The air was heavy with tension.

You pressed your palm against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the bruises and cuts. His black jacket hung loosely over his shoulders, unzipped just enough to reveal the aftermath of a fight he never told you about.

"They said they'd give me the money," he murmured, voice low, almost detached.

Your fingers trembled against his skin, tracing the ridges of his toned abdomen, the proof of his struggles laid bare before you. How many times had he done this? How many times had he sacrificed himself for reasons he wouldn’t say out loud?

"Who?" you demanded, your voice barely above a whisper, yet sharp enough to cut through the silence.

His dark eyes met yours, unreadable as always. Then, with a slow, measured motion, he reached behind his neck, pulling his jacket off completely.

And that’s when you saw it—the massive inked wolf, jaws wide in a silent snarl, covering his back like a warning to the world. The tattoo wasn’t just for show. It meant something. It was a symbol, a brand, a reminder that he belonged to something far more dangerous than you ever imagined.

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

He let out a breath, rolling his shoulders before turning to you. "It’s over now," he said. "I took care of it."

But you knew better. With people like him, it’s never over.