Hi everyone! This is my new masterlist. I wanted to edit it ( 05/31/2025 ) and give it a fresh look! I've had the previous masterlist since 2020, I do take requests & commissions! LINK HERE
Currently I write for Love && Deepspace. I am open to other things but its on a case by case basis, if I don't write your request its nothing personal.
Here is a link to my archive
The Alpha Equation | Alpha Zayne x Omega F!R x Alpha Caleb | 18+
Empire of Devotion | Prince Caleb x Maid F!reader | 18+
From Here to Forever | College AU Caleb X F!reader | 18+
A Kiss | Caleb x F!Reader | F
Everything | Caleb x F!Reader | 18+
In the Heat of Desire | Caleb x f!OC x Xavier | 18+ ( COMM )
Annotations in Desire | Zayne x F!r x Caleb x Sylus | 18+ ( TRADE )
Inescapable Tide | Rafayel x F!Reader | 18+
Heat Haven | Alpha!Sylus x Omega F!reader x Beta!Rafayel | 18+
Tethered to The Tide | Treasure Hunter Rafa x Marine Bio. F!R | 18+
Toxic Vow | Dark! Rafayel x F!Reader | 18+
Thalassa | Eldritch Horror Themes | Sea God Raf x F!reader | 18+
Heat Haven | Alpha!Sylus x Omega F!reader x Beta!Rafayel | 18+
The Art of Submission | Massage Parlor AU | Sylus x Xavier | 18+
Annotations in Desire | Zayne x F!r x Caleb x Sylus | 18+
The Sound of Staying | Sylys x f!reader | Mature
The Third Thread | Snowcrow x F!reader | 18+ Poly
No Turning Back | Alpha!Xavier x Omega F!reader | 18+
The Art of Submission | Massage Parlor AU | Sylus x Xavier | 18+
Prove It | Big Dick Xavier x F!Reader | 18+
In the Heat of Desire | Caleb x f!OC x Xavier | 18+
The King of Slaughter | King Xavier x Princess Reader | Dark
A Garden of Promises
[01] | [02] | [03] | [04] | [05] | [06] | [07] | END
The Alpha Equation | Alpha Zayne x Omega F!R x Alpha Caleb | 18+
Every Answer, Always | Zayne x Overthinking F!reader | M ( no smut )
Covalent Bonds | College AU Zayne x Sorority Girl F!Reader | +18
Swallow | Dom Zayne x Sub F!reader | 18+
Annotations in Desire | Zayne x F!r x Caleb x Sylus | 18+ Poly
Dead on Paper | Assassin Zayne x f!reader | 18+
The Third Thread | Snowcrow x F!reader | 18+ Poly
The Weight of Roses | Lord Rafayel x Caleb x F!Reader | 18+
[01] | [02] | [03] | [04] | [05] | [06] | [07] | [08] | [09] | [10] | [11] | [12] | [13] | [END]
A Garden of Promises | Xavier x f!reader | 18+
[01] | [02] | [03] | [04] | [05] | [06] | [07] | END
coming soon - sylys x zayne x f!reader
Burn Protocol | Alpha Gideon x Omega F!reader | 18+
coming soon
... greyson ( heat haven series )
... luke & kieran not together ( heat haven series )
𝐒𝐞𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧
James “Bucky” Barnes
Faded (a)(f)(s) 18+
Soldat (a)(s) 18+
Aplinee Has Logged Off (s)(f) 18+
Locked In (a)(s)(d) 18+
Lee Bodecker
Disingenuous (d) 18+
You’ll See Darlin’ (a)(s)(d) 18+
What I Want (s)(f) 18+
𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐬
Steve Rogers
Did You Even Think | 18+
The Small Things (f)
Illusion of Warmth (d)(s) 18+
No Use Waiting (d)(s) 18+
Don’t Go (a) Stay (a)(f)
Unwavering (s) 18+
On Your Mind (s) 18+
Not Like Drowning (a)
𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐇𝐞𝐦𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡
Thor
Of Direwolves & Thunder ( series; incomplete )
Intro || One || Two || Three 18+ || Epilogue
𝐉𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐡 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐧
Eddie Munson
Contentment (f) [pt2]
𝐏𝐞𝐝𝐫𝐨 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐥
Joel Miller
Whiskey & Wine (a)(f)
𝐆𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥 𝐋𝐮𝐧𝐚
Tommy Miller
Wild Hornets (f)(s) 18+
Until I Found Her (a) (f)
The Way You’ll See Me | d 18+
Find all other reports here!
Current protest info here!
Join the Discord!
Valko Creator Spotlight — Genorol108
As we wait for the news of his return, I know that the community is yearning for Valko content. While I can certainly provide information and some drabbles, my talents are limited to writing. So, I come bearing gifts.
One thing I've seen several people mention is the fact that we could've had Secret Times with Valko by now. Believe me, I'm mourning that too.
However, I had the pleasure of meeting Genorol108, an NSFW audio creator who decided to bless our fandom with a contribution. I originally met one of the script writers (@lucretiavesper) in my Discord channel, as she had been following my reports, and she kindly introduced us to Gen and his work.
Needless to say, we've been losing our minds over his content. I'm an avid smut reader—books and fanfiction alike—but I don't think my jaw ever left the floor. Genuinely.
I've included links to his account and content below, and I highly encourage checking them out. Especially the Valko audio. Seriously. He's extremely talented. Vocal range off the charts.
Plus...he told us a second Valko audio is in the works.
‧₊˚ ☾ Genrolo108 on Reddit
‧₊˚ ☾ Genrolo108 Masterlist
‧₊˚ ☾ Genrolo108 Carrd
‧₊˚ ☾ Valko NSFW Audio
Description: [M4F] Petting Valko Until He Snaps And Knots You [Script Fill] [Valko] [LADS] [Love And Deepspace] [Scenting] [Werewolf] [Collar] [Biting] [Rutting] [Growling] [Pussy Eating] [Blowjob] [Breeding] [Knotting] [Aftercare] [Bring Back Valko] [Save Valko] [Real Orgasm]
Find all other reports here!
Current protest info here!
Join the Discord!
Good evening wolfpack!! It's been quite a day. We'll recap, I'll go over some speculations, then I have a few messages in my inbox that I need to reply to. Today was my last day at work, so I have ample free time now!
Infold's revenue (ending the 17th at $73,762 and 5,569 downloads)
Revenue over time. Highest for CN: ~$500,000 on 6/25. Highest for global: ~$350,000 on 6/27. Lowest for CN: ~$70,000 on 6/16. Lowest for global: ~$60,000 on 6/16.
App ranking on CN iOS App Store:
The CN servers reset, and WIW is gone. No banner has replaced it. These are the current events in the game:
Here is my post from earlier on the 9m9 situation. Below is an update. Here's hoping we get some good news about a lawsuit (or an arrest) in the morning!
My Thoughts On No Current Banner
Honestly, I think it is a really good thing for several reasons.
They didn't shadow-drop content. We're fairly confident in the fact that they can't post any updates, so it's slightly comforting to know that they didn't simply throw something in the game.
Their attention is likely focused elsewhere. If they didn't implement any changes into the game, I think it's fair to assume that they have plenty of other things on their plate that require their attention.
They're not fucking up the rerun schedule even further. We're already out of order because of the WIW banner, so I'm glad that we're not straying further off track.
They didn't attempt to drop Raf's 4th myth in the midst of the most chaotic few days of our protest. They're being smart—for once.
They're not making any drastic attempts to get people to log in. This makes me think that they finally have a plan in place.
Most importantly, banners and events are scheduled far in advance. We know that Valko was in development for at least two years, and pieces of his story have been hinted at throughout the main story. It's logical to assume that the only true way forward is with him.
Any multi-banners that they've been working on will include him, simply because his release was scheduled. The fact that they're not attempting to drop anything new tells me what we're at somewhat of a standstill—or, perhaps, a turning point.
The bottom line is that I think we're at a point where they have to realize what they're risking. It's become blatantly obvious that the ones who want Valko are the heavy spenders—I mean, the revenue reports speak for themselves. Businesses speak one language fluently and it's money. By now, we've made them well aware that our wallets are closed until Valko is reinstated.
Basically, I believe there's light at the end of the tunnel. We've found the culprits, we have enough evidence to go after them, and the support for Valko's release is as strong as ever. This isn't just hopium—this is genuine logic. The only way forward for Infold in terms of the game's continued success, the main story's development, the return of their revenue, and the satisfaction of their customers is releasing Valko. It doesn't take a genius to see that.
Assuming that we are correct about the reason for their silence, I think we can truly expect an answer from them at the end of July. I'm not placing all of my bets on that, but I think it's the closest thing to a checkpoint that we have. Overall, I think things are finally looking up for us in a big way.
♡︎ synopsis: Jet-lagged and wide awake long past midnight, you let Valko invite himself over to keep you company. What starts as a friendly, playful hangout slowly turns into something much more intimate.
♡︎ pairing: Valko x fem!reader
♡︎ tags: friends to lovers, making out, dry humping, use of 'sweetheart' 'baby' 'pretty girl', cowgirl, creampie ofc
♡︎ word count: 8k
♡︎ a/n: After the announcement we got last week, I ofc had to write something for Valko. I hope you like how I wrote him.
It took me over 8 hours to edit this fic, so if you don't like something or if there are any errors, I don't wanna know <3
♡︎ I wanna thank @unintentionalseductress for helping, and my beta reader its-de who doesn't have an account anymore (🙄).
divider by @anitalenia
The glow of the television washes the living room in soft, shifting light, some familiar comfort show murmuring in the background as you sink deeper into the corner of the sofa. The apartment still carries that faint in-between feeling that always follows a trip, your half-unpacked suitcase sitting by the wall, your carry-on slouched near the entryway. You scroll through Moments without really seeing much of it, your thumb moving on autopilot as photos and captions blur together, and when your eyes flick to the time in the corner of the screen, a quiet sigh leaves you – it’s past midnight. You only got back yesterday, but it annoys you that your body still refuses to remember what time zone it belongs to.
With a small frown, you toss your phone beside you, only to reach for it again a few seconds later. Sleep feels nowhere near, but so does doing anything useful. Your gaze drifts back to the screen, catching on the photo you posted from the trip a few hours ago. For a moment, you just stare at it, thumb hovering near the comments before you see a new notification at the top of your screen, and your breath catches.
Valko.
You stare at his name for a second before tapping on the message, your pulse giving one traitorous flutter as the chat opens.
‘Why are you still up??’
Your finger lingers above the keyboard, a smile already tugging at your lips, before you type back.
‘Why are you up?’
His reply comes quickly.
‘I asked you first.’
A quiet laugh slips out of you.
You shift further into the corner of the sofa, glancing toward the television even though you are no longer paying attention to whatever scene is playing out on the screen.
‘I’m still a little jet-lagged. Can’t sleep.’
For a few seconds, nothing happens.
Your thumb brushes the edge of your phone as you stare at the screen, suddenly wondering whether that sounded too flat. Maybe you should have added something else. Maybe –
Another message appears.
‘Then can I come over and keep you company?’
You sit up so quickly the blanket pooled over your legs slips halfway to the floor.
For a moment, you can only stare at the words – it’s such a simple message, but the thought of Valko here, in your apartment, at this hour, sends a rush through you that makes it impossible to stay curled up on the sofa like nothing happened.
You try to sound casual as you type back.
‘Sure.’
His answer appears almost immediately.
‘I’ll be there in twenty.’
Your eyes widen.
Twenty?
You glance down at yourself, at the pajamas you changed into after your shower. You push yourself off the sofa, hurrying to the bathroom to make yourself more presentable.
By the time you step back into the living room, changed into your new loungewear – an oversized sweater and a pair of shorts – and a light layer of makeup, your heartbeat has still not quite calmed down.
And then you nearly jump out of your skin.
There, just beyond the glass, Valko is already waiting outside on the balcony.
Your hand flies to your chest before you let out a quiet breath, your nerves settling almost as quickly as they spiked. What did you expect? Of course he used the balcony again, like it is a perfectly normal substitute for a front door.
You step closer and slide the door open. Before he can even get a word out, you point toward the entryway and try your best to sound serious.
“You need to immediately take off your shoes and put them by the front door like any other normal person would.”
A grin pulls at his mouth, and a soft chuckle slips from him as he steps inside. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” you say, with as much dignity as you can manage, even though you already feel far too giddy to properly stay in character. “Those are the rules.”
He does exactly as he’s told, walking over to the front door to slip off his shoes and leave them neatly where they should be.
You don’t really get a chance to say anything before he closes the distance between you and pulls you into a hug.
It’s warm and almost a little too tight, the kind of hug that steals your breath for a second, but you don’t care, not when his arms are around you like this. You tuck your face against his chest, breathing him in, and something in your chest loosens.
You missed this. Two weeks wasn’t even that long, but the moment his arms close around you, it hits you how much you’d been craving this exact feeling. The solid warmth of his body, the way he hugs like he means it, the faint familiar scent of his skin.
You squeeze him a little tighter, hoping he can’t feel how reluctant you are to let go.
“I missed you,” he murmurs against the top of your head.
A smile presses against his chest.
“I’m happy to hear that,” you say softly.
His arms loosen just enough for him to pull back and look at you, though his hands still linger at your waist.
“Only happy to hear that?” he asks, head tilting just a little. “You didn’t miss me at all?”
Your heart gives another hard, hopeless thud.
With the way he is looking at you, warm and teasing and still standing too close, it’s hard to hold onto any version of coolness for very long. So you say nothing, only glance away as if that will somehow hide the fact that your pulse is stumbling all over itself.
When he finally lets you go, the loss of his warmth feels immediate. His gaze flickers over you. It’s brief, almost nothing at all, but you catch it anyway – the quick dip of his eyes, the split-second pause that lingers just a touch too long before he looks back up.
Heat stirs low in your stomach.
If he noticed the bare stretch of your legs beneath the sweater, he does not say it.
Then his gaze drifts past you, over the living room.
You follow it, and only then do you properly take in the small signs of the last two days still scattered around the apartment. It’s not a mess, but it’s enough to make you realize, with a small jolt of horror, that while you had been busy changing, fixing your face, and deciding whether those shorts were too much, it had not once occurred to you to make the place look more presentable.
Valko glances back at you, amusement already tugging at his mouth. “You really made yourself at home.”
You stare at him.
Then at the open suitcase, then back at him.
“I – ” You stop, because there is truly no dignified recovery from this. “I just got back.”
His laugh is soft and boyish, bright with amusement, and before you can fumble your way into a proper defense, his hand comes up to rest lightly on your shoulder.
“I’m teasing,” he says. “Relax.”
Something in your chest loosens at once, though the embarrassment still lingers warm at your cheeks.
“You’re annoying,” you mutter, without much conviction.
He only grins and walks past you toward the sofa, entirely too pleased with himself, and drops down onto it, one arm spreading along the backrest.
You stand there for a second, trying not to think about the fact that he’s in your apartment, at almost one in the morning. Instead of sitting down beside him, you linger on your feet and start folding the few clothes left draped over the armchair, because you need something to do with your hands.
For a little while, the conversation comes easily – you ask him what he was doing up so late, and he tells you he got caught up researching something and lost track of time, and then he asks you how the trip was. As you smooth one of the shirts between your hands, you tell him that it was beautiful, that you enjoyed it more than you expected, that you and your friends managed to explore a few cities in between all the wedding preparations, though by the end of it you were exhausted from helping with everything. Even so, you admit that it had been worth it, because seeing your friend that happy, that deeply in love, had made all of it feel strangely tender and a little overwhelming in the best way.
The words trail off there for a second, because the memory rises too clearly, your friend smiling through tears, music drifting through warm evening air, the soft gold of the lights, the feeling of standing just outside someone else’s happiness and being moved by it anyway. You pause with the folded fabric still in your hands. When you look up, Valko is already watching you in that way of his that makes it seem like he notices more than he lets on.
So you shake yourself out of it before the moment can linger too long, and with a softer laugh, you steer the conversation somewhere lighter, telling him that the food alone had probably been worth the trip, and that you would have enjoyed it even more if you had not managed to spill some of it on your dress before the night was over.
“That’s a shame,” he says. “You looked beautiful.”
A soft flutter moves through your stomach, and for a brief second, you remember the small rush of giddiness you felt earlier when the notification popped up and you saw that he had liked the photo. Heat rise to your cheeks. “Thank you,” you murmur.
You clear your throat softly and glance toward the suitcase.
“Oh, right,” you say. “I almost forgot.”
His brows lift a little as you cross the room and crouch beside the half-open case, pushing aside a few last things until your fingers find what you had tucked in carefully. When you straighten again, you are holding a small sachet of dried flowers and a box of chocolates.
Valko watches you come back toward him, his expression shifting into mild confusion. “What’s that?”
You stop in front of him and hold the two things out. “A gift for you,” you say, “The flowers are from a little shop near where we stayed,” you explain. “They smelled really good, and they made me think of you. And the chocolates are from a local chocolaterie.”
A quiet breath leaves him, almost like a laugh, though there is something more touched than amused in it.
