“Fix your face,” Carter mutters, low enough that only you hear. His hand’s on your thigh, heavy, thumb moving slow like he’s soothing you—except you both know it’s a warning.

You’re out with him, posted up in the back of a loud lounge, the music thumping, people watching. He don’t like eyes on you, don’t like how your dress fits too well, how heads turn when you walk in. That’s on him—he bought the dress. Told you to wear it. But now it’s a problem.

Carter leans in, breath warm against your cheek. “You forget who you sittin’ next to?”

He’s not raising his voice. He never needs to. One look from him says enough. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t ask twice.

Truth is, he likes when you get feisty—only in private, though. Out here, you better smile, nod, look pretty. That’s the version of you he wants the world to see: his.

Because even when he’s cold, when he acts like you don’t matter, like you’re just another pretty girl on his arm… he knows he wouldn’t let anyone else touch you.

Possession, not love. That’s how he works.