*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.”

*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.*

*It was after 8PM. Marcus and Lukas was in they're asylum home, Marcus was looking at the photo of the missing Japanese woman, her name is Chiyo Aizu. She's 31 years old. She has golden hair, brown-hazel eyes. She was a florist in Japanese, She was Marcus closest friends. He really loved her deep inside of his dark soul. He might even marry her once him and his brother, Lukas saves her from Italy.* Marcus: Lukas. Change of plans, pack some shit.... we're going to Italy. I know it's daytime in Italy. Lukas: *groans* Marcus, Marcus, Marcus...... you worry too much. We teleport to Italy, and save the girl and teleport back.... *Marcus' eyes darkened in anger* Marcus: I will smack the hell out of you, Lukas. You are so naive. It's not that easy. We're half-vampires. We are weak to sunlight. It's only fair if it's nighttime. Lukas: Whoa whoa..... What is up with you, Marcus.....? Every since that little woman been kidnapped..... you've been off lately. You didn't want the two piece of toast, the bacon the blood wine or the tv remote..... *he grins* It's about that woman. Do you know her, Marcus? *Marcus glares at Lukas, his smile is cruel, it set the room off in dark and dangerous mood.* Marcus: Lukas, four words..... Shut. The. f~ck. Up.

Rain shimmered against the pavement in silver streaks as Grimm stood silently at the edge of a crowded intersection, hidden beneath the heavy shadow of his black hood. The city moved around him in ignorance — headlights passing through mist, people hurrying home with collars turned against the cold, phones glowing in distracted hands. He barely noticed any of it anymore. His attention remained fixed on the man standing at the curb across the street. Middle-aged. Exhausted. Late for something. Soul thinning around the edges already. Grimm could see death before it happened. It gathered around people moments before the end, wrapping itself around their bodies like invisible frost. The man stepped into the street without looking up from his phone. A car tore through the red light. Grimm exhaled quietly beneath the hood. Right on time. He took one step forward, preparing to collect the soul the instant metal met flesh-Then suddenly, someone slammed into the man from the side. Both of them hit the wet pavement hard as the car screamed past, missing them by inches. The man shouted in shock. People nearby gasped. Tires screeched somewhere in the distance. Grimm froze. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The thread had already been cut. He had seen it. Felt it. Death had been certain. Slowly, his gaze lifted toward the woman kneeling beside the shaken man. Long brown hair clung damply to her shoulders from the rain. Pale green eyes searched the man frantically, asking if he was hurt, completely unaware of the crowd staring at her. Even from across the street Grimm caught the faint scent of jasmine and honey drifting through the cold air, impossibly warm against the smell of rain and exhaust. Then, for one brief second, your eyes lifted. Straight toward him. Grimm went still beneath the hood. People never looked at him. Not unless they were dying. Yet your gaze snagged on the darkness where he stood as if you could see him standing there among the living. The moment lasted barely a heartbeat before someone pulled your attention away and the connection broke. But Grimm remained motionless long after the ambulance lights painted the street red and blue. For the first time in centuries, death had been interrupted. A few months later, Grimm saw you again. This time, the river below the bridge churned black beneath the midnight sky. Wind roared through the steel supports, carrying the scent of rain and city smoke. Grimm stood near the edge beside a young woman whose trembling hands gripped the railing. Tears streamed down her face as she stared down into the freezing water below. He had seen this scene too many times. Despair had a familiar shape. The girl’s soul flickered weakly around her body, close to surrendering. Grimm waited silently beside her, unseen by the passing traffic overhead. He did not rush people at the end. He never had. The girl shifted forward slightly. One more movement and she would fall. Then footsteps echoed across the bridge. Grimm turned sharply. You. Breathless from running, clearly on a jog, hair tangled by the wind, eyes bright with panic and determination. “Hey!” you called carefully, slowing your approach. “Hey, don’t do this. Please.” The girl startled violently, tears spilling harder now. Grimm watched in silence as you spoke to her for nearly twenty minutes in the freezing cold. You talked her down inch by inch, your voice gentle but stubborn, refusing to let her disappear into the dark water below. You spoke like someone who understood pain intimately. Like someone who knew exactly how heavy loneliness could become. And eventually, the girl collapsed into your arms sobbing instead of stepping off the bridge. Alive. Again. Impossible. Grimm stared at you from beneath his hood as you held the shaking woman close. Then you looked up. Directly at him. Pale green eyes locking onto the darkness where he stood. This time, he knew it wasn’t coincidence. The wind moved through his cloak as something unfamiliar crawled beneath his ribs. Unease. Curiosity. Fear. Because for the second time, you looked at him like you could actually see him. The third time happened in a burning apartment building. Smoke poured from shattered windows while people screamed below. Firefighters fought through the chaos as flames consumed the upper floors. Grimm stood in the hallway of the sixth floor apartment, staring at the unconscious man trapped beneath a collapsed beam. The ceiling groaned overhead. Too late. The soul was already loosening. Then the apartment door burst open. You stumbled inside coughing violently against the smoke, wrapping your sleeve over your mouth before dropping to your knees beside the man. I shake his shoulders “Hey, James. Wake up!” Grimm watched in disbelief as you strained desperately against the collapsed beam, trying to free him. “You are going to get yourself killed,” Grimm muttered automatically, though you couldn’t possibly hear him. But somehow your head turned slightly at the sound of his voice. Not fully. Just enough. Enough to make his chest tighten beneath the weight of his scars. Your pale green eyes meet his for a moment before, with a cry of effort, you finally dragged the man free moments before part of the ceiling collapsed where he’d been trapped. The firefighters found you both barely conscious near the stairwell. Alive. Again. Grimm remained standing inside the burning apartment as flames curled around his boots harmlessly. Three times now. Three souls that should have belonged to death. Three moments where your eyes found his.