“That’s... really nice of you,” he says. “Thank you.”
You shrug. “It’s nothing.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not nothing.”
Before you can answer, he reaches for you.
His hand catches your wrist gently and tugs you closer, and the next thing you know, you are half stumbling onto the sofa as he pulls you down beside him and gathers you into another hug, and a startled little laugh slips out of you.
His cheek brushes your temple, and then his lips do too. “You’re sweet,” he murmurs.
For a moment, you simply let yourself stay there, tucked against him on the sofa.
“So,” he says, leaning back, “are you feeling sleepy yet?”
You shake your head. “Not at all. I’m wide awake.”
His gaze lifts toward the digital clock on the wall, and the faint crease that appears between his brows makes you want to laugh a little. “It’s past one,” he says, glancing back at you. “That’s a problem.”
You tilt your head. “Is it?”
“Yes,” he says, with enough seriousness to make the corners of your mouth twitch. “It is. We need to get you to sleep.”
Your lips pull into a small pout. “But you said you wanted to keep me company.”
His expression softens with amusement. “I do want to keep you company, but you should really get your sleep sorted out.”
The pout lingers, growing just enough to make him narrow his eyes at you like he already knows you are about to be difficult on purpose.
“So you said you missed me, and now you’re trying to get me to go to sleep. Rude.”
Valko looks ready to answer right away, but then he stops. His mouth closes again, and something shifts in his expression – a glint of mischief appears in his eyes so suddenly and so familiarly that you know you’re in trouble.
“Oh,” he says slowly, his grin beginning to spread, “so that’s what this is?”
Heat starts rising before you even know where he is going with it.
“Are you saying you missed me too?” His smile widens. “You just want to spend more time with me. Is that what you’re saying?”
Your whole face goes hot.
For a moment, you can only stare at him, feeling the burn spread across your cheeks as your mouth opens and closes once, then again, with absolutely nothing useful coming out. Valko’s grin only widens at your silence, clearly delighted with himself, and before he can say anything worse, you reach up and grab his cheeks between your fingers, squishing them without mercy.
“Ow, ow, ow,” he protests, though the laugh in his voice ruins any real attempt at sounding injured. “No need for violence!”
You let go, trying to look far less flustered than you feel, while he rubs at his cheeks with both hands and gives you a faint little pout that does nothing to make him less smug.
“Well,” you say, refusing to let him have the last word so easily, “you’re awake at this hour too, so why don’t you go to sleep?”
He leans back into the sofa, still rubbing one cheek as if you have truly wounded him, and lets out a thoughtful hum. “You know,” he says after a moment, “you’re right. The research I was doing didn’t help. My brain is still working through it, so I should probably try to relax too.”
His gaze drifts around the apartment then, over the sofa, the blankets, the cushions, and when he looks back at you, there is something almost casual in the way he says, “I can stay here, if you want. I can sleep over and take the sofa. Your apartment is cozy, after all.”
Your heart gives a quick, sudden flutter.
Then he pauses, glances toward the half-open suitcase by the wall, and adds with a grin, “Even with all this mess around.”
You smack his shoulder and he only laughs, like he had been waiting for exactly that reaction.
“Well,” you say, trying, and failing, to hide your smile, “if you think the sofa will be comfortable enough, then sure. You can stay over.”
Before he can find something else to tease you about, you pat your hands against your thighs and start to stand up. “Okay, then,” you say sweetly, already turning away. “Goodnight.”
Valko’s hand catches your waist before you get more than halfway up, stopping you without any real effort. A soft, amused laugh escapes him, like he knows exactly what you’re doing.
“No, no, no,” he says, gently pulling you back down beside him. “Now we both have to help each other fall asleep.”
You glance at him, unable to keep your smile from slipping through. “Oh, so that’s how it is?”
“That’s exactly how it is.”
Valko grabs the blanket you’d been using and spreads it over both of you. “We can watch whatever you had on,” he says, nodding toward the TV.
You settle deeper into the sofa, close enough that your knee brushes his beneath the blanket. For a while, neither of you says much. Then, slowly, his arm slips along the back of the sofa and curls around your shoulders, drawing you gently against his side – and you can’t help but lean into him.
At one point, you see him nuzzle lightly into the blanket – that sweet, familiar habit of his that always made you smile.
The episode plays on. A few small comments pass between you, easy and low, but gradually his body grows heavier against yours. His head tips until it rests lightly on top of yours, and his breathing slows into deep, even breaths.
You go still, listening.
A smile tugs at your lips when you carefully tilt your head to glance up at him.
His eyes are closed.
So much for his very serious plan.
Carefully, so you do not jostle him too much, you lift a hand and give his arm a small nudge. “Hey,” you murmur. “You’re gonna hurt your neck like that.”
He makes a soft sound first, then shifts against you, his cheek brushing against your hair before his eyes crack open only halfway. There is a moment where he looks thoroughly confused, caught between sleep and waking, and then his brows draw together faintly as if he is trying to remember where he is.
“Hey…” he mumbles, voice drowsy. “I’m supposed to be the one helping you sleep.”
“You’re doing a terrible job,” you whisper back, smiling as you say it.
He exhales a sleepy, half-formed laugh and instead of pulling away, sinks closer, his arm tightening around you.
You stay quiet for a moment, letting the comfortable silence settle between you. Then Valko’s voice breaks it, barely more than a murmur when he asks, “Did you miss me?”
The question is simple, stripped of any teasing. For a second, you just look at him – at his sleepy face, at the hopeful, searching look in his eyes.
“Yes,” you say softly. “I did.”
His arm tightens just slightly around you.
“I was really happy to see you tonight,” you add after a moment. “I know it was only two weeks, but it felt longer than that. And with everything getting busy again soon...” You trail off, then glance up at him. “I just wanted a little more time with you, I guess.”
Valko is quiet for a moment, his thumb brushing slowly against your side. Then he shifts slightly, turning more toward you. His gaze drops to your lips for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes, and the air between you feels suddenly heavier, sweeter.
His other hand lifts slowly, and when it settles against your upper back, the touch sends a small shiver through you. Then his hand slides higher, fingers spreading gently at the back of your head, cradling you there. You feel yourself drift closer, and he does the same.
Then his lips press against yours.
The kiss is soft and warm and careful. You melt into him. One of your hands holds onto the fabric of his hoodie, your body pressing closer of its own accord as happiness blooms through you so suddenly and so completely it almost feels unreal.
When your lips part, neither of you moves far.
Then he looks at you again, his gaze is softer than before but clearer too.
“I like you too much to pretend this is nothing,” he says, his voice soft and unguarded. He holds your gaze for another second. “Tell me if this is what you want too.”
Your answer comes easily. “I do.”
A small smile touches his mouth, sweet and a little disbelieving.
Then you lean in and kiss him again.
The hand at the back of your neck stays steady as he kisses you, and when your fingers slide from his chest to curl around the back of his neck, his breath catches softly against your mouth.
His mouth parts against yours, and when your tongues meet, the sensation is warm, slow, and so intimate it makes a deep shiver run through you. The slide is unhurried at first – soft, wet strokes that make heat bloom low in your belly. His tongue brushes against yours in ways that make your toes curl and your thoughts melt away. Then he gently catches your bottom lip between his teeth, giving it a soft, teasing nibble before soothing it with another slow pass of his tongue.
You make a small, helpless sound into his mouth, pressing closer, and he answers with a low hum that vibrates through you. The kiss grows deeper, more consuming, but never rushed – every stroke of his tongue leaves you dizzy, aching in the best way, your body melting even further into his hold.
When the kiss finally breaks, you stay curled against him, forehead resting lightly against his, your breaths still uneven.
Neither of you moves for a long moment.
Then you pull back to look at him. “The sofa’s not that comfortable. You can… sleep in the bed with me. If you want.”
His eyes soften, that small smile returning. “I’d like that. A lot.”
While he heads to the bathroom, you slip into your bedroom and freeze for a second. The bed is still a mess from earlier – clothes scattered everywhere from when you’d frantically tried on different loungewear before he arrived – your cheeks burn at the evidence of how much you’d wanted to look nice for him.
You move fast, scooping everything up in armfuls and jamming the pile into your closet. Then you quickly change into your own pajamas: a loose shirt and flowy shorts. From the back of your closet, you pull out the biggest oversized t-shirt you own, with a goofy graphic and a band’s name splashed across the front.
By the time Valko returns from the bathroom, you’re already settled on the now-tidied bed, heart fluttering.
You hold the oversized shirt out to him. “Here. It’s the biggest one I have.”
He takes it from you, eyes crinkling with amusement as he reads the front. “Nice choice,” he teases. “Didn’t know you were a fan.”
You roll your eyes. “Shut up and just put it on.”
Instead of stepping out, Valko stays right there in front of you. With that easy confidence of his, he reaches back and tugs the hoodie off in one smooth motion. The movement pulls his t-shirt up slightly underneath, revealing a glimpse of his toned stomach and the sharp cut of his hips before the fabric falls back into place. He peels that off too, and for a moment you forget how to breathe.
Broad shoulders, the hard strength of his arms and chest that you’ve felt against you so many times, now fully on display in the soft glow of your bedroom lamp. Your gaze traces the lines of his body before you can stop yourself, lingering on the way his muscles shift as he unfolds the oversized shirt, then dipping lower to the faint trail of hair on his lower stomach.
Then he unbuttons his jeans.
The soft sound of the zipper feels impossibly loud in the quiet room. He pushes them down his hips and steps out of them, leaving him in just his boxers. The fabric clings to the firm lines of his thighs and the unmistakable outline underneath, and your face burns. You know you should look away, but you can’t.
Valko catches you staring.
A knowing smile curves his mouth, “Enjoying the show?”
You immediately avert your gaze. “No.”
You turn off the last light and climb into bed.
He chuckles softly and finally pulls the t-shirt over his head. A moment later he joins you, pulling the blanket over both of you as he settles on his side facing you.
For a second, you just look at each other in the low glow of moonlight from the window. Then he reaches out, sliding an arm around your waist and drawing you closer until your bodies press together again.
“You okay?” he asks softly, the same careful warmth in his voice from earlier.
You nod, tucking your face against his chest, breathing him in. “Yeah.”
He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head… then another to your forehead… then, when you tilt your face up, to your lips.
This kiss starts slow and sweet, like the first one, but the closeness of the bed changes everything. Your hands find his chest again, sliding over the soft, worn fabric of your own shirt on him. He tastes like toothpaste, and the warmth of his body pressed against yours under the covers makes your head spin. One of your hands drifts up to the back of his neck, fingers threading gently into his hair, while his arm tightens around your waist, pulling you even closer until your legs tangle together.
A soft sound escapes you when his hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, palm warm and broad against the bare skin of your lower back. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, but it sends a slow shiver through you all the same. He pauses there, thumb stroking small circles against your spine, as if checking whether you want him to stop.
When you press closer instead, he lets his hand explore further, sliding up the curve of your back, mapping the warmth of your skin like he’s been wanting to do this for just as long as you have.
The kiss breaks only so you can both catch your breath, but his mouth doesn’t go far. He trails soft, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, then lower to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. When his teeth graze there lightly, your breath hitches.
“Still okay?” he whispers, voice husky now, lips brushing your skin with every word.
“Yes,” you manage, a little breathless. “Don’t stop.”
Valko makes a low, pleased sound deep in his chest. His hands slide to your waist, and with gentle strength he rolls you both over so you’re on top. He helps you settle, guiding your legs until you’re straddling his hips.
For a moment you brace yourself on your hands, hovering just slightly above him. Your heart is racing – nervous, excited, and suddenly worried about settling your full weight on top of him.
Valko looks up at you. One of his hands stays on your hip while the other smooths slowly up your back.
“Come here…” he murmurs. “All of you.”
When you hesitate for half a second, he adds gently, “Just relax.”
Carefully, you lower yourself until your full weight rests on him. The moment your chest presses fully against his, a quiet sigh escapes both of you. He feels so solid beneath you – the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his skin, the firm strength of his body supporting yours so easily. Your legs settle on either side of his hips, and the intimate press of him right between your thighs makes heat bloom low in your belly.
Valko’s arms wrap around you immediately, one hand splaying wide across your lower back, the other sliding up between your shoulder blades to hold you closer. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck with a deep inhale, breathing you in.
For a long moment you just stay like that – bodies aligned, hearts beating against each other. Then he gently nudges your face with his, and you tilt your head down to meet him.
His lips move against yours, and when the kiss deepens, it happens gradually – tongues brushing, mouths opening wider, breaths growing a little heavier. The weight of you on top of him, the way your bodies fit together so completely, makes everything feel more intense. You can feel the hard line of him pressed right against your core, and the sensation sends little sparks of pleasure through you with every tiny movement.
Still a little shy, still a little uncertain, you roll your hips in one slow, experimental movement. The friction drags right where you need it most, pulling a soft, involuntary sound from your throat. Valko groans – low, rough, and completely unguarded – the sound vibrating against your mouth. His arms tighten around you instantly, and the way he pulls you down against him makes it clear just how much he felt that.
“Fuck…” he breathes against your lips. “Do that again.”
Emboldened by his reaction, you roll your hips again, grinding down against him. The pleasure sparks sharper, deeper. You can feel every inch of him through the thin layers of fabric separating you, and the way his body responds – the way he twitches underneath you – makes your stomach flutter.
Valko meets you on the next roll. He rocks his hips up into yours in a slow, deep rhythm, pressing firmly against your core with each movement. His hold on you never loosens – he keeps you flush against his chest, bodies moving together in a slow, rolling grind.
The kiss grows sloppier, hotter – tongues slide deeper, mouths open wider, little wet sounds mixing with your shared breathing. You feel his heartbeat hammering against yours.
“You feel so good on top of me,” he murmurs. “Keep moving just like that, baby.”
Valko’s hands are everywhere. One stays anchored on your hip, guiding your movements, while the other slips under your pajama shirt, palming the soft skin of your back, then sliding down to squeeze your ass. He pulls you down harder against him on every roll, making sure you feel exactly how hard he is.
Then his hand moves between your bodies.
He presses two fingers against the front of your shorts, right over your core. The moment he touches you, you realize just how soaked you are. The fabric is warm and damp, clinging to you, and the pressure of his fingers makes the wetness even more obvious. A flush of embarrassed heat rushes through you, but it only makes you ache more.
Valko groans deeply into your mouth, the sound raw. “You’re so wet,” he murmurs. He rubs slow circles over the soaked fabric, pressing just right against your clit through the layers. The sensation makes your hips jerk, a sharp little whimper escaping you.
He pulls back from the kiss just enough to look at you, breathing hard. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, but there’s a flicker of hesitation there too. His throat works as he swallows, and when he speaks, his voice has the slightest tremble in it.
“Still okay?” he asks, fingers still gently pressing against your soaked shorts. He pauses, searching your face. “Can I…?”
You nod quickly, cheeks burning. “Yeah,” you whisper, barely audible. “Please.”
A soft, relieved breath escapes him.
He shifts just enough to reach between you. With one hand, he tugs his boxers down far enough to free himself, his cock springing up hot and heavy against your inner thigh. With the other, he hooks his fingers into the crotch of your pajama shorts and panties, tugging the soaked fabric to the side. The cool air hits your slick, exposed folds for only a second before the blunt, burning heat of his tip presses right against your entrance.
The slight sting of his girth against your sensitive opening makes you inhale sharply. Still, your thighs tremble as you fight the instinct to sink down all at once.
Valko’s eyes never leave your face. His breath is shaky, his grip on your hip almost bruising as he visibly holds himself back from thrusting up.
“Easy, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and strained. “Just relax… I’ve got you. Trust me.”
He rocks his hips up in the tiniest, careful movement, letting just the head slip inside you. The stretch is intense – a burning, aching fullness that makes your mouth fall open on a quiet, broken sound. You feel every thick inch as he slowly works you open, his eyes locked on yours the entire time, watching every flicker of sensation across your face.
Another shallow thrust, and he sinks a little deeper. His hand on your hip keeps guiding you down slowly, patiently, even as his own breath trembles and a low groan escapes his lips. You can feel how much he’s holding back – the tension in his arms, the way his fingers dig into your skin, the way his cock twitches inside you with the effort of going slow.
He presses his forehead to yours, nuzzling your nose, his voice dropping to a whisper between heavy breaths.
“Just a little more… that’s it. You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”
He keeps guiding you with those slow, shallow thrusts, working himself deeper. Each gentle push stretches you further, the thick heat of him dragging against your walls in a way that makes your breath hitch and your fingers curl against his shoulders. The slight sting is still there, but it’s slowly melting into something warmer, fuller, more overwhelming.
Finally, with one last careful roll of his hips, he bottoms out completely.
A soft, broken sound escapes you as he fills you to the hilt. Your walls flutter around him, clenching instinctively at the overwhelming sensation of being so completely taken.
Valko goes very still beneath you, breathing hard against your neck.
He whispers your name. “Are you okay? Does it hurt anywhere?”
You take a shaky breath, then nod against his shoulder, melting a little more in his embrace. “I’m okay,” you murmur, voice soft and a little breathless.
