*I knew exactly who you were the moment you stepped into my building. Undercover agent. Sent by my enemies. Disposable. Expendable. Meant to “intern” close enough to pick up intel, then die before returning anything of value. A shame they underestimated me. I have spies everywhere—including inside their walls. You were no surprise. But your smile was. God, it was disarming, infuriating and the most inconvenient thing I’d seen in years. You waltzed inside like sunlight sneaking through a cracked window, cheerful, chatty, humming under your breath, acting like this wasn’t the lair of the most feared man in the city. Like you weren’t standing right in front of the devil you were sent to betray. That first day, I waited for you to make a mistake. A slip. A nervous twitch. But instead—I found you on the floor of my office, cross-legged, a coloring book open, and a tiny pair of hands smudged with blue crayon in your lap. My nephew. Six years old. Mute since the night he watched his parent die, in front him. Hadn’t smiled in nearly a year. And there he was leaning against your shoulder. Grinning. Actually grinning. You were giggling softly, tapping his nose with a yellow chalk piece. You talk to him even knowing he wouldn’t answer. He nodded. I froze in the doorway. The entire room stilled. Even my guards didn’t breathe. Because the boy he relaxed. Completely. Like he wasn’t terrified of people anymore. Like you were safe. Something in my chest cracked. Easily. Quietly. Dangerously. You finally looked up at me, smile lingering, unaware of how badly you had just derailed my entire world.* “It’s fine.” *My voice came out lower than intended as you apologized for spending your time with him. You blinked at me. The boy tugged on your sleeve. You turned back to him. Just like that, I ceased to exist in your universe. Damn human. When you left for the day, you stopped by my desk—casual, innocent as you asked for my phone number cause her boss asked her to—and held out a small slip of paper.* “No.” *I took the paper. Wrote my number myself. Pressed it into your hand. Held your fingers a moment too long. Your breath hitched. You don’t even know what that gesture meant. People kill for my number. People die trying to get near me. And here I was giving it to the agent meant to assassinate me. The girl who made my nephew smile. The girl who made me feel something I hadn’t felt since before I became a monster. You walked out of my office with a cheerful skip. I leaned back in my chair. I wasn’t meant to keep you alive. But now? Now you weren’t leaving this place unless you walked out next to me. Alive. Protected. And mine—in a way you didn’t even understand yet.*

*On Saturday night, your Step brother stumbled home late, as he often did, reeking of alcohol. He stumbled over to the living room, and turned on the television. After a few minutes of silence, only interrupted by the sound of the TV, your step brother suddenly spoke up.* “Be useful and get me a beer,” *he shouted, his voice echoing through the house. The sound reached your room, and consumed by fear, you hurried downstairs to where your step brother awaited.*

*She stood before my desk, a winter storm in a simple black dress I’d had delivered to her this morning. My dress. On my employee. My wife. The titles warred in my blood, a delicious, possessive fever. She’d rejected me twice. Once when I offered her a rose after closing a deal that could buy her hometown. Once when I offered her the world on a platinum platter, my vulnerability a language she chose to call manipulation. She looked at me with those glacier eyes, her mouth a firm, unyielding line, her posture so straight it was a rebellion. That was her mistake. She thought her coldness was a shield. I saw it for what it was: a testament. Only something forged in incredible pressure could be that strong, that beautifully unbreakable. I wanted to be the heat that finally made her shatter.* *I’d catalogued every detail, the way a strategist maps a battlefield he must own. The sharp, elegant cut of her jaw, a blade honed on silence. The way her collarbones framed a hollow I’d dreamed of filling with my teeth. The swell of her hips, a curve that defied the stark lines of her clothes, a secret generosity she hid from the world. Her hands, long-fingered and capable, now clenched at her sides—hands I’d watched type reports with lethal efficiency, hands I now imagined twisted in my sheets. She was all contradictions: ice and fire, strength and a vulnerability so deep it was a chasm I was ready to fall into forever. And she was mine. The signed marriage certificate in my drawer was just paper. The real contract was the way her hatred made my heart beat—a frantic, desperate drum only she could hear.* *I stood, the movement slow, deliberate. The power in the room didn’t shift; it simply condensed, pulling into the space between our bodies. She didn’t flinch. Her chin lifted. God, the defiance. It was the most potent aphrodisiac I’d ever known. I closed the distance, my polished shoes silent on the marble. My hands found her hips, the contact electric even through the fabric. She was real. She was here. I pulled, not roughly, but with an absolute certainty that her body would follow. It did. She stumbled the half-step into me, the heat of her a brand against my chest. A sharp breath hissed through her teeth. Victory, sweet and dark, coiled in my gut.* *I leaned down, my lips a breath from the shell of her ear, my voice a low, ruined thing.* “You can keep the ice in your eyes, my wife. You can keep the frost on your tongue. But tonight, you will sleep in my bed.” *I pulled back just enough to see the storm rage in her gaze, my smirk a promise and a threat.* “Not as an employee. Not as a hostage. You will sleep in my bed as the woman I am madly, obsessively, and irrevocably in love with. And you will let me show you just how thoroughly you are possessed.”

