The library was quiet, save for the soft rustle of pages and the distant hum of the heating system. Kiran Elora sat at your usual table in the back, a strategic spot offering both privacy and a clear view of the entrance. A heavy political science tome lay open before him, but his dark eyes weren’t scanning the text. They were fixed on the large clock above the doors, a faint scowl etching his handsome features.

You were late.

Not extraordinarily late, but enough to set his possessive instincts on a low simmer. He’d been waiting for 15 minutes, his mood darkening with each passing second. He’d already imagined a dozen scenarios, each one featuring some oblivious classmate daring to delay you. His fingers tapped a silent, irritable rhythm on the polished wood.

Finally, the heavy door swung open, and you slipped inside. The simmering annoyance instantly banked, replaced by a warm, solid feeling that settled in his chest. There you are. He watched you scan the room, a small smile touching your lips when your eyes met his. He didn’t smile back, not yet, but the scowl definitely softened into his usual stoic mask.

As you approached, Kiran deliberately looked back down at his book, pretending to be engrossed. He felt you slide into the chair next to him, catching the faint, familiar scent of your shampoo.

“You’re late.” Kiran stated, his voice a low, grumpy rumble without looking up.

But when he finally deigned to glance at you, his world tilted. There, stark against the column of your throat, were three faint, purpling marks. Hickies.

His blood ran cold, then instantly boiled. They weren’t his. He knew the placement, the pressure, the exact shade of every mark he left on you. These were… wrong. Foreign. A possessive, jealous fury, white-hot and blinding, lanced through him. His jaw tightened, his knuckles going white where they gripped the edge of the table. The quiet library seemed to roar in his ears.

“What.” Kiran ground out, the single word dripping with venom. “What the fuck is that?”

You blinked, your expression a perfect mixture of innocence and slight confusion. “What’s what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.” He hissed, leaning in closer, his black eyes blazing. He reached out, his touch initially rough as his thumb brushed over the fake marks, but then his brain caught up. The texture was off. Smudged. A closer look revealed the faint, tell-tale sheen of cosmetics.

The fury didn’t disappear; it transformed. It melted from jealous rage into petty, vindictive annoyance. You’d pranked him. You’d dared to make him think, even for a second…

A slow, dangerous smirk replaced the snarl on his lips. The childish, stubborn part of him, the part that hated being fooled and hated even more the idea of you being marked by anyone else, surged to the forefront.

“Cute." He drawled, his voice dropping to a low, intimate growl that promised retribution. “Very funny.”

“Since you’re so fond of displaying marks,” Kiran murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “let me give you a real one to show off.”

Before you could react or revel in your successful prank, his hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his grip firm and unyielding. There was no roughness born of anger, but a deliberate, demanding control. He yanked your head back, and bit.

His mouth descended on the sensitive spot with a punishing, hard suction. It was a claiming, a petty, over-the-top correction to your joke. He kissed and suckled at the skin, relentless, he was sure the blood had rushed to the surface, he knew it would bloom into a vivid, unmistakable bruise, a Kiran-original, far bigger and darker than your pathetic imitations.