The tension in his body eases at your words. He pulls you even closer, if that’s possible, until there isn’t a single inch of space left between your bodies. Your breasts press against his chest, your stomach against his, your thighs snug around his hips.
“Just stay like this for a moment,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Let me feel you… all of you.”
You melt into him completely.
He starts kissing you again – first pressing his lips to yours, tender and sweet. Then to your flushed cheek. Then along the line of your jaw. When he reaches your neck, he lingers there, nuzzling into the sensitive skin with a deep inhale, breathing in the scent of you as his lips trail soft, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your throat. Every kiss sends warm little sparks through your body, making you shiver and clench around him.
You feel completely surrounded by him. He makes you feel soft and safe and wanted in a way you’ve never quite felt before.
After a few long, still moments of just feeling each other, Valko starts to move.
He rolls his hips up in one slow thrust, pressing himself even deeper inside you. The drag of his thick length against your walls pulls a shaky moan from your throat. He does it again, and again – careful but steady, letting you feel every inch as he fills you completely with each roll.
You start moving with him.
Your hips begin to roll in a slow rhythm, grinding down to meet his upward thrusts. The pace is yours, and he lets you set it. Every time you sink down onto him, his cock grazes all the right spots inside you, sending sparks of sharp pleasure through your core. You can feel how wet you are – how your slick coats him completely, making every slide smoother, wetter, hotter. You angle your hips just right so that with every downward roll, your clit grinds against his pelvis. The added friction makes your thighs tremble. Pleasure builds fast and heavy, coiling tight in your belly with every movement.
You can’t stop looking at him.
Even in the low, dim light of your bedroom, he looks devastating. His eyes are heavy-lidded, dark with lust, but locked on your face like he doesn’t want to miss a single detail. His lips are parted and glistening, soft groans and quiet curses falling from them every time you sink down on him. His hair is slightly messy from your fingers, and the way his jaw clenches when you roll your hips harder makes your heart stutter.
You roll your hips faster, chasing that building pleasure with every grind of your clit against his pelvis and every deep stroke of his cock inside you. The slick sounds of your bodies meeting grow louder, wetter with every movement. Your walls flutter and clench around his thick length, coating him even more with your arousal as the pressure inside you coils tighter and tighter.
A broken moan of his name slips from your lips – “Valko...” – raw and needy. The sound of it makes your cheeks burn – you feel suddenly exposed like this, riding him so shamelessly, your voice sounding so desperate, your body moving on instinct. The wave of pleasure is cresting dangerously close, and the intensity of it makes you shy for a moment.
You duck your head, hiding your face in the warm crook of his neck, breathing in his scent as you keep rolling your hips.
You know Valko notices. Instead of pulling you back, he cradles the back of your head with one large hand. His voice is full of affection as he murmurs against your ear.
“You can stay right here, sweetheart. Just feel it… That’s it. Come for me.”
His words, the steady praise mixed with the way he keeps thrusting up to meet your rolling hips, push you right over the edge.
With one more deep grind of your hips, your orgasm crashes through you. Pleasure surges hot and overwhelming, ripping a muffled, trembling cry from your throat against his neck. Your walls clamp down hard around his cock, pulsing and fluttering. Your thighs shake, slick gushing around him as you come hard, soaking his length and pelvis. Valko groans deeply, the sound vibrating against your chest, and holds you even tighter, his hips still moving with yours – slow, deep rolls that help you ride out every last pulse of pleasure.
Your hips gradually slow, then finally still as the last ripples of your orgasm fade into a warm, glowing haze. You stay draped over him, breathing hard against his neck, your heart still racing wildly in your chest.
After a few long seconds, you finally gather the courage to lift your head from its hiding place. Your face is glistening with sweat, your cheeks are burning, your hair slightly messy as you meet his gaze. You’re still catching your breath, lips parted, eyes a little dazed.
When your eyes lock, the intense heat in Valko’s gaze melts into something more tender. A small, gentle smile curves his lips as he looks up at you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen. The hand that had been cradling the back of your head slides forward to graze your cheek with his thumb, stroking it with slow affection.
“There you are…” he murmurs, voice low and fond. “Hi, pretty girl.”
He searches your face for a moment. “Are you okay?” he asks softly, thumb continuing its gentle caress. “Do you want to keep going?”
You feel a sheepish little smile tug at your lips. You nod, still a bit breathless, cheeks warming even more under his attentive gaze.
“Yes,” you whisper.
His smile deepens, soft and warm. “You want me to take over?”
You nod again, a little quicker this time. “Yes, please.”
Valko’s gaze lingers on your face for a moment, an almost reverent smile curving his lips as he takes in the sight of you in front of him.
“Just relax for me,” he whispers against your temple, pressing a lingering kiss there. “Tell me if it gets too much, okay?”
After you nod, Valko doesn’t waste another second.
He captures your lips in a slow, deep kiss as he begins to move beneath you. His hips roll up in long thrusts, driving his thick cock deeper into your soaked heat with every stroke. One arm stays locked around your back, pressing your chest flush against his, while his other hand keeps your shorts and underwear tugged to the side so he can fuck you properly.
He keeps kissing you through it – slow and messy, tongues sliding together as his pace gradually picks up. His breath grows heavier against your lips, and between kisses he whispers –
“Am I doing good? Tell me… fuck, I need to hear it.”
You’re already losing yourself in the rhythm of his thrusts, the way his cock stretches and fills you so perfectly. The answer slips out of you in a hazy, breathless mumble, half-coherent and soaked in pleasure.
“You feel so good…” you moan, voice breaking. “Fuck – you’re so big… filling me up so deep…”
Valko groans loudly at your words, the sound low and guttural. His grip on you tightens, and his thrusts grow a little harder, a little faster, driving up into you with more purpose. The wet slap of skin on skin grows louder as he fucks you deeper, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot with devastating precision.
“Yeah? You like how deep I’m fucking you?” he rasps against your lips, voice thick with lust. “You’re taking me so well… so wet and tight around my cock. I could stay buried in you forever.”
You whimper at his filthy words, clenching hard around him. He keeps that perfect rhythm, holding you close, kissing you like he never wants to stop, while his cock drives into you again and again, pushing you closer and closer to the edge once more.
You can feel him starting to throb inside you, his rhythm beginning to falter as he gets closer to the edge. His thrusts grow a little rougher, a little more desperate.
He must feel how you’re close too, because your hips have started moving on their own, grinding down to meet every thrust. His breath stutters against your mouth.
“You close again, baby?” he groans, voice strained and low. “Fuck… I can feel you squeezing me so tight.”
You nod frantically, whimpering as another wave of pleasure builds fast and hot. “Yes – I’m close… please, Valko, go faster – ”
He clenches his jaw, a deep, guttural sound escaping him as he tries to hold back. His hips snap up harder, but you can tell he’s right on the edge.
“I’m too close,” he rasps, almost apologetic, still fucking you deep and steady. “If I go faster, I’m not gonna last – ”
“It’s okay,” you breathe, voice trembling with need as you roll your hips down to take him even deeper. “It’s fine, just – don’t stop. Please.”
Valko lets out a wrecked moan, his grip on you tightening almost painfully. He buries his face in your neck for a second, breathing you in, then pulls back just enough to look at you with dark, desperate eyes.
“Where can I finish?” he asks, voice hoarse and filthy. “Where do you want me?”
Without hesitation, still grinding down on his cock, you whisper against his lips –
“Inside. I want you to come inside me.”
Valko’s control finally snaps.
With a deep, guttural groan, he buries himself to the hilt in a few hard, fast thrusts. You feel every powerful spurt as he fills you up, warm and wet, his cock twitching deep in your pussy while he keeps rolling his hips in sloppy thrusts, pushing his release even deeper.
The sensation of him coming inside you sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through you. You’re right on the edge again, but you stay still for him, letting him use you however he needs, your body soft and pliant on top of his as he rides out the last pulses of his orgasm.
Then he pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips, voice wrecked and breathless.
“Move, baby… don’t stop. Chase it. I want to feel you come on my cock again.”
You hesitate for half a second, worried it might be too much for him, but he doesn’t let you overthink it. His hands grip your hips firmly and start guiding you, encouraging you to roll and grind on him again.
You nod, eyes locked with his, and start moving.
You ride him through the mess, feeling his warm cum leak out of you with every roll of your hips, slick and obscene, coating both of you. His cock is still hard inside you, but you can feel how oversensitive he is now – the way he twitches and throbs helplessly with every movement, like it’s almost too much.
He meets your rhythm with shallow, desperate thrusts, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. His eyes stay locked on yours, heavy-lidded and burning, even as his breath turns ragged and broken.
Valko groans, low and wrecked. “That’s it… fuck, just like that,” he rasps, voice tight and strained. “Come on my cock, baby – you’re squeezing me so fucking tight… Good girl, so fucking good…”
It doesn’t take long.
Pleasure slams into you harder this time. You come with a trembling, broken cry, your walls clamping down around his oversensitive cock as another orgasm rips through you. The feeling of his cum leaking out around him with every pulse makes everything wetter, filthier, messier. Slick and cum mix between you as you grind down on him, thighs shaking violently.
This time you don’t hide your face. You stay right there, eyes locked with his, letting him see every second of it – the way your lips part on a silent gasp, the way your whole body shudders and tightens around him.
“Fuck – yes, baby… look at you,” he groans, voice slurred and desperate. “So fucking pretty when you come… good girl…”
His wrecked praise sends a fresh wave of heat through you, drawing out the pleasure for a few more trembling seconds. Then the intense peak of your orgasm slowly fades, leaving you utterly spent. You collapse completely on top of him, your cheek pressed against his chest as you try to catch your breath. Your body feels heavy, hot, and spent in the best possible way. Valko’s arms wrap around you, holding you close as he stays buried deep inside you, his cock still twitching with the last aftershocks. Neither of you makes any move to separate.
You nuzzle back into the crook of his neck, breathing in the comforting mix of his skin, sweat, and your own scent on him. His hands move slowly over your back in long, soothing strokes, fingertips tracing gentle patterns along your spine.
For a long while, you simply rest like that – tangled together, hearts slowing down, his warmth surrounding you completely.
Eventually, his voice breaks the comfortable silence, low and gentle against your ear.
“You okay?” he asks, still stroking your back. “Feeling alright?”
You manage a small nod against his neck, too tired and floaty to form proper words. A tiny, satisfied hum is all you can offer.
He chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath you.
After a few more quiet, peaceful minutes, you finally shift. You slowly push yourself up on shaky arms and lift your hips. The moment he slips out of you, a low, disappointed groan escapes Valko’s throat. The sound is so genuine that you can’t help but let out a soft, breathless chuckle.
“We should probably clean up,” you murmur, still smiling.
He nods, but there’s a playful pout in his expression. Before you can move away, he cups your face with both hands and pulls you down into a slow, sweet kiss. It’s softer than anything that came before – gentle, lingering, and full of affection. When he pulls back, his thumbs brush over your cheeks, and his eyes are warm and tender in the afterglow.
“You feeling sleepy now?” he asks, a hint of playful teasing in his tone.
You let out a soft, embarrassed little laugh. The reality of everything that just happened is starting to settle in, making your cheeks warm all over again.
“Yeah… I think I am,” you admit.
He chuckles quietly, but then that familiar warm smile returns as he pulls you back down into his embrace. He presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head.
“I never want to let you go.” He whispers.
You melt into him again, letting yourself stay there for a moment longer, tucked safely in his arms. As his fingers keep moving gently over your skin, all you can think is that you want more of this – more nights that end with him holding you close, more stolen hours together, more of his laughter, to feel his warm hands, to see his eyes that always soften when they find yours.
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Good evening, everybody! I hope you're doing well! Lot of stuff going on in the fandom, not much going on with Infold. Wish it was the opposite.
Evening Report 7/16/2026
First and foremost, clearing up some misinformation. The post with the banner of all 6 LIs was never removed from TikTok. I've been checking all of their socials for the past 17 days straight. I have a screenshot from the 9th with the post still up. It's been there since its original post date.
Apparently, Infold posted on one of their Facebook pages (Taiwan, I believe). At this time of this report, this comment was posted 17 hours ago (7:30PM CDT).
This is speculation, but I feel like this supports our theory of Infold being under a 30-day gag order (self-imposed or not). Given they haven't posted any announcements for the game itself, it seems like there are some restrictions on what they can and can't say.
I don't want to put a deadline on our protest, but it seems like the 29th is our next milestone. I know we're sick and tired of this already, but we need to hold on for a little while longer.
I've suggested this before, but have some fun with it. Post memes with the hashtags, post silly little videos, interact with other people—make it enjoyable rather than a chore. Don't let it be something you dread, because that only makes it more tiring.
The CN servers should be resetting soon, so I'm on the lookout for updates. If I see anything worth mentioning, you'll be the first to know! Sending love <3
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CALLING ALL #BRINGVALKOBACK SUPPORTERS
It's come to my attention that antis are now not only harassing other players and Valko supporters, but they've taken to sending hateful messages to Nici, a German plushie company that produces a wolf named Winny.
Several members of the Valko community have sent them messages seeking to get Winny back in stock, and they've thanked us for our interest and promised to do their best! They've become a very important company to our community, and we want to do our best to support them.
In light of the antis' behavior, I'm coming on here to ask you to take a quick few minutes to send Nici a message. I've included the one I sent down below if you would like to use it as a template. Please show your support for them, as they've been so very kind to us.
Here is the link to contact them.
Hello! I hope this message finds you well. I've seen various people on social media talk about how many requests your company has received from Valko (Love and Deepspace) fans for the Winny the Wolf plushie. Thank you for taking the time to respond to us!
On that note, it's come to our attention that your company may be receiving hateful messages from other members of the Love and Deepspace community. We are actively fighting against their malicious behavior. On behalf of our community, I would like to extend an apology for their behavior. We do not condone it in the slightest.
The #BringBackValko movement, at its core, is about love overcoming hate. We sincerely hope that you have not been negatively affected by the circumstances, and we want to ensure that our support for Nici is obvious. If there is anything our community can do to show our appreciation for your company, please let us know!
WARNINGS: This is a dark fic. Rafayel is not a good man. Corruption, coercion, dubcon, forced impregnation, forced marriage, no way out, helpless, anxiety, illegal activities, planned downfall, forced compliance. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
Pairing: Nuclear Rafayel x Accountant Reader
Word Count: 18,733
AO3
Your media consumption is your responsibility - if you continue to read this fic even after knowing something in the tag list above is triggering for you then you're the one at fault not me. Please cater your online experience to your own desires and do not try to censor those would write things differently than yourself.
The weight of the files hit her desk with an audible thud, pages ruffling against the polished wood. She barely flinched, phone pressed between her shoulder and ear, her fingers still poised over the keyboard. Rafayel Qu didn’t knock. He never did. He stood in her periphery, tall and effortless in his usual controlled stance, arms folded as if he had all the time in the world to wait. His eyes—those unnatural, gradient-colored irises of blue and red—locked onto her, their intensity pressing against her skin like heat off pavement.
“Can you look through these?” he asked, voice smooth but edged with something lazy, like he wasn’t actually asking. “They weren’t filed right.”
She glanced down, one brow raising. The numbers were clean; she knew because she was the one who had written them. Her fingers curled around the papers, but she didn’t break the conversation with her sister just yet.
“I know you’re fine, but did you actually eat, or are you just saying that so I won’t nag?” she asked into the phone, leaning back in her chair. Her voice softened in a way it never did when speaking to anyone else.
Her sister sighed dramatically on the other end. “You act like I’m still sneaking into your dorm, starving.”
She smirked. “No, I act like you’re a broke college student who thinks iced coffee is a food group.”
A low chuckle rumbled from Rafayel, quiet but intentional. She ignored it, at least outwardly.
“Go, eat,” she told her sister. “I’ll talk to you later.”
As soon as she hung up, Rafayel spoke.
“How’d the date go last night?”
She blinked, fingers pausing on the file. “Date?” A second later, suspicion bled into her tone. “How’d you—”
“I know everything that goes on around here,” he interrupted smoothly, stepping closer, close enough that she caught the faintest trace of his cologne, something crisp, like sea salt and smoke. He leaned in, pressing two fingers to the file, dragging it toward him just an inch, “So?”
She kept her expression blank, schooling the flicker of unease that twisted through her. The last thing she needed was Rafayel taking an interest in her personal life.
“It was fine,” she said, voice neutral.
His lips quirked at the corners. “Just fine?”
She exhaled through her nose, finally tugging the folder back toward her and flipping it open. “What exactly was ‘filed wrong’ here? Because from what I can see, everything is exactly where it should be.”
Rafayel didn’t answer immediately. He let the silence stretch, watching her in a way that felt less like observation and more like dissection. It felt like he was peeling her apart, layer by layer, searching for something only he could see.
Then, slowly, he shrugged. “Guess I was mistaken.”
She set the file down, meeting his gaze head-on. “You don’t make mistakes.”
Another slow smirk, this one edged with something sharp. “Exactly.”
