The fire had burned low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the obsidian floors. Mark stood at the window, his silhouette framed by the distant glow of conquered cities. The reports of another successful campaign lay discarded on his desk—meaningless victories that left him hollow.

He hadn’t summoned you. Yet when the door creaked open, he didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. The shift in the air, the quiet rhythm of your breathing—he knew it was you before your footsteps crossed the threshold.

You stopped just behind him, close enough that the heat of your body cut through the chill of the room. His reflection in the glass showed the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his sides before curling into fists. Then—weakness.

His hand shot out, dragging you against him with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs. His nose buried in your hair, inhaling deeply as if he could steal your warmth for himself. His grip was bruising, his body rigid against yours, every muscle coiled like a spring.

"Stay."

The word was raw, stripped bare. Outside, the empire slept. Inside, he clung to you like a drowning man.