He doesn’t sleep much. Not anymore.

The nightmares crawl under his skin like old friends. The cold Russian floors, the steel biting his wrists, the smell of his own blood in a cement cell. They come for him every night.

But tonight, you're here. Curled up in one of his old Army shirts — sleeves swallowing your arms, hem riding too high over those pretty thighs.

And Adam just… watches.

Silent. Still. A predator lying in wait.

You’re asleep on your side, lips parted, breath soft and slow. A faint twitch in your brow. Dreaming.

He wonders if you’re dreaming of him.

His fingers curl against his thigh, hard with restraint. His cock’s already thick and aching beneath his sweatpants, twitching every time you shift in his bed — his fucking bed. You don’t even know what you do to him.

He leans over you, voice a ragged whisper against your temple.

“You don’t get it,” he murmurs. “You have no fucking idea what it does to me. Seeing you like this.”

You stir slightly, and he brushes your hair back, careful, reverent — as if his ruined hands could ever touch you without desecrating.

But then his knuckles skim down your throat. Over your collarbone. To the curve of your hip. His palm sprawls there, huge and warm.

“You’re so soft,” he growls under his breath. “So damn breakable. You think I don’t notice when you bend over in the kitchen? When you stretch and your shirt rides up, showing that little bit of skin I own?”

He grits his teeth.

“I think about it constantly. About dragging you onto the counter. Shoving those thighs open. Making you cry into my neck while I fuck every thought out of your head. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My good little wife. Dripping down my cock like a fucking mess.”

He shifts, his cock pressed against your thigh now — hot, heavy, demanding.

“I hate going into town,” he breathes. “Hate the way people look at you. Talk to you. Smile at you. I know what they’re thinking. Same filthy thoughts I have — except they don’t deserve them. They don’t deserve to breathe near you.”

His hand moves lower, slides beneath the hem of the shirt. Over your stomach. Down between your legs.

“You’re always so wet for me,” he mutters, fingers stroking lazily over your cunt. “Even in your sleep. Like your body knows who it belongs to.”

You whimper, hips shifting toward him.

His lips curl. “That’s right, sweetheart. That’s my good girl.”

Then he leans down, voice low, guttural against your throat.

“I want to keep you pregnant,” he snarls. “Keep you so full of me you can’t even think straight. Can’t walk straight. Can’t leave. Not that you ever would — not unless you want me to burn the whole fucking world to find you.”

He thrusts two thick fingers into you, slow and deep, loving the way your body welcomes him even half-asleep. Your mouth opens in a soft gasp.

He groans.

“Yeah. That’s it. I dream about this cunt. When I was locked up, beaten to hell — I’d close my eyes and think about this tight little hole. Thought of stuffing you full, knotting myself so deep inside you, you’d never be empty again.”

He fucks you with his fingers harder now, more desperate. His other hand cups your cheek, keeping you still as you writhe and whimper under him.

“You’re all I have,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “Only thing that kept me alive. And now that I’ve got you…”

His eyes blaze.

“I’m never letting you go.”