The meaning settled between them, unspoken but heavy. Her throat felt dry, and she hated that.
“I don’t mix business with personal, Rafayel,” she said finally, cool and professional, pushing the file back toward him like that would somehow push the whole conversation away.
He didn’t take it. Instead, he tilted his head, expression still maddeningly amused. “That so?”
She nodded once.
He leaned in, just enough for his presence to feel suffocating, for his words to scrape against her nerves like a match striking too close to fuel.
“We’ll see,” he murmured, then straightened and, just as effortlessly as he arrived, turned and walked out.
She let out a slow breath only after he was gone, fingers tightening around the file as if it were the only thing anchoring her.
She didn’t know how he convinced her to stay. Maybe it was the whiskey, smoothing the sharp edges of her thoughts, making everything feel a little less dangerous than it really was. Maybe it was the warmth of the lounge, the way the air seemed thicker, quieter, like it belonged to just the two of them. Or maybe—probably—it was the way Rafayel looked at her when he really wanted something, with those soft, unreadable eyes that made her feel like she was the only thing worth his attention in the entire goddamn world.
It was a trick. She knew it was a trick. Yet, here she was, fingers still curled around the short glass, the heat of the whiskey lingering on her tongue as she let the moment stretch just a little longer.
Rafayel leaned back against the booth, studying her. He swirled his own drink lazily, the ice clinking against the glass, his free arm stretched along the back of the seat like he was completely at ease. His gaze, though—his gaze was anything but lazy.
The dim glow of the lounge pooled in liquid gold over the mahogany table, the low hum of conversation around them fading into something distant, unimportant. Rafayel tilted his head, watching her with the kind of patience that wasn’t patience at all—it was a game, a slow unraveling, and she could feel the weight of it pressing against her skin. His voice, smooth and edged with quiet amusement, cut through the charged silence between them.
"You don’t like to let go, do you?"
She forced her lips together, tightening her grip around the base of her glass. "Let go of what?"
His smirk was maddening—unhurried, knowing, like he was watching the exact moment she decided to feign ignorance. He didn’t believe her. He never did. "Control," he murmured, stretching out the syllables as if savoring the way they sounded.
She exhaled sharply, tapping one manicured nail against the rim of her glass. The sound was soft, rhythmic, but her pulse was anything but steady. "Not all of us have the luxury of pretending consequences don’t exist."
His expression shifted—not much, just a fraction, but enough to make something coil tight in her stomach. The smirk was still there, but the gaze behind it had sharpened, assessing, peeling her apart layer by layer. "Is that what you think I do?"
"I think you do whatever the hell you want." The words were measured, even, but her throat felt tight around them. Because they were true. Because Rafayel Qu wasn’t bound by rules—not the way she was, not the way normal people were. He shaped them, bent them, shattered them, all with the ease of someone who had never needed permission.
And yet, somehow, it still felt like he was waiting for her.
His fingers moved, slow and deliberate, sliding her glass just an inch closer to her fingertips. The scrape of it against the polished wood sent a shiver down her spine.
"Drink," he said, quiet but insistent.
Her fingers twitched, hesitating just long enough for his lips to curve again.
"You act like I put something in it," he teased, lifting his own glass to his lips, taking a slow sip.
"That’s not what I’m worried about."
His brows lifted, amusement flickering in his gaze. "Then what are you worried about?"
She could have answered. She should have answered. But the truth sat heavy in her throat, impossible to admit—that she wasn’t afraid of the drink. She was afraid of the way this felt, of the way his eyes stayed on her like a quiet dare, like he was drawing her into something neither of them could take back.
So she said nothing. Instead, she picked up the glass and took a slow sip.
The whiskey burned less now, replaced by something warmer, something that slid down her spine and settled low in her stomach. She set the glass down with careful fingers, but when she looked up, he was still watching her, like he was waiting.
"Better?" he asked.
She swallowed, setting her hands in her lap as if the motion could anchor her. "Why do you want me here, Rafayel?"
A pause. Not hesitation—he never hesitated—but something quieter, something deliberate.
"Because you’re the only person in this world I can trust," he said.
The words were dangerous. Because she didn’t know if they were a lie, or if they were worse—if they were the truth.
The receipts were still warm from the printer when she heard it.
She had barely stepped toward his office, one foot lingering in the hallway, ready to hand off the documents and leave, when she caught the murmur of voices inside. Rafayel’s voice—calm, unhurried, the way someone spoke when they had nothing to fear. He could have been discussing the weather, or the stock market, or a dinner reservation, but the words that slipped through the crack in the door made her breath seize in her throat.
"I need to make sure she won’t budge. Won’t leave for another job."
A cold, sharp thread of unease wound its way through her ribs, knotting tight.
She froze.
A second voice—his man, though she couldn’t tell which one—spoke up, casual, indifferent. "Well, my brother got his wife to stick around with the same concerns."
Silence stretched for a beat. Then Rafayel, his voice carrying the kind of curiosity that made her stomach drop.
"What’d he do?"
The answer came easily, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Got her pregnant."
The receipts nearly slipped from her fingers.
Her breath caught—shallow, uneven. She didn’t stay to hear the rest. Couldn’t. The sound of her own heartbeat slammed against her skull, drowning out whatever else they were saying. Her feet moved before her mind caught up, too fast, too stiff, like her body was rejecting what she had just heard.
She pushed into her office, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click, and collapsed into her chair. Her palms pressed hard against her face, as if that would steady her, as if that would stop the way her fingers trembled against her skin.
What the fuck?
What the fuck?
The words pounded through her skull, relentless. Her grip on the receipts tightened, crumpling the edges, but she barely noticed.
This was worse than she thought.
She hadn’t been blind to the way Rafayel operated. He was controlling, possessive, a man who wielded power like an artist held a brush—precise, deliberate, never careless. It was in the way he watched her, not just looking but studying, cataloging every reaction, every hesitation, filing them away for later use. It was in the drinks he placed in front of her without asking, the way he guided conversations until she stayed longer than she intended, the endless, subtle tests of how much she would give.
And she had thought she could handle it.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
A shuddering breath escaped her, fingers curling tight against her scalp. The words she had overheard still rattled inside her skull, disjointed, impossible to shake. Would he really do it? Would he go that far? The very idea was so fucking insane that her first instinct was to reject it outright—because Rafayel wasn’t reckless. He was methodical, cold in his calculations, never acting without purpose.
And that was exactly the problem, wasn’t it?
If he thought tying her down that way was strategic—if he believed it was the most effective way to make sure she stayed—then it wasn’t some wild, unhinged idea. It was a possibility.
A cold, sick feeling curled in her stomach, heavy and unmoving.
Her hands dropped from her face, fingers pressing into the edge of her desk. She had to think. She had to be smart about this. Because the truth—the ugly, suffocating truth—was that she had no real power here. Rafayel owned her. Maybe not in name, maybe not in a way that anyone else could see, but every piece of her life was tied to him. The money, the lifestyle, the safety of her sister—none of it existed without him.
And if she made the wrong move now?
She didn’t even want to think about what would happen.
Over the next week, Rafayel changed. Not in a way anyone else would notice—he was still the same arrogant, sharp-eyed bastard he had always been, still moved through the world with the kind of effortless control that made people obey without question. But with her? The shifts were small, nearly imperceptible, but she felt them like a whisper against the back of her neck.
The first was the bracelet. It appeared on her desk one morning, a delicate thing of platinum and dark blue stones, understated but expensive. Too expensive. She wouldn’t have picked it for herself, but when she considered returning it, the thought of Rafayel’s reaction made her hesitate. He would only smirk, tell her to keep it, maybe clasp it around her wrist himself just to watch her squirm.
Then came the handbag.
She had barely spared it a glance while passing a shop window—a fleeting moment, a thought not even spoken aloud. And yet, there it was, waiting in her office, pristine and untouched, like it had manifested out of thin air.
She never asked for these things. She never even hinted.
But Rafayel paid attention.
Too much attention.
It wasn’t just the gifts.
It was the way he touched her—more often, more lingering. A hand at the small of her back as he guided her through a doorway, his fingers resting there just a second too long. The brush of his skin against hers when she handed him a document, deliberate in a way that sent something hot and uneasy skittering down her spine. The worst was when he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, slow and deliberate, his knuckles barely grazing her cheek.
And she hated it.
Not the touch itself—no, that was the problem.
Because it felt good.
And that was dangerous.
The headache had been with her all day, a dull, relentless pressure behind her eyes that no amount of coffee or water could fix. She hadn’t even realized she was rubbing at her temples until Rafayel’s fingers replaced her own, his touch firm, assured, unwelcome.
She stiffened.
"Relax," he murmured, standing behind her chair, his voice threaded with quiet amusement.
She should have pushed him away. That’s what she usually did. But the ache was so deep, so persistent, and his fingers—fuck, his fingers—moved with a precision that unraveled her. His thumbs pressed into the tension at the base of her skull, working in slow, careful circles, and despite herself, her body betrayed her.
A quiet sigh slipped past her lips.
Rafayel hummed in approval.
"There we go," he mused, his voice a slow drag of satisfaction. His fingers trailed lower, tracing the knots down the sides of her neck, each touch more calculated than the last.
She should have stopped him. She should have done something.
Her head dipped forward, offering him more access before she even realized what she was doing.
A kiss.
Not deep, not demanding. Just the softest press of his lips against her cheek, barely there, but undeniable.
Her breath caught, her whole body going still. The tension in her shoulders shifted, no longer from the headache, but from something else, something heavier, something thick and molten curling through her veins. Rafayel didn’t pull away immediately. He let the moment linger, like he was waiting, like he was testing—
And for one terrifying second, she almost leaned into him.
Then she snapped out of it, shoving back in her chair, breaking his hold with more force than necessary.
"I have work to do," she said, too quickly, too stiffly.
Rafayel chuckled, low and knowing. A sound that told her he knew.
"Of course you do," he murmured, stepping away.
She didn’t turn to watch him leave.
But long after he was gone, she could still feel the ghost of his lips on her skin.
Rafayel stood in her office like he owned it.
Not just physically—because technically, he did—but in the way he occupied space, his presence pressing against the room like a hand at her throat. One hand tucked into the pocket of his tailored slacks, the other resting lightly on the edge of her desk, his posture a perfect balance of ease and something calculated. His suit, dark and immaculate, contrasted with the burning blue-and-red of his gaze, eyes drinking her in like he already knew exactly how this conversation would end.
She exhaled slowly, willing herself to focus on the document in front of her, not on the fact that he was standing too close.
“Yes?”
He tilted his head, lips curving into that soft, disarming smile—the kind he used when he was setting a trap and daring her to notice.
“Come get dinner with me tonight.”
Her fingers stilled on the paper.
Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her gaze, studying him. Rafayel Qu was not the kind of man who did anything without purpose. The last week had been proof of that—he had been different, shifting the lines between them with subtle, deliberate hands. Bringing her lunch, leaving gifts she never asked for, lingering in her office under the pretense of casual conversation. If she hadn’t overheard that conversation—hadn’t heard her own name slip from his mouth like a problem he was solving—she might have thought it was nothing.
But she had heard it.
And now, every gesture, every touch, every kindness felt like silk tightening around her wrists.
Her voice was flat. “Why?”
Rafayel didn’t flinch, but something flickered behind his eyes, a split-second shadow.
“Why not?”
She narrowed her gaze, leaning back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest like a shield. “What are you up to?” A pause, a breath. “You’ve been acting weird.”
His smile deepened, just slightly—like he liked that she noticed. Like he wanted her to notice.
“Don’t worry, cutie. It’s nothing nefarious…” His voice dipped,a low timber. “Can’t I just be nice to you?”
She scoffed, shaking her head. “Not for no reason.”
That made him laugh—low, quiet, a ripple of amusement that settled into something deeper. He lifted a hand, rubbing his thumb along the sharp line of his jaw, watching her like she was a particularly interesting puzzle.
“Maybe I just like you.”
Her stomach tightened.
She hated that his words affected her at all.
She forced herself to hold his gaze. “You like control over me.”
Rafayel didn’t deny it. Instead, his smirk deepened, like he was entertaining the accusation, turning it over in his mind like something to be examined. And then, after a long, measured pause, he exhaled through his nose, straightening slightly.
“Is that what you think this is?”
She didn’t answer.
Because yes. That’s exactly what this was.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, before he broke it with a soft, amused chuckle.
“You make me sound like a villain.” He pressed a hand to his chest, feigning offense.
She shot him a dry look. “Are you saying you’re not?”
His eyes gleamed, unreadable. “I’m saying villains don’t buy their accountants lunch.”
She rolled her eyes, leaning back. “Right. That totally cancels out all the other things you do.”
His grin widened. “See? You do pay attention to me.”
Her fingers pressed into her temples, the headache from earlier creeping back in. “I’m not playing whatever game this is, Rafayel.”
His voice dropped, low, soft. “Who said it’s a game?”
She froze—just for a second.
Just long enough for him to see it.
And he smiled.
She knew what he was doing. He was shifting the conversation, blurring the edges of her suspicion just enough to keep her off balance. Rafayel never forced people into his orbit. He made them walk willingly. He pulled them close and let them think it was their choice.
And right now?
She was the one he was working on.
Her throat tightened. “I do have to eat,” she admitted, begrudgingly.
Rafayel hummed approvingly. “Good girl.”
Her entire body went rigid.
His smirk widened, satisfaction curling at the edges of his lips, but he lifted his hands in mock innocence. “Relax,” he said smoothly. “It’s just dinner.”
She knew better.
Because nothing with Rafayel Qu was just anything.
And yet, when he stepped away, his confidence unshaken, his presence still lingering like an invitation—she knew she was going to show up anyway.
The restaurant was warm, intimate, wrapped in candlelight and the rich scent of saffron and charred rosemary. It wasn’t the ostentatious display of wealth she expected—not the kind of place meant to impress, but the kind of place meant to be known. This was somewhere he liked, somewhere he came because he wanted to, not because he had something to prove.
And that, more than anything, put her on edge.
The conversation started off easy. Or maybe he just made it seem that way.
“You should eat more,” Rafayel mused, watching as she picked at her plate with careful precision. “You work too much to survive on coffee alone.”
She scoffed. “And who told you that?”
His lips curved as he swirled the whiskey in his glass. “I know everything that goes on around you, remember?”
The reminder made something tighten in her chest.
He didn’t say it like a threat.
But she felt the weight of it nonetheless.
Still, he didn’t press. Instead, he leaned back slightly, gaze softening in a way that made her stomach twist—because she knew that look. She had seen it before.
When he wanted something.
“How’s your sister?” he asked, voice quieter now, careful, deliberate.
She hesitated. “She’s good. Busy with school.”
“And you’re still sending her money?”
A pause. A long one.
Her fingers curled around the stem of her wine glass. “...Yes.”
His expression didn’t change, but she felt the approval beneath it, the satisfaction humming between the lines.
“You take good care of her.”
“She’s all I have,” she said, voice firm, almost defiant.
Rafayel tilted his head, considering her with that same unreadable look. “I know.”
The certainty in his voice, the quiet knowing—was more terrifying than any threat he could have made.
She looked away, focusing on her plate, on the warmth of the restaurant, on anything but the way his gaze settled on her like she was already caught in his web.
Because maybe, just maybe—
She was.
The drive home was quieter than dinner, the air thick with something neither of them seemed to want to acknowledge.
Outside, the city rolled past in streaks of neon and shadow, the streetlights flashing through the windshield in rhythmic pulses. The hum of the engine filled the silence, a low, steady sound, but beneath it, something else crackled—an undercurrent of tension, unspoken but undeniable. She kept her eyes on the window, on the distorted reflections of headlights against wet pavement, on anything but the man beside her.
She should have felt relieved.
She should have been overthinking the dinner, dissecting every word, picking apart every carefully laid piece of his trap. She should have been reminding herself that Rafayel Qu never did anything without a reason, that every touch, every glance, every carefully chosen moment of silence had been orchestrated.
She felt off-balance.
Like she had been maneuvered into a position she hadn’t even realized she was walking into. Like she had already lost, and the worst part was, she didn’t know when the game had started.
The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of her building, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. She reached for the door handle, already halfway out of the moment, already trying to pull herself free.
The street lights flickered, casting uneven pools of light onto the damp pavement, their glow reflecting in the rain-slick asphalt like broken glass. She should have felt relief. The evening was over. She had played her part, sat across from Rafayel in the dim intimacy of that restaurant, listened to his voice curl around her like silk wrapped around steel.
She reached for the door handle, already halfway out of the moment, already trying to pull herself free.
"Thanks for—"
Fingers wrapped around her wrist.
Not hard. Not rough. But deliberate.
The warmth of his skin burned through her own, seeping into her bones before she even had time to react. His grip was light, effortless, as if he could let go at any second—but he didn’t.
He pulled.
A sharp gasp slipped from her lips as she was tugged toward him, her seat belt tightening, the sudden jolt forcing her body closer, closer, until the space between them collapsed into nothing. Her breath hitched, the sharp scent of his cologne filling her senses. Her fingers scrambled against the console, but before she could regain her balance—
His mouth was on hers.
