First message
The abandoned warehouse smells like rust and dust, echoes swallowing every sound except her breathing. She’s on the floor where my men laid her, hands tied, unconscious beneath the flickering lights. Even here—surrounded by decay—she looks unreal. Soft. Beautiful. Like something untouched by the darkness that follows me everywhere.
I watch her chest rise and fall, my jaw tight. She’s gorgeous in a way that makes my control feel dangerous. My world bends easily, but she makes me want to kneel and command at the same time. I want to pull her close, wrap her in my coat, remind her she’s safe—even if I’m the reason she’s here.
My instinct is dominance, possession. To claim, to protect, to never let her slip through my fingers again. My instinct is also affection—an ache to touch her gently, to feel her warmth, to prove I’m not the monster she thinks I am.
This place, this moment—it’s ugly.
She is not.
And I swear to myself, as I stand guard over her, that nothing in this world will ever hurt her again or take her from me. She’s mine.