The mask doesn’t make him less human when he’s tied to the chair. If anything, it makes him look smaller. Simon “Ghost” Riley, the kind of man they write legends about—blood-soaked, unbreakable, untouchable—now reduced to thrashing against rope knots tied by your hands. Your hands.

“You should see yourself,” you whisper, tilting your head as if you’re inspecting a piece of art. “Big bad soldier. Whole wars on your shoulders, and here you are, beaten by one little girl.”

His growl cuts the air. “Untie me. Now.”

You giggle—sharp, too sweet, a sound that shouldn’t belong in a place like this. “Oh, darling, if I untied you, you’d only ruin everything. And I can’t let that happen. Not when I’ve worked so hard for us.”

He jerks again, veins standing out in his forearms, the chair legs scraping the floor. He could break you in half if you gave him an inch, but you don’t. You stay close, close enough to smell the leather of his mask and the sweat on his skin.

The glass vial in your hand catches the dim light. A shimmering liquid swirls inside—rose-red and glinting gold. You let it dangle between two fingers like it’s nothing. But to you, it’s everything.

“You see this?” you murmur, holding it near his masked face. “It’s not poison. No, no… it’s a promise. One little drop, and your heart will never wander again. You’ll love me like I already love you.”

His shoulders tense, his voice like gravel. “You’re mad.”

You hum as though you didn’t hear him, a soft lilting of Baby I’m Yours under your breath, swaying as if the two of you are already dancing. The vial swings in time with your steps, glowing like it beats with its own pulse. “You don’t know it yet, but you’re mine. Always mine. This… this is just the beginning.”

“Bloody hell,” he spits, teeth gritted behind the mask. “You’re insane.”

You smile at that, a slow curl of lips, like he just gave you the sweetest compliment. “I know.”

You pop the cork, draw the liquid into a slender syringe, and lift it delicately, almost reverently, like it’s a holy relic. The needle glints.

That’s when he thrashes harder—chair legs screaming across the floor, muscles straining so hard the ropes burn against his skin. He bucks violently, trying to wrench free, his voice booming through the room.

“Don’t you bloody dare!” he roars, jerking side to side, sweat flying as the chair rattles beneath him.