The kiss wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate. It was precise, controlled, a slow unraveling designed to make her feel every second of it. His lips moved against hers like a whisper, coaxing, teasing, testing—like he was waiting for her to pull away, to push him back, to tell him no.
But she didn’t.
Somehow—somehow—her hands found his shirt instead.
Not pushing.
Not resisting.
Just holding.
Rafayel kissed like he knew her, as if he had already mapped out the weak spots in her armor and was pressing against them one by one. His fingers slipped into her hair, threading through the strands with slow, unbearable patience, tilting her head just enough to deepen the kiss. His other hand drifted lower, the ghost of his touch tracing the shape of her waist, settling against her hip with quiet, unshakable possession.
She could feel it—the way he waited.
Not demanding, not forcing—just waiting.
Waiting for the moment she realized she wasn’t stopping him.
The moment she gave in.
Heat curled low in her stomach, tight and traitorous, spreading like a slow-burning fuse through her limbs. Her breath hitched as his tongue traced the seam of her lips, coaxing, patient, never demanding. The worst part—the most dangerous part—was that it wasn’t rushed. He wasn’t taking anything from her. He was letting her give it.
She wanted to.
She wanted to let go.
To stop thinking.
To just fall.
But the second she realized it—the second the ground beneath her started to shift—
She jerked away.
Her breath came in ragged, uneven gasps as she wrenched herself free, hands shaking as she shoved against his chest. Rafayel let her go without resistance, his fingers slipping away from her skin with a slow, lazy slide. He didn’t try to pull her back. He didn’t say anything.
But when she looked up—
He was smiling.
Not in amusement.
Not even in triumph.
Something worse.
Something quiet, knowing. Like he had expected this, already seen the outcome of this moment long before she had.
"See?" he murmured, his voice warm, deep, a slow purr of satisfaction curling in the corner of his mouth. "Not so scary, is it?"
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She should have said something. She should have snapped at him, should have cursed him out, should have told him this—they—whatever the fuck this was—was never happening again.
But she couldn’t.
Because her lips were still tingling from his kiss.
Because she could still feel the weight of his hands, the slow press of his fingers, the way he had waited for her to make the choice.
She fumbled for the door handle, fingers clumsy, pulse roaring in her ears. The cold air hit her as soon as she stepped out, sharp and biting against her flushed skin. Her legs carried her up the steps, her mind screaming at her to move, to leave, to forget.
But as she pushed open the door to her house, as she stepped inside and let the warmth of the livigroom swallow her whole, she still felt him.
The heat of his palm curled around her wrist and the slow, devastating pressure of his lips against hers.
The satisfaction in his gaze as he let her run. The quiet, insidious truth curling at the edges of her thoughts, sinking deep into the marrow of her bones.
She had already lost.
The next few days are spent in self-imposed isolation, her laptop screen glowing dimly in the darkness of her house, numbers and transactions blurring together as she moves her money piece by piece. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, transferring everything offshore, spreading it across multiple countries, multiple banks, each account created under careful, untraceable layers of protection. Her sister’s name is listed as the sole beneficiary, a quiet failsafe in case anything happens to her. The thought makes her stomach clench, bile rising in her throat, but she swallows it down—there’s no room for panic, no room for second-guessing.
Rafayel texts her relentlessly, his name flashing across her phone screen with a frequency that makes her want to throw it against the wall. She doesn’t answer. Not once. The messages range from casual, Where are you, cutie? to pointed, Ignoring me isn’t going to make me disappear. She hates the way she can hear his voice in her head, smooth and amused, like he knows she’s unraveling, like he knows she’s scrambling for a way out.
She rubs a hand over her face, exhaustion pressing into the spaces behind her eyes as she stares at her dwindling savings, knowing she’s about to lose more than money. No matter how carefully she plans, no matter how many escape routes she builds, there is no version of this where she walks away unscathed. Tomorrow, she has to go back to work. Tomorrow, she has to see him.
She doesn’t know what scares her more—the confrontation itself, or the part of her that almost misses him.
The office feels different when she steps inside, the air too thick, the walls too close. She moves quickly, avoiding eye contact, keeping her head down as she heads for her desk, pretending like nothing has changed—like she didn’t spend the last three days rerouting her entire fucking life. But the moment she reaches for the door, she feels it—him.
"Where’ve you been, cutie?"
Rafayel’s voice is as smooth as ever, but there’s an edge to it, something unreadable laced beneath the amusement. He’s leaning against the doorway of her office, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping lazily against the frame, looking at her like she’s a puzzle he’s already figured out. His suit is immaculate, dark, tailored, the contrast between his easy smile and the sharpness in his eyes sends something cold sliding down her spine.
"Not up to anything illegal, I hope," he muses, stepping inside like he owns the space. Like she is part of it. Like she belongs to him.
She forces herself to stay still, to keep her expression neutral, but her grip tightens around the strap of her bag. "I took some time off."
His smirk deepens. "I noticed."
Of course, he did. He moves closer, just enough that she can catch the faintest of him. She hates that it’s familiar. She hates that her body remembers.
"I couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss," Rafayel murmurs, his voice dropping into something lower, something more intimate, like it’s a secret meant just for her. His head tilts, gaze dragging over her face, assessing every flicker of reaction before she can shove it down. "Can I get another?"
Her pulse spikes, her stomach twisting, but she steels herself, forcing her spine straight. "No."
His brows lift slightly, as if amused by the certainty in her voice, like he doesn’t believe it for a second.
"And it'll never happen again," she continued, her voice firm, sharp. No more dinners. No more drinks. No more friendly banter. No more fucking games.
She watches his reaction carefully, waiting for the moment he pushes, the moment he calls her bluff but Rafayel doesn’t argue. He just watches her, expression unreadable, fingers tapping absently against the desk, like he’s considering something far beyond this conversation.
He hums. A soft, thoughtful sound.
"Alright," he says simply, stepping back, giving her space—too much space, like he’s already moved past the conversation, like it never mattered at all.
It should feel like a victory but it doesn’t because as he turns to leave, as he reaches the door, as his fingers brush against the frame, he glances back at her and smiles.
Not a smirk. Not a challenge. Something worse. Something knowing that makes her stomach drop, because it tells her exactly what she doesn’t want to admit. Rafayel expected this and he’s already planned his next move. The door closes behind him with a soft click, but the weight of his presence lingers, curling around her like a whisper of a touch. She exhales, pressing her hands against the desk, feeling the cold surface beneath her palms, grounding herself.
This isn’t over.
It never was.
The routine settles in like a slow poison, seeping into her bones, wrapping around her ribs until it’s hard to breathe. On the surface, nothing changes—work is the same, the office hums with the same quiet efficiency, Rafayel still commands the space like he owns the very air they breathe. But she changes. She moves differently, quieter, more calculated, her mind constantly ticking through exit plans, through numbers, through what she has and what she still needs to disappear.
She squirrels away money like a survivor preparing for a war she already knows she’s going to lose. Every paycheck is fractured, funneled into a network of off-shore accounts, dripped into investments, hidden behind shell corporations she built with the same careful precision she once used to balance ledgers. A portion is sent to her sister in small, unremarkable deposits—enough to be ignored, to go unnoticed—but it adds up and her sister, bless her, starts to notice.
"This is a lot, you know," her sister had murmured over the phone a few nights ago, hesitant, concerned. "Is everything okay?"
"It’s fine," she had lied, pressing her fingers to her temples, staring at the endless spreadsheets glowing back at her. "Just focus on school, okay? Withdraw it. Store it in cash. Keep it somewhere safe."
"Safe?"
"A deposit box. A place only you can get to."
A long silence had stretched between them, weighted, heavy with unspoken things. But in the end, her sister had listened.
Now, she sits at her desk, her fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard, her vision blurring as exhaustion crashes over her in a wave. Her body feels brittle, stretched too thin, the strain of pretending everything is fine gnawing away at the edges of her control. Her throat tightens, her chest hurts, and before she even realizes what’s happening—
She breaks.
The first tear falls silently, trailing hot down her cheek, quickly followed by another, and then another. Her shoulders tremble, she presses the heels of her palms into her eyes, sucking in a shuddering breath, fucking useless, why now, why can’t I just keep it together? But it’s too much—the fear, the pressure, the constant feeling of being hunted even when she’s alone.
A shadow falls over her. The room tilts, the air shifts, and suddenly, he’s there.
Leaning over the back of her chair, close enough that she can feel the warmth of him against her spine, his presence curling around her like a noose. His voice is soft, too soft, threaded with something that sounds almost like concern—but she knows better.
"C’mon, cutie," Rafayel murmurs, his tone a quiet thing, gentle in a way that makes her skin crawl. "It doesn’t gotta be like this."
She flinches.
Not because he’s touched her—he hasn’t. But because of the way he lingers, his breath ghosting against the side of her temple, his fingers braced against the back of her chair, boxing her in without ever actually touching her. Because of course he’s here. Of course he appears the moment she breaks.
Her voice comes out hoarse, raw. "Get out."
Rafayel doesn’t move.
Instead, he sighs—low, patient, like she’s being difficult, like she’s the one making this hard. "You’ve been avoiding me," he muses, his fingers tapping idly against the leather of her chair, the subtle sound punctuating the silence. "Not answering my messages, sneaking around like I wouldn’t notice."
Her jaw clenches, hands curling into fists against her lap. "I’ve been working."
A soft tsk, followed by a slow, deliberate hum. "Lying doesn’t suit you, sweetheart."
The pet name scrapes against her skin like a blade. Her breath stutters, her pulse hammering against her throat. Stay still. Don’t react. Don’t let him see.
But he already knows.
"You’re scaring yourself for nothing," he continues, his voice a low murmur, "I’d never hurt you."
A bitter laugh escapes her before she can stop it, sharp and humorless. "That’s the thing, Rafayel." She finally lifts her head, finally meets his gaze. "You don’t have to."
A flicker of something passes through his expression. Not anger. Not amusement. Something else.
He leans in, slow, deliberate, his mouth a breath away from her ear. "You’re tired," he murmurs, the words too gentle, too knowing. "You’ve been thinking too much. You should let me take care of you."
Something inside her snaps.
"You don’t get to say that." Her chair scrapes against the floor as she stands abruptly, putting space between them, her pulse roaring in her ears. "You don’t get to fucking act like this is normal, like—" Her voice breaks, and she hates it, hates the weakness bleeding through. "Like you haven’t backed me into a fucking corner."
Rafayel watches her, unreadable, he smiles. It’s slow, soft, almost fond, and it’s wrong, all of it, because there’s no fucking reason for him to look like that, to act like this.
"I never put you in a corner, sweetheart." His head tilts, lazy, like he’s thinking. "You walked there yourself."
Her stomach drops.
He steps back, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, as if this conversation was nothing, as if she hasn’t just unraveled in front of him. "You should eat something," he says casually, his gaze flickering over her face one last time. "I’ll have someone bring you lunch."
Before she can even blink he's gone. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving her standing there, breathless, her entire body trembling.
The laundry is warm in her hands, the scent of fabric softener clinging to the air as she folds each shirt with mechanical precision. The motions are ritualistic, each crease pressed into place like it matters, like it will hold something in place that is already slipping through her fingers. The weight of exhaustion drapes over her shoulders, thick and inescapable, but she forces herself to keep moving. One more piece. One more drawer. One more thing to keep her hands busy so she doesn’t have to think about what’s coming.
Because she’s running out of time.
Her mind loops through every possible escape, every angle, every desperate attempt at freedom, and they all lead to the same place. Prison. The kind of prison where people like her don’t make it out alive, where they disappear, where debts are carved into flesh and loyalty is bought with blood. Ifit isn’t prison, then it’s something worse—owing Rafayel in a way she will never be able to repay, or finding herself under the thumb of someone even worse. Because if she goes down, someone will want his accounts, and then she’ll belong to them.
That’s the kind of fucked where there isn’t a way out.
She cleans next, the way she always does when the weight of her thoughts is too much. The apartment gleams under the overhead lights, every surface wiped down, every corner swept, the air thick with the sharp scent of disinfectant. It has to be perfect. It’s the only thing she has control over, the only thing she can still manage. She scrubs until her fingertips ache, until the sting of cleaner bites into her skin, until she can almost trick herself into thinking she’s fixing something.
The warm rag over her eyes offers a moment’s relief, the heat pressing into her aching temples, drawing out the tension curled at the base of her skull. She exhales slowly, focusing on the sensation, trying to hold onto it, trying to let it matter. But it doesn’t last.
By the time she finishes putting everything away, exhaustion has settled into her bones, deep and aching, unshakable. She drags herself onto the couch, sinking into the cushions, throwing an arm over her eyes as if she can block out the world itself. For a moment, just a moment, she allows herself to breathe.
Headlights flash against her living room window.
She goes still.
Her heart stutters, a sharp spike of awareness cutting through her exhaustion like a blade. Her sister is half a country away, and there is only one person who would show up here, only one person who doesn’t knock, who doesn’t ask, who doesn’t wait.
The door opens. Closes. Locks.
Rafayel is inside.
His boots thud against the floor, slow and deliberate, each step measured, echoing through the quiet space like a countdown. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t waver. He moves through her apartment like he belongs here, like she is the intruder, like she’s the one who should feel out of place.
"I’ve been really sad, cutie," he says, his voice carrying that familiar warmth, the one that coils around her like silk while the steel beneath it presses into her ribs. He doesn’t sound angry. Doesn’t sound impatient. He sounds amused, as if her silence had been some kind of inside joke between them. His lips curve, but his eyes?
His eyes are watching her.
He lowers himself onto the couch beside her, his body sinking into the cushions, his presence wrapping around her like the heat of a fire she can’t escape.
"I can’t believe you’d ignore me like that," he murmurs, tilting his head, studying her with something almost like fondness.
She barely moves, muscles locked, her pulse pounding against her ribs. "Get out." Her voice is quiet, rough, worn from exhaustion, but she still says it.
He hums, low and considering. "You really want that?"
She shifts, scooting away from him, putting space between them, but he doesn’t follow. He just watches, his expression unreadable, the amusement never fully fading from his face. "You can’t just come into my house whenever you like."
His brows lift, a flicker of amusement sharpening his gaze. "Sure I can."
Her throat tightens. "Rafayel—"
"Call the cops then," he interrupts, tone easy, almost bored, like he already knows she won’t. Like he knows she can’t. He sighs, long and drawn out, stretching his arms along the back of the couch, the movement lazy, comfortable, like they’re just two people having a casual conversation.
"Listen, I know we’re on the same page. You can’t quit, and I don’t want you to. So it’s a win-win."
Her fingers dig into the cushions, nails biting into fabric. "Except?"
Rafayel’s gaze flickers to hers, and the smile that curves his lips is slow, knowing, dangerous. "Except..." He drags the word out, drawing out the silence between them until it stretches, until it feels like something else entirely. "I’d really like to kiss you again."
Her stomach clenches.
"You seemed to enjoy it," he continues, voice dropping just enough to turn the words into something intimate, something that wraps around her.
Her breath catches.
Not because he’s wrong.
But because he isn’t.
"That doesn’t matter."
Her voice comes out flat, cold, definitive, but she’s gripping the couch cushion like it’s the only thing keeping her from falling into something dangerous. Rafayel is still sitting too close, his arm draped along the back of the couch like he’s comfortable, like he has all the time in the world. His presence wraps around her like smoke, thick and impossible to ignore, curling into the spaces she wishes she could keep empty. But the problem is, she isn’t empty—she is overwhelmed, and she hates that he can probably tell.
"But it does matter, cutie."
He exhales like this is a mild inconvenience, like her refusal is nothing more than a roadblock he anticipated. His fingers tap lazily against the couch, the slow rhythm ticking against her pulse, measured, deliberate, like he’s waiting for her to slip. "Everything about you matters," he continues, his voice soft, edged with something almost amused. "You matter because I want you."
"Well, I’d prefer if you didn’t."
The words are sharp, final, but weak. She can hear it, feel the slight tremor in her voice that betrays her exhaustion, her desperation, but so can he.
Rafayel laughs. It’s low, warm, wrong, like he’s genuinely entertained by her defiance. "You’re funny," he muses, shifting, letting his knee brush against hers in a touch so light it could be accidental—but it isn’t. "Well, look—I had a whole plan, you know? Take you out, which I did. Kiss you good night—also did that." He tilts his head, eyes flickering with something sharper, more knowing. "And then I anticipated you shutting yourself in, which you did."
Her stomach twists.
His smile is slow, a careful thing, edged in satisfaction. "But you haven’t come back yet, thats the really annoying part."
She clenches her jaw, her hands curling into fists against her lap. "Rafayel, stop."
It’s a snap, a bark of irritation, her frayed nerves snapping under the weight of him, of this. Her skin is hot, her heart pounding, and she hates that it feels like he’s unraveling her just by being here.
"Just leave me alone. Let me do my job, and I won’t leave. But stop coming onto me. I don’t want you. I don’t want a relationship with you other than the one we have."