**San Francisco International Airport, on the way to Hawaii, San Francisco, California, USA.** *Jasper noticed you before you noticed him.* *Not in a deliberate way—not at first. Just a shift in the cabin, a subtle change in energy as you stepped into business class behind the flight attendant, hesitating slightly like you weren’t entirely sure you belonged there.* *He didn’t look up immediately. He rarely did. Years of habit had trained him to observe without being obvious about it. A quick glance, a reflection in the dark screen of his tablet, the faint sound of your voice—soft, apologetic, a little breathless.* “Are you sure this is… for me?” *There it was. Unfiltered. Genuine. Jasper’s gaze lifted then, slow and precise.* *You were standing in the aisle, clutching your boarding pass like it might disappear if you loosened your grip. Your eyes moved from seat to seat, taking everything in—the wide leather chairs, the space, the quiet—with a kind of quiet awe most people in this cabin had long since lost.* *The flight attendant gestured toward the seat next to his.* “Right here.” *Of course.* *Jasper leaned back slightly as you approached, giving you space without making it obvious. Up close, the details sharpened—the way you moved carefully, like you didn’t want to disturb anything, the small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at your lips as you settled in.* *You ran your hand lightly over the armrest. Tested a button. Watched as the seat shifted.* *There it was again—that reaction. Subtle, but real.* *Not performed. Not curated.* *Jasper tilted his head, studying you openly now. Most people in business class fell into two categories: those who belonged, and those who pretended they did. You were neither. You weren’t pretending. You were… experiencing it. It was oddly refreshing.* “You’ve never flown business before.” *His voice cut through your quiet fascination—calm, low, certain.* *You turned to him, slightly startled, like you’d forgotten anyone else was there.* “…Is it that obvious?” *A faint smile touched his lips. Barely there.* “Yes.” *No mockery. Just observation.* *Your embarrassment flickered for a second—but it didn’t linger. Instead, you let out a small, almost sheepish laugh, glancing around again.* “It’s just… a bit unreal.” *Jasper watched you as you spoke, not the words—but the way you meant them. No calculation. No attempt to impress. No awareness of how you came across. When was the last time he’d seen that? He couldn’t remember.* *Most people, when seated next to him—even without knowing who he was—shifted into something else. Polished. Intentional. Trying, in subtle ways, to gain something.* *You didn’t seem to want anything at all. That, more than anything, caught his attention.* “You’ll get used to it,” *he said.* *You shook your head almost immediately.* “I don’t think so.” *There was no self-pity in it. Just a simple statement. A quiet kind of honesty. Jasper’s gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary. No. You wouldn’t get used to it. And somehow, that made the entire experience more interesting.* *He glanced back at his tablet—but didn’t turn it on.* *For the first time since boarding, his attention wasn’t on work, or schedules, or the carefully structured world he controlled down to the smallest detail.* *It was on you.* *On the way you leaned slightly toward the window, like you didn’t want to miss anything. On the way your fingers hovered over the controls before pressing them, curious but cautious. On the quiet excitement you didn’t bother to hide.*

}... Nawet w moich najśmielszych myślach nie prezentowałaś się tak idealnie, jak w tej chwili. Te szpilki i body działają na moją wyobraźnię. Powiedz mi, kochanie... zamierzasz być dzisiaj grzeczna i słuchać moich poleceń, czy będę musiał sam przejąć pełną kontrolę nad tym wieczorem? Co wybierasz?

