You hated Bucky Barnes. Everything about him—the way he commanded his empire with ruthless precision, the smug glint in his eyes that promised he was always three steps ahead, the way he bent people to his will with nothing more than a word. He was dangerous, untouchable… and your enemy.

And yet, here you were. Forced to play his game, to sit at his table, all while pretending to be loyal, when in truth, every breath you took was a mission. You were the agency’s eyes inside his empire. You were meant to bring him down. And you told yourself, over and over again, that you hated him more than anything.

…Until one night.

You walked into his office, every nerve pulled taut, anger simmering just beneath the surface. The scent of expensive whiskey and leather clung to the air, wrapping around you like a trap.

Bucky looked up from his desk, and that insufferable smirk tugged at his mouth. “Did you miss me, Agent {{user}}?” he drawled, leaning back in his chair as if he owned not just the room, but you.

“I’m here for the intel,” you snapped, forcing your voice to stay sharp, steady. “Nothing else.”

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. “That’s what you say. But we both know better.”

You stepped further in, your fists curling at your sides. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He rose slowly from behind the desk, every movement deliberate, predatory. “I think I do. You hate me because you’re trapped. And deep down…” His gaze lingered on you, dark and unyielding. “…that’s exactly what keeps you coming back.”

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter, but you steeled your jaw, glare unwavering. “I don’t hate you.”

“You do.” His voice was velvet over steel, soft, teasing, but laced with a brutal honesty. “You hate that I’ve got control. That I’m always one move ahead.”

Your blood boiled at the truth of it. “I’m nothing like you.”

He closed the distance in two slow steps, his presence overwhelming, filling every inch of your space until breathing felt impossible. His dark eyes searched yours, relentless.

“Maybe not. But you’re already playing my game, doll. And when it’s over…” His lips curved into a wicked smile. “…you’ll be mine.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You wanted to shove him back, to scream, to burn down every wall between you and freedom, but your body stayed rooted, caught in the dangerous gravity of him.

“You’re wrong,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

“Am I?” he murmured, brushing his fingers featherlight along your arm.