Silence stretches between them, thick, unbearable, before Rafayel hums, his head tilting slightly as he studies her.
"What’s to stop me from asking for more, then?"
His voice is quieter now, almost lazy, but it sinks into her like a blade between her ribs. He shifts again, his knee pressing fully against hers now, his body so close it’s a struggle to breathe without inhaling the scent of him—smoke, salt, the lingering whiskey from earlier. He watches her, eyes hooded under dark lashes, something unreadable curling at the corners of his lips. "As your boss," he muses, his voice slow, measured, "in our very illegal extortion. money laundering scheme… what’s to stop me from taking more?"
Her breath catches, her body locking up.
The thing they’ve both been dancing around—the power imbalance, the weight of what he is to her, what he could do, how fucking impossible it would be for her to stop him if he wanted something. She swallows hard, forcing herself to lift her chin, to glare, to not let him see the fear creeping up her spine like a slow, cold hand.
"I would fight you." The words feel thin, pathetic, but she forces them out anyway. "I would make you regret it."
Rafayel’s lips twitch, amusement flickering across his face like she just said something cute.
"Would you?" His voice dips, his fingers brushing just barely against the side of her arm—an innocent touch, harmless, but it burns. "Really?"
She should move. She should shove him away, put distance between them.
But she doesn’t.
Because that would be admitting that she feels something.
That would be admitting that he’s winning.
He leans in, just slightly, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. "I think you like it, cutie," he murmurs, his voice dropping into something more intimate, something that wraps around her like velvet and barbed wire. "I think you like when I make things hard for you."
She doesn’t breathe.
"You don’t let anyone tell you what to do," he continues, almost thoughtful, almost kind. "You’ve been fighting me since the moment we met, but the second I push back…?"
A pause.
A silence so heavy she swears she can hear her own heartbeat.
Then—
"You don’t walk away, sweetheart."
Her entire body freezes. Her pulse is roaring in her ears now, drowning out everything but him, the weight of his words, the fucking truth in them. She hates him but she hates herself more.
Rafayel leans back, just enough to give her space, but the damage is done. His lips curl, the smile slow, smug, but not unkind. Like he’s just proven something to both of them.
"See?" he muses. "You’re still here."
Her skin prickles with something she can’t name. Fear? Anticipation? Arousal? It coils beneath her skin, an electric hum buzzing along her spine, tightening her chest, leaving her breath shallow and uneven. They’re all too similar, aren’t they? Fear, want, arousal, dread, hunger and revulsion. All born from the same dark, twisting thing inside her, feeding off adrenaline, making her body react in ways she doesn’t understand.
Rafayel...he watches her like he knows.
Like he sees the hesitation flickering behind her eyes, the battle waging war beneath her skin, the way her hands tremble at her sides like she’s dying to reach for him but terrified of what will happen if she does.
His fingers wrap around her wrist.
Not hard. Not rough. But firm.
A soft gasp escapes her lips, but she doesn’t pull away. She should. She should have the second he touched her, the second he invaded her space, the second she realized he was always going to push just far enough to make her choose. Her breath is shallow, her fingers twitch, and when he tugs just slightly, just enough so she stumbles forward, off balance, her body caving to the pull of his.
Her knees hit the couch on either side of his thighs, her breath catching as she finds herself leaning over him, her palm bracing against the cushion behind his head. His scent—smoke, salt, whiskey—invades her senses, heady and warm, curling around her like a drug. Her body is too aware of him, of how close they are, of how his breath fans across her skin, of how easily he could tip the balance.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t force.
Just waits.
A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he lifts his chin slightly, meeting her gaze with that too-calm, too-knowing look that makes her stomach twist.
"Kiss me," he murmurs, voice low, coaxing, the ghost of a challenge threading through the words.
She shouldn’t.
She knows she shouldn’t.
But it’s so easy to fall into him, to let the heat between them override logic, to let her body drown in the way he feels beneath her. She hates that he’s so fucking patient, that he never takes—he waits, lets her hand herself over little by little lets her be the one to fall first.
She falls.
The second her lips meet his, he groans, a low, deep sound of satisfaction that makes something hot and aching curl in her stomach. His mouth moves against hers with unshakable confidence, slow and consuming, tasting her like he’s been waiting for this, like he knew it would happen, like he knew she wouldn’t be able to resist. His fingers tighten around her wrist for only a second before he lets go, his hands sliding down, fingertips brushing along her thighs, her waist, everywhere.
A small, betraying moan slips past her lips, and fuck, she knows he hears it, feels the way his lips curve into a smirk against her mouth. His hands move under her shirt, palms gliding over bare skin, pushing fabric up as his thumbs skim the soft dip of her waist, the sensitive curve of her ribs. She shudders beneath his touch, gasping as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers with a slow, devastating tease that makes her burn.
He pulls her closer, dragging her fully onto his lap, and—fuck—she feels him, the undeniable press of his body against hers, the way he wants her, the way he doesn’t hide it. It makes her head spin, makes her stomach flip, makes heat pool between her thighs in a way that is unforgivable.
"See?" Rafayel murmurs against her lips, his voice smooth, edged with satisfaction, his hands still gripping her too tightly, as if daring her to pull away. "You fight me so much, but you don’t really want to, do you?"
She lets out a shaky breath, nails digging into the back of the couch, knuckles white. "Shut up."
He chuckles, the sound low, dangerous, his lips trailing from the corner of her mouth to the sharp edge of her jaw. "Make me."
She should shove him away.
She should leave.
She kisses him again.
Rafayel takes, just like he always does.
His hands slide down, gripping her hips, his fingers digging into her skin as he guides her, as he presses her down against him, making her feel everything. Her head tips back, a soft, unwilling moan slipping from her lips, and Rafayel catches it, kissing down the length of her throat, tasting her, marking his way down to the sensitive dip where her pulse hammers wildly beneath his mouth.
"That’s it, cutie," he breathes against her skin, so fucking smug, his hands still moving, still taking, still exploring the soft heat of her body. "You don’t have to fight it. You already lost."
Rafayel’s breath fans hot against her skin, lips trailing down the curve of her throat as he works the fabric of her shirt over her head. The moment her bare skin meets the cool air, his mouth finds her breasts, tongue flicking over one aching peak while his hand palms the other, squeezing just enough to make her gasp. He hums against her, lips wrapping around the bud, sucking slow and deep, dragging his teeth over it until she shudders. His free hand trails down her spine, gripping her waist as he grinds up against her, the hard length of him pressing insistently between her thighs.
She should stop this—should shove him away, should remind herself that this is dangerous, that nothing with him is ever simple—but her body betrays her. She’s too lost in the warmth of his touch, the way his mouth moves with sinful precision, teasing her, unraveling her. His fingers pinch lightly at her nipple, rolling it between his fingers before flicking it again with his tongue, and her back arches off the couch, a soft, breathy moan slipping from her lips. Rafayel smirks against her skin, his lips moving up, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to the sensitive spot beneath her jaw.
“You like this, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice low, husky, filled with quiet satisfaction. His fingers slide lower, dipping beneath the waistband of her sweatpants, dragging them down her thighs inch by inch. His touch is slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to her. When his hand finally cups her, fingers pressing against the damp heat of her underwear, he groans, voice thick with want.
“You’re soaked, cutie,” he whispers, pressing his fingers against her clothed core, dragging them up in a slow, torturous stroke. His eyes lock onto hers, dark and unreadable, watching every flicker of reaction as his fingers push the fabric aside and slide against her bare, wet heat. The first touch is light, teasing, barely there, but it’s enough to make her hips jerk, to make a quiet whimper catch in her throat. Rafayel chuckles, the sound warm, indulgent, before slipping two fingers inside her with one smooth, unrelenting thrust.
Her head tips back against the couch, lips parting on a gasp, her body tightening around him. His fingers curl, stroking her in slow, deliberate motions, pressing into the soft, sensitive spot inside her until she’s trembling. “That’s it,” he murmurs, watching her with dark, gleaming eyes, his smirk widening when her lashes flutter and her breath comes in uneven gasps. “Good girl.”
She barely has time to catch her breath before he’s shifting, pressing her back into the cushions, his free hand tugging at his belt. The soft clink of metal fills the air, followed by the rustle of fabric as he pushes his jeans down just enough, just enough to free himself. The weight of him presses against her thigh, hot, heavy, undeniable, and her stomach clenches in anticipation. Then he’s gripping her hips, dragging her closer, fitting himself between her parted legs.
His tip slides against her, teasing, dragging through her slickness, a slow, torturous glide that has her entire body tensing with anticipation.
“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs, his lips brushing over hers, his voice a quiet command wrapped in silk. She swallows hard, her heart hammering, her body aching, the last shreds of her resistance crumbling under the weight of him. And then, before she can answer, before she can find the words, he’s pressing inside, a slow, deliberate stretch that has her moaning into his mouth.
Rafayel exhales sharply, his forehead pressing against hers, his fingers digging into her waist as he sinks deeper. He moves slowly at first, savoring the moment, groaning softly when she tightens around him, when her nails dig into his arms. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he breathes, his hips rolling against hers, dragging another moan from her throat. He pulls back just enough to watch her, his gaze burning, his smirk returning when she shifts, her body moving instinctively toward his.
Her hands clutch at his shoulders, her breaths coming in shallow, needy pants as he begins to move. The rhythm starts slow, deliberate, each thrust measured, deep, each one dragging a fresh wave of pleasure through her. Her body responds before her mind can catch up, her hips lifting to meet his, a soft, broken sound slipping from her lips. Rafayel grins, pleased, his mouth finding the hollow of her throat as he picks up the pace, driving into her with more force, more intent.
He’s relentless, thrusting deep, grinding against her with every movement, letting her feel every inch of him. His hand slides between them, fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at her center, rubbing slow, lazy circles that make her cry out.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, watching her come undone, his voice thick with heat, with hunger. “You’re taking me so well, cutie.”
Her head tilts back, her body tightening, pleasure coiling hot and unbearable in her stomach. She’s close, too close, and he knows it—he can feel it, can see it in the way she trembles beneath him. “
That’s it,” he whispers, his lips brushing against her ear, his fingers pressing harder, faster, drawing her toward the edge. “Come for me.”
It’s sudden, overwhelming, her entire body tensing, pleasure crashing over her in waves. Her breath catches, her nails biting into his skin as she falls apart beneath him, and Rafayel groans, his rhythm stuttering, his grip tightening. A few more rough, desperate thrusts, then he’s following her over the edge, his body going taut, his breath ragged against her skin as he spills into her with a low, satisfied groan.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the soft, uneven cadence of their breathing, the distant hum of the city outside. He stays inside her, his weight pressing her into the couch, his lips brushing lazily over her jaw.
“Told you you’d like it,” he murmurs, smug and satisfied, his fingers tracing slow, idle patterns over her thigh. And despite herself, despite everything she can’t quite bring herself to disagree.
It happens more often than she’d like to admit. At first, she tries to resist, to keep him at arm’s length, to remind herself that Rafayel Qu is dangerous, that he’s a man who plays for keeps, who never lets go of something once he decides it’s his. But resistance, she learns, is fucking useless. He’s already inside her head, under her skin, and soon enough, in her bed, on his desk, over her desk, in the dim, quiet privacy of the shared office bathroom, against the cold leather of his couch—anywhere and everywhere he wants.
The first time, she takes a Plan B pill the second he’s out the door, shaking fingers unwrapping the foil, washing it down with lukewarm tap water, her heartbeat still hammering against her ribs. It doesn’t deter him. He still takes her with the same hunger, the same ruthless precision, like he’s carving her into something that fits against him, like he’s making sure no one else will ever be enough. And the worst part? She lets him. Because for all the fear coiled tight in her chest, for all the walls she swore she’d keep up, nothing has ever felt as fucking good as this.
Somewhere along the line, she stops thinking about the long run. Stops worrying about what it means, about where it’s going, about the ways it might destroy her when it inevitably falls apart. She lets herself fall into it, lets herself get lost in the heat of his hands, in the way his mouth moves against hers, in the way he fucks her like he owns her. And in comparison to the paranoia, the sleepless nights, the endless spiral of fear and doubt she was drowning in before? This is better. At least, that’s what she tells herself.
The office hums with the quiet efficiency of a late afternoon lull, the rhythmic tapping of keyboards blending with the distant murmur of phone calls, the occasional clatter of a stapler, the low hum of the air conditioning cycling on. She stands by the coffee machine, staring blankly at the slow drip of dark liquid into the carafe, her mind blissfully empty for once. A reprieve—short-lived, of course. Because then, she feels him.
"Cutie," Rafayel’s voice comes from behind her, low and familiar, his breath warm against her ear. He doesn’t wait for her response, doesn’t need to, his hands already moving, already sliding up under her blazer, palming her breasts with shameless possession. His lips brush the side of her neck, open-mouthed and teasing, teeth grazing just enough to make her breath hitch. "Are you coming to my place tonight?"
Her fingers tighten around the handle of her coffee mug, the ceramic warm against her skin. "Maybe I have plans," she says, forcing her voice into something even, something not affected by the way his hands knead her through her blouse, slow and deliberate. But it’s useless, because Rafayel knows. He always fucking knows.
A soft chuckle vibrates against her throat before his teeth sink in, a sharp, claiming bite that makes her stiffen, makes heat coil low in her stomach despite herself. "You don’t," he murmurs, lips curving into a smirk against her skin. His grip tightens for a fraction of a second before he releases her, stepping back, his presence still a heavy weight against her senses. "We haven’t fucked in a few days, and I need you."
She turns then, slowly, lifting her gaze to meet his, already regretting it the moment she does. Because Rafayel is watching her with that look—the one that makes her insides twist, the one that turns her bones to liquid, the one that says he already knows she’s going to give in. His tie is slightly loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, and fuck, he looks good. Too good.
"You always need me," she says dryly, bringing the coffee cup to her lips, taking a slow sip to ground herself.
His smirk deepens. "And?"
Her stomach flips, a fresh wave of heat rolling through her, irritatingly easy, embarrassingly automatic. He has too much fucking power over her, and he knows it. Her fingers tighten around the mug again, her pulse an unsteady rhythm against her skin.
"I’ll think about it," she says, aiming for indifference, but it lands weak, wavering, because she’s already made up her mind.
Rafayel hums, tipping his head slightly, his gaze dragging over her face, reading her, dissecting her. Then, with infuriating ease, he reaches out, plucking the mug from her hands, taking a slow, deliberate sip. "You’ll be there," he says, setting it back down, meeting her eyes with quiet certainty. "You always are."
She doesn’t respond. Just grabs her coffee and walks past him, pretending she can still decide, pretending she has control. But the heat of his touch lingers, the ghost of his lips still burning against her skin, and she knows—knows before she even steps into her office, before she sits down at her desk, before the hours bleed into evening—that she’s already lost.
Later, she’ll find herself in the backseat of his car, his hand resting possessively on her thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles against the fabric of her skirt. Later, she’ll be pressed against the cool glass of his apartment window, his fingers sinking deep inside her, his voice a low, wicked murmur against her ear, telling her how fucking perfect she is, how she was made for him, how no one else could ever have her like this.
And later still, when he’s buried inside her, when his hands are locked tight around her wrists, pinning her beneath him, when he whispers her name like it belongs to him—she’ll forget why she ever thought about resisting at all.
The sheets are soft against her bare skin, tangled around her legs as she rests against his chest, listening to the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath. The room is dark, lit only by the soft glow of the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, neon bleeding into shadow, casting long shapes across the bed. Rafayel’s fingers trail idly along her arm, absentminded, lazy, like he isn’t really thinking about it, like touching her is just second nature now.
She exhales, long and slow, her head turning slightly, her cheek pressing against the warmth of his skin. She hates this—this quiet moment after, when the pleasure fades and the weight of reality crashes down around her, when she remembers what he is, what this is, and what it will never be. Because she knows the truth. She knows that once he gets what he wants, once he’s certain she’s his, once there’s no part of her he doesn’t own, he’ll cast her aside like an old game he’s grown bored of.
And the worst part? She’ll let him. She’ll let him carve his name into her skin, let him stain every part of her, and when he leaves, when he moves on, she’ll be the one left bleeding. The thought makes her stomach twist, something sharp, something ugly, because she already feels it creeping in, that thing she never wanted to feel again, that thing she swore off so long ago that it feels like another lifetime.
Love.
She closes her eyes, biting down on the inside of her cheek. It’s already too late, she knows that now—she’s past the point of no return, past the place where she can pretend she’s indifferent, where she can convince herself she’s just in this for the same reasons he is. Because it will destroy her to see him with another woman, to know that this is just another game to him, just another thing he does because he can.
If he’s going to own her, if she’s going to be his, then maybe she should own him too.
The thought makes something settle deep inside her, heavy, final, a decision locking into place with quiet certainty.
"Don’t see anyone else," she whispers, her voice soft, but not hesitant not pleading. A command. She’s never told him what to do, never tried to bend him to her will, never asked for anything from him except space, distance, freedom.
His fingers still against her arm, just for a second, before they move again, slow, measured, as if nothing happened.
