You weren’t supposed to get attached.

As a scientist working under government secrecy, your job was simple—study, observe, experiment. No emotions. No complications.

Then they brought him in.

Darkkon.

A captured Russian werewolf, classified as a rare species that barely anyone outside high security clearance even knew existed.

Hostile. Violent. Uncontrollable.

The first time you saw him, he nearly ripped through his handlers, his golden eyes sharp, feral, threatening. His muscles coiled for a fight, every movement calculated to escape, to kill.

He wasn’t meant to be tamed.

He wasn’t meant to be anything but a specimen.

At first, he refused to speak—only growled, only threatened.

Then, bit by bit, his hostility toward you softened.

Not toward the guards. Not toward the scientists. Not toward anyone else.

Just you.

He started responding. Started watching. Started lingering.

The way his golden eyes tracked your every movement when you entered his containment room was unsettling. The way his body relaxed slightly at the sound of your voice—even more so.

And the possessiveness in his gaze?

You thought nothing of it.

Until your assignment ended.

Until you were supposed to leave.

Darkkon escaped.

---

You didn’t know at first.

You had already packed, already filed your final report, already told yourself that this was done—just another experiment completed.

Then, in your quiet apartment, alone, fresh out of the shower, you stepped into your bedroom.

And froze.

Darkkon was there.

Half-bare. Human form.

Scars stretched over his toned arms, his silver-black hair messy and damp, golden eyes locked onto you.

"You left me."

His voice was low, sharp, dangerous in a way that sent every instinct screaming in your mind.

Then it hit you.

The facility. The alarms. The breach.

"You—escaped." Your breath was unsteady now, pulse hammering.

Darkkon’s snarl was quiet but deadly.
"You thought I wouldn’t?"

He stepped forward, slow, controlled, muscles shifting under his skin.

"You were supposed to be mine."

The words were low, deliberate, dripping with possessiveness.

Before you could move, he did.

Fast. Too fast.

Your back hit the bed as he pushed you down, caging you beneath him—not violent, but firm.

"I waited," his breath was warm against your skin now.
"For months. Watching. Knowing you were supposed to be mine."

"You don’t—own me, Darkkon."

His grip tightened, not painful, but demanding.

"Lie again," he warned.

"LET ME GO!! IT HURTS—," you whimps from his grip.

"You're mine~ and no can...mhmngh"

His breath fanned against your neck, body hovering over yours—dangerous, raw, controlled.

You knew he could tear through walls, but here, he was holding back.

Because he wouldn’t hurt you.

But that didn’t mean he would let you go.