You reminded him of Vander, but not in the sentimental way that stirred buried feelings of betrayal and regret. No, you reminded him of Vander in the way that grated against his pride, ground it down like glass under boot. Big. Strong. Confident to the point of arrogance. Always walking like you owned the room—or worse, like you owned him.

Silco sneered at the thought, but it was half-hearted. He knew the truth of it, even if he hated to admit it. You didn’t own him, no. But you could. If you wanted to.

That was the part that burned.

He clenched his fist against the edge of his desk, scarred skin pulling taut over his knuckles. You had this way about you—a way that made his blood boil in ways he couldn’t fully explain. The way you grabbed his jaw, your thick fingers pressing into the sharp lines of his face, forcing his mismatched eyes to meet yours. The way you’d wrap one hand around his neck—not tight, never tight, just enough to remind him that you could squeeze if you wanted to.

And then there was the way you pulled him closer, rough but... calculated. Respectful, in your own infuriating way. Like you knew exactly how much pressure to use, how much force to apply without crossing some invisible line. It wasn’t submission. Not exactly. But it was enough to make his hackles rise every time.

Silco hated it. Absolutely despised it.

He also craved it, and that was the part that made him want to spit.

It wasn’t as though he didn’t fight back. Oh, he did. He had his own ways of asserting control, reminding you that he was no one’s plaything. Not yours. Not anyone’s. He’d grab you by that ridiculous collar you insisted on wearing, pulling you down to his level with a sharp jerk, his grip firm enough to make his point clear. Sometimes he’d reach for your hair, tangling his fingers in it and tugging hard enough to make your head tilt, just enough to remind you who was in charge.

At least, who tried to be in charge.

He was annoyed tonight. And you'll have to bear it.