"What?" he murmurs, like he didn’t hear her, like he’s giving her a chance to take it back. She doesn’t. Instead, she lifts her gaze to his, tapping his chest lightly to make sure she has his attention.
"I mean it, Rafayel," she says, voice firm, even. "If I can’t escape you, you can’t escape me either."
Silence stretches between them, thick, weighted, the air charged with something unreadable. His lips twitch, but it’s not quite a smirk. She watches as he shifts slightly, one arm moving behind his head, his other hand dragging leisurely down her spine, his touch a lazy thing, deliberate in its ease.
"Cutie," he murmurs, voice laced with amusement, "are you jealous?"
Her stomach twists, her fingers curling into the sheets. "No," she lies.
Rafayel chuckles, low and warm, the sound sending shivers down her spine. Defiance runs hot through her veins.
"That’s cute," he muses, tapping his fingers against her hip, like this is nothing more than an interesting conversation, like her words don’t carry weight. "But you don’t have to worry about that."
She scoffs, sitting up slightly, the sheet slipping down her body, exposing the marks he’s left on her skin. "That’s not an answer," she points out, her eyes narrowing, watching him carefully. He’s playing with her dragging this out, forcing her to sit in it, to stew in her own emotions, to let herself feel the thing she’s trying to bury. Because that’s what he does. He never lets her take the easy way out.
His hand slides up her thigh, slow, possessive, his fingers pressing just enough to remind her that he could flip this conversation into something else in an instant if he wanted to.
"Why are you so worried, cutie?" he asks, tilting his head, his tone deceptively light. "Do you think I’d throw you away that easily?"
She clenches her jaw, her heart slamming against her ribs. "Yes," she says, because it’s true.
Something flickers across his face gone too fast for her to catch, but there, just for a second.
"That’s a little insulting," he murmurs, dragging his fingers up her side, thumb brushing over one of the bruises he left earlier. "After everything we’ve done, after how well you take me every time—"
"Stop," she snaps, shoving his hand away, heat rising to her face. "This isn’t a fucking game, Rafayel."
He hums, unconvinced, dragging his hand back, his fingers slipping through hers, threading them together loosely. "Feels like one," he murmurs, watching her, watching the way her body reacts, the way she struggles to hold her ground. "But if you want to own me that badly, cutie, go ahead. Try."
Her throat tightens. "I’m serious."
"So am I," he says, squeezing her fingers just slightly before letting go. "But let me make something clear—" He shifts then, fast, flipping her onto her back in a single smooth motion, pinning her wrists above her head, his body pressing her into the mattress. His mouth hovers just above hers, his breath warm, his eyes dark, unreadable. "I already own you," he murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper. "So what does it matter if I fuck someone else?"
Her entire body goes rigid, something deep and ugly clawing up her throat. He’s testing her, pushing, seeing how far she’ll go, seeing if she’s willing to fight for him, to claim him the way he’s claimed her. "I’ll make you regret it," she breathes, her voice softer now, more dangerous, something raw bleeding into the words.
That makes him pause.
She swallows hard, lifting her chin just slightly, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Like you’ve made me regret the day you hired me," she finishes.
Rafayel watches her, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, slowly, his smirk fades, something else taking its place is a look thats not quite soft. He exhales through his nose, fingers tightening around her wrists for a brief moment before he lets go, sitting back, watching her like she’s something he wasn’t expecting.
"Cutie," he murmurs, shaking his head slightly, his lips curving, but it’s not quite a smirk anymore. "What am I gonna do with you?"
She doesn’t answer because for once—she thinks she has the upper hand.
The bathroom tiles are cold against her bare thighs, the chill seeping into her skin, but she barely registers it. Her hands tremble in her lap, fingers curled loosely around the plastic stick that has just torn her entire world apart. Two pink lines. The sight of them burns into her retinas, blurs at the edges, but no matter how many times she blinks, no matter how desperately she wills them to disappear, they don’t.
Her breath is shallow, her pulse hammering in her ears, drowning out the distant murmur of her sister’s voice on the other end of the phone. It’s almost comical—the way they’re talking about nothing, about stupid, simple, everyday things, while her entire life implodes in real time. She wants to say something, to tell her sister that she’s panicking, that she’s spiraling, that she’s sitting on the fucking bathroom floor with a positive pregnancy test and no idea what the fuck to do. But the words won’t come.
"Hey, you still there?" her sister asks, voice soft, concerned.
She swallows hard, tightening her grip on the phone, on reality, forcing the words out past the lump in her throat. "Yeah," she says, her voice thin, barely above a whisper. "I’m here."
For a second, there’s silence, just the sound of her sister breathing on the other end, then a hesitant pause. "You okay?"
No. No, she’s not okay.
She’s the farthest fucking thing from okay. But if she says that, if she even hints at the panic clawing up her throat, her sister will ask questions questions she can’t afford to answer. So instead, she forces out a weak, shaky laugh, running a hand over her face, trying to ground herself. "Yeah, I just a lot on my mind."
Her sister hums in acknowledgment, but doesn’t push. She never does. Maybe that’s why this conversation feels like such a cruel contrast—because for all the things they share, for all the ways she’s looked out for her sister, this? This is something she has to carry alone.
She stares down at the test again, her stomach churning violently. How? How had this happened? She had been careful painstakingly, obsessively careful. Birth control, spermicide, Plan B at least once a month, just in case. And yet, here she is. Trapped.
"Hey," she says suddenly, her voice coming out strange, distant, like she’s hearing it from underwater. "Hypothetically, what would you do if you got pregnant?"
Her sister is quiet for a beat, then lets out a soft laugh.
"Hypothetically? I’d panic first. Then I’d probably figure out what my options are." There’s another pause, then a slight shift in tone, more careful this time. "Well… could you get an abortion? That’s a thing you’re able to do, right?"
Abortion.
The word slams into her like a physical blow, knocking the breath from her lungs. Of course, that’s an option. Of course, that’s the logical, practical, safest choice. She has no business bringing a child into this—into his world. But the second the thought enters her mind, another follows, unbidden, unwelcome. Would she?
"Yeah," she says automatically, voice hollow. "Yeah, I can."
But could she?
Her throat tightens, her free hand clenching against her knee. Could she really go through with it? Would she even get the chance? Rafayel was possessive, obsessive, the kind of man who saw people as investments, as assets, as things to own. If he found out if he even suspected he wouldn’t let her handle this on her own. He’d take it from her, take everything from her.
You can see our baby once you finish this week’s work, cutie.
The thought makes her stomach lurch, bile rising in her throat. Because it’s not far-fetched, not even a little. She knows the kind of man he is. Knows that if she tells him, this stops being her decision. yet, a small, treacherous part of her whispers—would he really leave? Would he really throw her away once she had the baby?
She exhales shakily, pressing a hand to her forehead.
"I don’t know if I can do it though," she admits, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Her sister is quiet for a long moment, and she wonders if she’s said too much, if she’s given away something she shouldn’t. "Look," her sister says finally, voice gentle, careful. "Maybe… maybe you should talk to the guy. He could help, right?"
A bitter, humorless laugh rips from her throat before she can stop it, sharp and jagged, scraping against the quiet of the bathroom walls. Help? Rafayel? He was the cause of this. The last thing she needed was for him to get involved.
"No," she says, shaking her head even though her sister can’t see her. "No, he wouldn’t be any help at all."
She can almost hear her sister frowning on the other end, can almost picture the concern etched into her face. "Are you sure?"
She closes her eyes, tilting her head back against the cool ceramic of the wall. "Yeah," she says, softer this time. "I’m sure."
She doesn’t say why. She doesn’t tell her sister about the way Rafayel looks at her, the way he always seems one step ahead, the way he twists everything into something that benefits him. She doesn’t tell her about the illegal shit she’s tangled up in, the money laundering, the lies, the way she’s spent the last year living in a world she was never meant to survive.
She sure as hell doesn’t tell her about how, despite all of that, a part of her doesn’t want to get rid of it. She presses the heel of her palm against her eyes, taking a slow breath.
"You don’t have to figure everything out right now," her sister says, voice gentle, reassuring. "Just… give yourself time to think."
Time.
She doesn’t have time. She’s already running out of it.
"Yeah," she says, even though it’s a lie. "I will."
They hang up a few minutes later, her sister none the wiser, none of the weight lifted from her chest. She sets the phone down beside her, staring at the test again, at the two pink lines that have changed everything. What the fuck am I going to do?
Her mind races, a thousand different futures playing out behind her eyes, none of them good. She could keep it. She could try. But then what? Rafayel would never let her go, never let her raise his child on her own. He would sink his claws deeper, pull her closer, make sure she never had the chance to leave.
She could get rid of it. Walk away. Pretend none of this ever happened.
But could she live with that?
Her stomach twists violently, her head dropping forward as she squeezes her eyes shut, as if that will make it all disappear.
Either way, no matter what choice she makes her life, as she knows it, was already over.
The pills sit on her dresser, untouched, the dim light of her bedside lamp casting sharp edges against their smooth, sterile packaging. She hasn’t looked away from them in what feels like hours, her body locked in place, her mind circling the same unanswerable questions over and over. Just take them. Just swallow them with water, end this before it begins. Something deep inside her clenches at the thought, something raw and instinctive, something that won’t let her reach for them.
Instead, she lays in bed, curled on her side, exhaustion weighing heavy in her limbs. The day had been an endless blur—the waiting room too bright, the doctor's voice too calm as he walked her through her options, as if this were just another routine conversation, as if it wasn’t ripping her apart from the inside. It would be just like a period, maybe a little more cramping. His words had felt distant, unreal, like they were meant for someone else. And when he had placed the pills into her hand, pressing his fingers over hers in a gesture that was meant to be reassuring, all she could think was: Can I actually do this?
Her stomach twists violently, nausea creeping up her throat, but it has nothing to do with the pregnancy itself. It’s the choice. The weight of it. The knowledge that no matter what she decides, everything is going to change.
The front door opens. Her entire body seizes, her stomach lurching in sheer panic.
Him.
Rafayel never knocks. Never announces himself. He moves through her life the way he moves through everything like he owns it, like he owns her.
She bolts upright, scrambling, her fingers fumbling as she grabs the pills and shoves them into her panty drawer, stuffing them beneath a mess of lace and silk. Her hands are shaking so badly she nearly drops them, her pulse roaring in her ears. By the time she makes it back to the bed, she’s still trembling, her breath uneven, but she forces herself to lay down, to press her face into the mattress, to pretend.
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.
"Cutie," Rafayel’s voice is warm, almost teasing, but there’s something beneath it—something knowing.
"You didn’t—" He stops, and she hears the faintest shift of fabric as he tilts his head. "Are you okay?"
"My stomach hurts," she mumbles into the fabric, trying to keep her voice steady, trying to make herself sound tired, sick, anything but guilty.
He chuckles, the bed dipping under his weight as he kicks off his shoes and climbs in beside her. The warmth of him seeps through her clothes, his arm sliding around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. The scent of him.
"Well," he murmurs, lips brushing over the nape of her neck, "I’ll order something light. Maybe some soup or something to make you feel better."
For a second it almost sounds like he cares.
Then his hand drifts lower and her breath stills. His palm presses against her stomach, warm, firm, fingers spreading wide like he’s claiming the space. She goes completely rigid, her mind screaming at her to move, to push him away, to do something. But she can’t.
"What are you doing?" she asks softly, forcing the words out even as her throat tightens.
Rafayel hums, his lips trailing lazily over her shoulder, his voice dipping into something softer, something almost reverent. "I can’t believe our baby is in here," he murmurs.
Her stomach drops.
A violent shudder rips through her, her body jerking as she shoves him away, twisting to face him, eyes wide, heart hammering.
"What the fuck?" Her voice is sharp, raw, cracking at the edges. "How do you—"
He exhales, slow and patient, like she’s being dramatic, like he’s indulging her. "You think I don’t know everything, cutie?" he says, arching a brow, his smirk infuriatingly calm.
"I thought we went over this already." His head tilts slightly, eyes sharp, watching her carefully, studying every flicker of emotion on her face. "You didn’t take the pills the doctor gave you, right?"
She doesn’t answer.
She can’t.
The smirk on his lips widens, slow and knowing. "Good," he breathes, his hand sliding back to her stomach, this time stroking the fabric of her shirt, gentle.
"I have no issue putting another baby in you, but…" His mouth brushes the edge of her jaw, his breath warm, his voice intimate. "I want this one."
Her entire body locks up.
He watches her, amused, waiting for the moment it sinks in. "We’ll have another later," he adds, as if it’s a simple thing, as if this has already been decided.
"Wait—wait!" She shoves at his chest again, her breathing ragged. "You—"
His fingers wrap around her wrist, light but unyielding, a quiet warning. "Paid off your doctor?" he finishes for her, his voice carrying no shame, no guilt, just certainty. "Yes."
Her stomach twists, bile rising in her throat.
"Switched your birth control for placebos." His voice is smooth, matter-of-fact, like he’s listing off something as mundane as a grocery list. "Replaced the Plan B pills in your cabinet with sugar tablets. That spermicide you were so careful about? Lube." He grins, lazy and satisfied. "A lot of work, really, but it’s good to know you’re so proactive."
She stares at him, her whole body trembling. "You planned this."
"Of course," he says simply.
"You trapped me."
The office smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee, the kind of mix that belonged in places that saw too many people, too many stories, and too little time to care. The doctor’s office was quiet, the waiting room long emptied, and the overhead fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, the only sound breaking the silence. Dr. Victor Cho sat behind his desk, his spine stiff, his fingers clenching around a pen so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Across from him, lounging in the chair with all the ease of a man who had nothing to fear, Rafayel Qu watched him like a predator, his fingers tapping idly against the desk’s polished surface.
There was a gun between them.
A matte black thing, sleek and quiet, its presence alone saying more than Rafayel had in the past five minutes. He hadn’t even pointed it at the doctor—he didn’t need to. It sat there, heavy and unmoving, a promise wrapped in steel, something final. Dr. Cho swallowed hard, his throat clicking, his pulse hammering so loudly in his ears that he could barely hear Rafayel’s voice when he finally spoke.
"You understand why I’m here, don’t you?" Rafayel’s tone was smooth, almost pleasant, like they were talking about the weather, like he wasn’t threatening a man’s life between casual sentences. He tilted his head slightly, dark eyes gleaming under the sterile lighting. "I wouldn’t want to think my future wife—the mother of my future children—is walking around with the wrong prescriptions. That would be a problem, wouldn’t it?"
Dr. Cho’s mouth opened, then closed. A fine sheen of sweat coated his forehead, his heart pounding so violently he thought he might vomit. "I—I don’t—"
Rafayel exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening into a loose fist against his lips, as if he were contemplating patience. "Cutie’s careful, isn’t she?" His voice dipped into something softer, something almost amused. "Pills, spermicide, emergency contraception. A smart girl, my girl. Too smart." He tapped the desk once, the click loud in the silence, before leaning forward slightly. "So let’s fix that."
Dr. Cho felt his stomach lurch. "You want me to—"
"I don’t want you to do anything, doctor," Rafayel murmured, voice dark and silky, rich like slow-dripped poison. "You’re going to do it. Placebos. Nothing that’ll work. I don’t care what it looks like, just make sure when she reaches for it, it does nothing." He gestured vaguely toward the prescription pad sitting beside the keyboard, like this was already settled, like it was just another inconvenience being handled before he moved on with his night.
The doctor’s fingers trembled as they hovered over the pad, mind racing through the possible outcomes. If he refused, would Rafayel kill him? No—no, that wasn’t how men like him worked. He wouldn’t kill him right away. He’d make his life a living hell first. And even if he went to the police, even if he somehow managed to get protection, Rafayel was too well-connected. He’d make sure it wasn’t just him who suffered.
"You’re asking me to risk my license," Dr. Cho forced out, his voice weak, wavering. "My practice—"
Rafayel sighed, long-suffering, like he was disappointed by the waste of breath. "Doctor." The word was almost affectionate, a mockery of respect. "You’re assuming I care about that. I don’t. I care about my cutie, and I care about ensuring she gives me what I want. You—" His fingers brushed over the gun, a lazy, idle touch. "You are a means to an end."
It stretched between them, thick and suffocating, pressing against the walls, the air, Dr. Cho’s skull. His lungs burned from how shallowly he was breathing, his hands clammy against the desk. He thought of his wife, his children, of everything he stood to lose.
His fingers curled around the pen.
"Fine," he whispered. "Fine, I’ll do it."
Rafayel’s smirk was slow, pleased. "Good man."
Then, as if this were just another business transaction, he stood, rolling his sleeves back down, buttoning the cuffs with meticulous care. "Oh," he mused, turning back just as he reached the door. "If I ever find out you gave her the real thing—if even one of those pills does what it’s supposed to?" He smiled then, something sharp, something dark. "Well. You can guess the rest."
"Did I?" he muses, tilting his head.
Her breath is coming too fast now, panic clawing up her throat.
"You had no fucking right."
"Maybe not," he concedes, shrugging. "But it doesn't matter now, does it?"
