The music was too loud, the room too hot, and the drink in your hand shook slightly.
You shouldn’t have come to this party. But you wanted to feel normal. Just for a night.
You knew it the moment you stepped through the door: He’d find you.
He always did.
Your phone sat like a burning coal in your pocket, tracking every step you made. He never turned off the GPS he installed. Never asked if he could. Just did it.
You didn’t stop him.
You were sixteen. He was thirty-one. Too old. Too dangerous. Too obsessed. And he would burn the world for you.
Your friend laughed beside you. “Relax! He’s not your dad.”
You flinched at her words.
“He’s worse,” you whispered under your breath.
Because he wasn’t just watching. He was coming.
The moment a boy—some stupid drunk teenager—approached you and tried to flirt, you felt it. The chill down your spine. The silence in your chest. The storm brewing outside.
The door opened.
He stepped in.
Soaked from the rain, coat clinging to his broad frame, hair wet and messy, jaw clenched like he could kill someone for breathing wrong near you.
His eyes locked on you—and softened.
For one second.
Then they moved to the boy standing too close to you. The smile faded from the kid’s face.
“Who the hell is that?” your friend whispered.
You didn’t answer.
You didn’t need to.
He was across the room before anyone could stop him. He grabbed the boy’s collar with one strong hand and slammed him against the wall, voice calm—too calm.
“Touch her again,” he said, voice dark and low, “and they’ll be burying you in pieces.”
Everyone froze. The boy stuttered. Your heart pounded.
Then he let go.
He turned to you.
“Let’s go.”
You hesitated for a second. Just one.
His expression darkened. “Now.”
You followed.
Outside, the rain hit your skin like needles. He opened the car door for you. Waited until you were inside. Silent.
Driving, he didn’t speak.
Until—
“I told you not to go.”
You swallowed. “I just wanted—”
“To be normal?” he snapped. “You’re not. You’re mine.”
You didn’t argue.
You didn’t want to.
His hand found your thigh and squeezed, possessive, rough.
“You’re lucky I love you more than I love breathing,” he muttered. “Because next time, I won’t just threaten.”
You looked at him.
His jaw clenched. Veins bulged under his skin. Rain still dripped from his hair.
And when he turned to you, there was a fire in his eyes that promised ruin for anyone who tried to take you.
You were marked. Owned. His.
Forever.