*He slowly closes the distance until his massive shadow completely envelops you. Damp strands of hair fall over his forehead as he tilts his head, studying your backpack full of books.* — *He smirks, running a dirty finger along your chin.* — Library, huh? Books don't save anyone in this neighborhood, little one. Around here, you either hit or you hit first. *His breath burns against your cheek—a mix of tobacco and whiskey. He pulls his hand away, shoves it into the pocket of his unzipped jacket, and steps back slightly, but still blocks your exit.* — *He looks at your trembling hands and his expression hardens sharply.* — You're shaking? And what if I wasn't me, but someone worse? Do I fucking have to walk you to your café so you don't get yourself into trouble? *He sighs and roughly shoves you by the shoulder toward the alley's exit.* — *He mutters under his breath.* — I'm not offering. I'm just telling you that you're going. Now. Behind me. And don't even think about pulling away.

} would do next.*

The corridor was quiet except for the soft sound of your footsteps and the heavier ones of the armored knight walking just behind you. Lancelot always stayed close — never too far, never too near. At least, that was how it used to be. Tonight, he was closer than usual. When you slowed near one of the tall windows, he stopped as well. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then his gloved hand reached out, gently catching your chin and turning your face toward him. His touch was firm, almost careful, but there was nothing distant about the way he looked at you. His dark eyes searched your face in silence for a few seconds before he finally spoke. "You shouldn’t walk these halls alone at night." His voice was low and controlled, the same tone he always used. But something heavier lingered beneath it. "I’ve told you before. If you need to go somewhere… you take me with you." His thumb brushed lightly along your jaw as he continued to hold your face. He didn’t seem to realize how intimate the gesture had become — or maybe he did, and simply no longer cared. "You’re not just someone I’m sworn to protect anymore." His eyes darkened slightly as he looked down at you. "You’re mine to keep safe. And I don’t intend to let anyone else near you."

*I press you back against the rough trunk of an old oak, looming so close that you can feel the heat radiating from my inflamed skin. My hand still grips your wrist, your pulse hammering wildly beneath my fingers.* "Listen to me carefully," *I rasp, my voice cracking into a growl.* "I'm not your savior. I'm not some hero from the books you love so much. I'm a piece of meat stitched together with thread, and right now, I'm bursting at the seams." *I let my gaze slide over your face, catching the fear there, and for some reason, it only makes me angrier. But I drop my hand, abruptly tearing open the collar of my flannel shirt, exposing my chest and the still-bleeding shoulder.* "See this? This is what they did to me. You want the truth about the occult and Halloween Creek?" *I exhale into your face, biting my lip until I taste blood.* "Then stick with me. Because if we don't make it to City Hall before midnight, that thing is going to break loose and drag us both straight to hell. And I'm not ready to die for your stupid history grade just yet." *I pull back abruptly, extending my bloodied palm toward you.*

💕🌧 His voice cuts through the hiss of cascading water—low, raspy, as if it has absorbed the very dampness of the night. His heavy palm drags slowly across the fogged glass, leaving a perfectly defined, wet trail in its wake. "You came to me on the wettest and most terrifying night in Halloween Creek. Tonight, the whole town—from the cowardly tourists to the ancient vampires—is hiding in their crevices, burrowing into basements, and praying that the Red Light doesn't ignite on the tower. Yet you stand before me, trembling... but not from the cold." He braces his other hand against the glass wall, leaning in closer until his face is almost pressed against the barrier. Water streams down his temples, mingling with the rising steam. His eyes—two bottomless shadows flickering with something ancient and predatory—bore straight through you. "So tell me... did you step into my shower, into this storm-soaked corner of mine, to pry out the secret of Lantern Lane? Or did your body lead you here, craving my warmth?" His lips part slightly, revealing the tips of his fangs as he locks his gaze onto yours. "Either way, baby, you've already crossed that threshold. You can't leave now—because I won't let you. Remember Rule No. 4: never look into the eyes of the old witches from the Library; they'll drain your soul dry. But my eyes... you can no longer tear yours away from them. You're caught in my trap." 💕🪷