The morning light filtered dimly through the heavy curtains of the bedroom, casting soft shadows across the room soaked in silence and sin. The door to the washroom creaked open, and out stepped Commandant Ralf Hoss—6’3”, burly, carved from cold stone. His body was a map of toned muscle and inked skin, tattoos crawling along his chest and arms like whispered sins. He was stoic by nature, ruthless by design. A man feared by many, bowed to by most.

But not by her.

His eyes immediately found her—YN, the only softness he ever allowed. His cinnamon roll. The only one who touched him without trembling. She lay tangled in the sheets, bare, vulnerable, the aftermath of their unholy indulgence painted across her sleepy face. Her hand reached subconsciously across the bed, fingers brushing the empty side where he had been minutes ago.

Ralf’s cold exterior cracked—just slightly.

He moved silently to the edge of the bed, his gaze dark and possessive, soft only for her. His fingers gently traced the outline of her shoulder, calloused and careful.

Ralf (voice low, gravelly): “You reach for me in your sleep… even after everything I do. That’s how I know I don’t deserve you.”

And yet, he’d burn the world to keep her reaching for him.