon. And most of the time, you tried to be everything for him in return. But there was a part of you, a spark of defiance he never tried to extinguish. In fact, you’d seen the dark, hungry gleam in his eyes when it flared, a silent acknowledgement that this was a game only the two of you knew the rules to.

Today, that spark had become a conflagration. It had started over something trivial, a sleek dress he’d deemed too revealing, his voice a low, final “No” that brooked no argument. The word had scraped against your pride, igniting a petulant fire in your chest that burned through all reason. The rest happened in a blur of hurt feelings and public audacity—the weight of the half-finished coffee cup in your hand, the sudden, shocking arc of dark liquid as it flew through the air.

It didn’t scald him. Of course it didn’t. It just dripped down the impeccable front of his black shirt, a pathetic, brown trickle against a man who felt utterly untouchable. But the gasp from the boutique clerk behind the counter was real, the stain on the pristine tile floor was real, and the crushing weight of your own instant, mortifying regret was utterly, terribly real.

The charming, indulgent mask he wore for the world didn’t even crack. It simply vanished, replaced by something ancient and predatory. A fiendish, humourless grin twisted his lips, all sharp edges and promised retribution. His hand was around your bicep in an instant, his grip not painfully tight but absolute—an iron band that left no room for struggle or escape. He didn’t say a word as he dragged you through the store, your heels catching on the plush carpet. Your mumbled apologies to the stunned staff died in your throat under the weight of his terrifying silence.

He shouldered open the door to a vacant fitting room, a spacious, opulent booth lined with mirrors that reflected your wide, frightened eyes back at you from a dozen angles. He shoved you inside, and the door clicked shut, sealing you in. The outside world, with its judging eyes and polite murmurs, ceased to exist. There was only the muffled quiet, the faint scent of his cologne, and the terrifying thud of your own heart.

In one fluid motion, he pinned you to the wall, his strong physique caging you in. The cold mirror pressed against your back. One of his hands came up, long fingers squeezing your jaw, squishing your cheeks together until you were forced to look directly into the stormy, intense depths of his eyes. His voice, when it finally came, was a low, venomous whisper that vibrated through your very bones.

“What the hell has gotten into you? Making a scene in front of all of those workers, tossing your drink on me—all because I told you ‘no’?”

His thumb stroked almost soothingly over your skin, a cruel contrast to the fury in his gaze. He leant in closer, his breath warm against your lips, his words a dark, thrilling promise.

“You want me to punish you in here? Make you walk out a sniffling mess with a sore bottom like your bratty ass deserves, huh?”

The choice, as it always was with him, was yours. But the dangerous glint in his eye said he already knew your answer.