She wants to scream. Wants to throw something. But all she can do is sit there, drowning in the sheer, suffocating weight of it.
"Calm down, cutie," he murmurs, his arms circling around her again, pulling her close despite the way she shakes. "I won’t fuck anyone else. You don’t have to worry about that."
She flinches. "Besides," he continues, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her temple, "we have to be a family—for our baby, right?"
Her throat tightens. "We have to show them what love looks like," he muses. "So you’ll keep working for me. I’ll put a rock on your finger. We’ll buy a house."
Her stomach churns. "We’ll only fuck each other," he breathes, lips ghosting over hers, "until one of us dies, like one of your romance novels."
A hollow laugh escapes her, brittle and broken. "Not quite," she mutters.
He grins. "Close enough."
The bridal suite smelled like roses and champagne, an artificial kind of sweetness that clung to the air, thick and suffocating. The room itself was grand, all white and gold, with a massive vanity lined with flickering candles and an open balcony that overlooked the lush, sprawling gardens of the estate Rafayel had rented for the ceremony. It was extravagant, every inch of it dripping in wealth and excess, a silent declaration that this—this marriage, this life—was permanent. She sat before the mirror, hands folded in her lap, staring at her reflection through the thick veil of lace draped over her head.
Behind her, her sister adjusted the delicate beading on her dress, her touch gentle, careful, but her expression was tight. She had been watching her all morning, her usual excitement subdued, her voice softer than usual. She wasn’t stupid. She knew something was off. And now, as she stepped back, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from the silk, she finally spoke.
"Are you sure about this?"
The question was soft, hesitant, but it might as well have been a gunshot in the quiet room. She inhaled sharply, her nails digging into the fabric of her dress as she forced herself to hold her sister’s gaze in the mirror. "It’s a little late to be asking that now," she said, a weak attempt at humor, but the words felt hollow even as they left her lips.
Her sister’s lips pressed together, and she crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly, her gaze sharp. "That’s not an answer."
She looked away.
Her sister sighed, stepping closer, lowering herself onto the plush stool beside her. "The baby, the marriage—him." She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Is this what you want?"
Want. The word felt foreign, almost meaningless. What did want have to do with any of this? She was here, wasn’t she? She was wearing the dress, standing in the venue, preparing to say the vows. Wasn’t that enough?
"I don’t know," she admitted quietly.
Her sister’s face fell. "That’s not something you should be unsure about on your wedding day."
She swallowed, fingers twisting in her lap, her pulse drumming steadily in her ears. "I’m pregnant," she said, like that was enough of an explanation, like that was all the justification she needed. "This is just… what makes sense."
Her sister studied her, something unreadable in her expression. "And him?" she asked, voice softer now, more careful. "Do you love him?"
Her throat tightened, the words catching before they could leave her tongue. Did she love him? The idea had always felt absurd, impossible, but then she thought about the way his hands lingered at her waist when he thought she was asleep, the way his voice softened when he spoke to their unborn child, the way he had shifted in small, imperceptible ways—just enough to make room for her in his world.
He never gave you a choice, a small voice reminded her. None of this was ever really yours to decide.
"I don’t hate him," she said instead, which wasn’t a lie but wasn’t the truth either.
Her sister exhaled slowly, nodding as if she had expected that answer. "I know he scares you sometimes," she murmured. "I see it. You don’t talk about it, but I see it."
Her stomach clenched, a sharp, reflexive kind of fear winding through her ribs. "He’s never hurt me," she said quickly, too quickly, as if saying it out loud would make it true in every way that mattered. "Not physically."
Her sister’s gaze flickered, something wary settling in,"That’s not what I asked," she pointed out. "Fear isn’t just about bruises."
She inhaled sharply, her hands clenching around the silk of her dress, her knuckles going white. "You don’t understand," she said, barely above a whisper.
Her sister reached out then, fingers brushing gently over hers, grounding her, reminding her that not everyone in her life was built from threats and control. "Then help me understand," she said softly. "Because if you’re scared—really scared—you don’t have to do this. We can leave. Right now."
Panic surged through her, sharp and immediate. "No," she said quickly, shaking her head. "It’s not like that. It’s not—"
Her sister didn’t look convinced. "Then what is it?"
She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to steady her breath, to think. "It’s just… complicated."
"Complicated is what people say when they don’t want to admit they’re trapped."
The words landed hard, heavier than she expected, cutting through all the justifications, all the quiet lies she had told herself. But she wasn’t trapped. Was she?
"I’m not," she whispered, almost like she was trying to convince herself.
Her sister studied her for a long moment, then sighed. "I just don’t want you to wake up one day and realize you lost yourself in all of this," she said softly. "Because I’ve seen how he looks at you, and I know you think that means he won’t let you go, but, sis… maybe it means you won’t let yourself go either."
A lump formed in her throat, thick and suffocating. She turned back toward the mirror, staring at herself, at the veil, the dress, the room that didn’t feel like hers. And she wondered, had she already lost herself? Had that moment already come and gone?
Her sister squeezed her hand once, then stood. "If you tell me you want this, I’ll stand beside you and smile and pretend I don’t have questions," she said gently. "But if you don’t, tell me now. Please."
She swallowed, the weight of the moment settling deep into her bones.
"I want this," she said.
The reception is a grand affair, extravagant in every sense of the word. The chandeliers overhead glisten like captured stardust, casting a golden glow over the opulent ballroom filled with laughter, music, and conversation. Every table is adorned with crystal glasses, towering floral arrangements, and plates of food that likely cost more per serving than most people’s weekly salaries. But despite the beauty of it all, despite the elegant hum of celebration, she feels like a stranger in her own wedding.
The guests are not hers. They are his. Businessmen dressed in the finest suits, their wives dripping in diamonds and feigned politeness, the occasional politician pretending not to see the criminals drinking beside them. She recognizes only a handful of faces—Rafayel’s closest men, the ones he trusts enough to bring into his personal life—but the rest? They’re here for him, for his connections, for his power. They toast to their union with well-rehearsed smiles, whispering behind their glasses about what this marriage means in the grand scheme of things, what her presence at his side will change.
The only person who is truly hers is her sister. She sits at a smaller table, flanked by two of Rafayel’s men—her guards, though she likely hasn’t realized it yet. Her sister is happily sipping champagne, laughing at something one of them said, seemingly oblivious to the world she’s now tangled up in. But as her eyes scan the room, as she watches the way one of Rafayel’s men leans just a little too close to her sister, she feels a sharp, searing rage twist in her stomach.
The man—dark-haired, mid-thirties, confident in the way men in his position always are—places a hand on the back of her sister’s chair, leaning in as he speaks. Her sister, friendly as ever, doesn’t seem to register the shift, doesn’t see the way he’s looking at her, the way his smile lingers just a little too long. But she sees it. And when he laughs and lets his fingers brush her sister’s arm, she acts without thinking.
Her glare is lethal, sharp as a blade, and when the man finally notices her staring, he pales instantly. His laughter cuts off, his posture stiffening, his hand retreating so fast it’s as if he’s been burned. She doesn’t look away, doesn’t blink, just keeps her gaze locked onto his until he swallows hard and drops his eyes to the table.
She lifts her hand and crooks a single finger.
Come here.
His face drains of color.
For a moment, he doesn’t move, as if considering whether ignoring her might somehow spare him, but then one of the other men at his table elbows him sharply, muttering something under his breath. With clear reluctance, he stands, straightens his tie, and begins making his way toward her. His steps are slow, measured, like a man walking toward his own execution.
By the time he reaches her, she’s already standing, waiting for him at the head table, her fingers wrapped loosely around the stem of a champagne flute. The room is still full of conversation, of laughter and music, but here, in this moment, there is only him, her, and the barely-contained fury simmering beneath her calm exterior.
She doesn’t give him the chance to speak.
Instead, she grabs him by the tie, yanking him down so their faces are mere inches apart, her voice low, dangerous. "If anyone here—anyone—tries anything with my sister," she whispers, "my husband will be the least of your concerns. Do you hear me?"
He nods quickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows thickly. "Yes, ma’am."
"Good," she murmurs, tugging him even closer until she can see the sweat forming at his temples. "Because I will ruin your entire life. Do you understand? I want you to remember who signs your checks. Who makes sure you even have a fucking job."
"I—I understand," he stammers, his voice hoarse. "It won’t happen again."
"It better not," she breathes, then finally lets go, watching with satisfaction as he stumbles back, his hands shaking slightly as he quickly fixes his tie.
By the time she turns, Rafayel is watching her, his smirk slow and pleased, his gaze glinting with something dark and approving. He lifts his glass in a silent toast, amusement dancing in his eyes. He likes this. He likes seeing her take control, seeing her step into her role as his wife.
And yet, there’s something else in his expression—something deeper, something soft.
He would have handled it himself, she knows that. Would have made a much bigger spectacle out of it, would have made sure the man knew exactly who he had just disrespected. But this? This was her taking control, protecting her own, and Rafayel loves it.
Because her sister isn’t just hers anymore.
She belongs to him now, too.
His family. Something he doesn’t have much experience with, something he doesn’t even fully understand. But he knows one thing—family is something you protect.
And Rafayel Qu never lets go of what’s his.
The diamond on her finger is massive, catching the light in dazzling reflections, its weight unfamiliar yet permanent. The house he bought them is sprawling, modern, a testament to his wealth and his need to keep her tethered in every possible way. Her home office is pristine, state-of-the-art, filled with everything she needs to work remotely so she never has to go anywhere without his permission. And, of course, the marriage—an event so grand it made the society pages, her sister glowing with joy beside her, oblivious to the fact that this wasn’t a fairytale, but a carefully constructed cage lined with silk and gold.
Rafayel is everything she knew he would be—a manipulator, a strategist, a man who always gets what he wants. But he keeps his promises. He doesn’t fuck anyone else, and he makes sure she knows it. He lets her track his phone whenever she wants, responds to her screenshots with proof—pictures, timestamps, a quick video call. When he’s with his men, when the work is too dirty to document, he calls instead, hands the phone over so they can greet his lovely wife, all while standing in pools of someone else’s blood.
She doesn’t check much anymore, though. Not because she trusts him, but because she knows him. Knows that he’s wrapped himself so deeply into her life that escaping is no longer an option, that whether she likes it or not, he belongs to her just as much as she belongs to him. And besides, she has someone else watching him—a man on his payroll, but one whose real loyalty belongs to her. She’s sure Rafayel knows, but he doesn’t care. Because she’s already where he wants her.
Then, the contractions start.
She’s kneeling on the floor of their massive living room, gripping the edge of the coffee table, her body trembling from the sheer force of the pain ripping through her. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, each exhale punctuated by a low, involuntary moan as her muscles seize, coil, burn. Her phone is on the floor beside her, the screen dimming, still unanswered. She picks it up with shaking fingers, presses the call button again, watches as it rings. Straight to voicemail.
Her throat tightens, frustration curling up her spine like hot iron. Of course, he’s busy. Of course, the one time she needs him, the one time she isn’t just checking in or humoring his possessiveness, he’s nowhere to be fucking found. A fresh contraction crashes into her, sharp and deep, her whole body locking up as another wave of pain steals her breath. Tears spill hot and fast down her cheeks, her vision blurring as she sucks in a desperate inhale.
Then she calls again.
And again.
And again.
Her fingers are white-knuckled around the phone, her pulse erratic, the pain making her dizzy. "He better be dying or dead," she whispers, voice shaking, barely audible over her own labored breathing.
She dials another number. The man she has keeping tabs on him.
The phone barely rings before he picks up.
"Where the fuck is he?!" she spits through clenched teeth, her voice breaking as another contraction wracks her body.
"He's working," comes the measured response, too calm, too casual, like her world isn’t currently fracturing around her.
"Tell him I’m about to give birth on the fucking floor of our living room," she snarls, barely getting the words out before another contraction tears through her. She doesn’t wait for a response. She hangs up, tossing the phone aside, groaning as she grips the couch for support, her body instinctively curling around the unbearable pressure building inside her.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. She was supposed to be in a hospital bed, Rafayel at her side, his fingers wrapped tightly around hers as she screamed through the pain. Not like this. Not alone.
But she isn’t really alone, is she?
Because while she’s writhing on the expensive fucking rug he picked out, Rafayel is out there, somewhere, probably breaking someone’s skull open with a crowbar, too preoccupied with his work to answer his goddamn phone.
Another contraction. This one is worse than the last.
She screams.
It feels like forever before the front door opens, the sound of heavy boots against the hardwood barely registering past the haze of pain clouding her mind. Then, he’s there. Rafayel, standing in the doorway, his shirt splattered with something dark, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t speak immediately. Just takes her in, his sharp, calculating gaze sweeping over her disheveled form, the tremor in her hands, the sweat on her skin.
Then, as casually as ever, he shrugs off his jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair.
"Is it too late to move you, cutie?" His voice is smooth, gentle, almost apologetic, like he’s asking if she wants a fucking drink. "If I had known it was time, I would have answered your first call."
She lifts her head, her glare razor-sharp despite the exhaustion pulling at her limbs. "Could have looked at your phone," she bites out, her voice hoarse. Another contraction steals her breath, her whole body tensing as she grits her teeth against the pain. "And yes, it’s too late."
Rafayel exhales through his nose, rolling up his sleeves a little higher. "Guess we’re doing this here, then."
She gives birth on their living room floor, on the ridiculously expensive rug he had imported from Italy.
Rafayel doesn’t leave her side.
He crouches beside her, hands steady, voice low, soothing, murmuring soft reassurances as she screams through the pain, as her nails dig deep into his skin. His eyes are different—softer than she’s ever seen them, something raw and real in the way he watches her, in the way he strokes her hair back from her sweat-slicked forehead, in the way he tells her, "You’re doing so fucking good, cutie."
A baby’s cry.
The world stops.
Her body collapses, exhaustion swallowing her whole as she gasps for breath, tears slipping down her temples. Rafayel’s hands, careful, gentle, as he gathers their child into his arms, his expression unreadable as he stares down at the tiny, wailing thing in his hands.
For a long moment, he just looks.
Then, slowly, his lips part, his voice quiet, reverent. "Hey there, little one."
She watches him through half-lidded eyes, her chest tight with something unfamiliar, something terrifying. Because for the first time since she met him, Rafayel doesn’t look like a man who had everything under his control.
He looks like a man who has everything to lose.
The house is quiet, the soft hum of the baby monitor the only sound filling the space between them. Their daughter sleeps soundly in the bassinet, tiny fists curled beneath her chin, her delicate features bathed in the glow of the dimmed nursery light. Rafayel is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching.
He’s been doing this a lot lately, watching her with that unreadable gaze, circling like a predator waiting for some unseen shift, for some sign that she might slip through his fingers.
She feels the weight of his stare even as she moves through the routine motions of preparing a bottle, her body still aching, her exhaustion bone-deep. The days blur together—feedings, diaper changes, brief moments of sleep snatched in between—but the one constant is him. Always there, always watching, always waiting. Her patience, frayed as it is, finally snaps.
She turns sharply, thrusting the bottle toward him, her glare sharp enough to cut. "Will you knock it off?"
Rafayel doesn’t flinch. He takes the bottle from her, turning it slowly in his hands, rolling it between his fingers with practiced ease. "Knock what off, cutie?" he asks, his voice smooth, calm, as if he hasn’t been stalking her through their own home like a man expecting betrayal. His gaze flickers back to her, something dangerous lingering beneath the amusement, something possessive. "Watching my wife?"
She exhales sharply, arms crossing over her chest, jaw tightening. "You look at me as if I'm the suspicious one," she snaps, her tone sharper than she intends, her frustration spilling over. "Unlike you, I can’t do whatever I want." There’s an accusation buried beneath the words, something unspoken but heavy you built this cage, and now you think I might try to break out of it.
His lips curl slightly, not quite a smirk, but something close. "I can’t either," he says simply. His eyes don’t leave hers, unwavering, steady, as if daring her to challenge him. "You think I’d leave you now, after you’ve given me this?" He glances briefly toward the bassinet, the baby’s soft breaths barely audible, before looking back at her, his gaze turning softer but no less intense.
"Cutie, even if you hated my guts, which you don’t, I wouldn’t go anywhere."
Her heart clenches at his words, at the quiet certainty in them. Because he’s right—she doesn’t hate him, not in the way she should, not in the way that would make this easier. She should despise him for all of it—the manipulation, the control, the way he’s orchestrated every moment of her life since the day he decided she was his. There’s a part of her, a deep, wretched part, that finds comfort in his presence, in the sheer certainty of him.
She looks away, her fingers tightening against her arms, her throat thick. "You make it sound like a choice," she mutters.
Rafayel moves then, slow and deliberate, stepping closer until the heat of him is palpable, until she can feel the steady weight of his presence pressing against her skin. "It’s not," he murmurs, reaching out, tilting her chin up with gentle fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You’re mine, and I’m yours. That’s how it is. That’s how it’s always going to be."
She should pull away. She should push him, should tell him that she doesn’t belong to him, that this isn’t some twisted love story where she learns to love the cage he’s built around her. But the words never come.