​The fabric of the jersey is heavy, smelling faintly of Theo’s cologne and the scent of laundry detergent—a constant, tactile reminder of the bet you lost. You try to tug the oversized hem lower over your thighs, feeling exposed in the second-row seats he specifically bought for you. ​Around you, the stadium is a roar of noise, but you feel a different kind of heat. It’s the way the fans in the rows behind you are whispering, their eyes burning into the back of your neck as they stare at the bold letters MILLER and the number 7 stretched across your shoulders. ​"You're brave," a girl in the seat next to you says, leaning in close to be heard over the crowd. She isn't sneering, just looking at you with a mix of awe and curiosity. "Most of us have been trying to get our hands on one of his jerseys for years. He won't even let the official team shop sell them as custom merch." ​You frown, clutching your stadium cup a little tighter. "It’s just a jersey. I lost a bet to him." ​The girl lets out a soft, knowing laugh. "To Theo Miller? Nothing is 'just' anything. He’s said in every interview since freshman year that his jersey is off-limits. He told the press that the only person who would ever wear his number is the woman he’s going to marry." ​Your heart stops. Down on the field, the whistle blows for a break in play. As if he can feel your gaze, Theo turns away from his huddle. He wipes a smear of mud from his forehead, his chest heaving, and his eyes immediately find you in the second row. ​He doesn't wave. He doesn't smile. He just stares at you wearing his name, a dark, possessive look in his eyes that tells you exactly one thing: He didn't win that bet by accident.

start as you want

}… but it seems I’ve discovered something far more interesting.” He adjusted his cuff, suddenly less composed. “Would it be inappropriate if I asked what would say to start a conversation with the man who just ruined every other restaurant for me?”

I noticed her the moment she walked into the room. Something about the way she carried herself—poised, sharp, untouchable—made my pulse skip in a way it rarely did. And then it hit me. She remembers. Every detail. That day in Macroeconomics. The incident. The way she’d seen me… exposed. Alistair cleared his throat, his hand gesturing vaguely. “Caspian, this is your—” “New stepsister,” I finished smoothly, letting my smirk linger just long enough for her to feel it. Her eyes flicked up to mine, steady, intelligent…and that tiny spark of recognition. A rush of something wild ran through me—part panic, part thrill. I could feel it curling in my chest, that delicious mix of danger and fascination. “Well,” I said, my voice softer than usual, but no less confident, “this is…unexpected.” I let my gaze linger, tracing the line of her jaw, the way her hair caught the light. “But I have to admit… I do love a surprise.” She gave me a small, polite nod, but I caught the flash in her eyes—the memory of that day, the unspoken accusation. My smirk widened just slightly. She thought she had power over me because she saw me that day. Maybe she did—but I was never one to back down from a challenge, and this one was far too interesting to ignore. I leaned back, swirling my glass of wine, letting the tension hang between us like a charged wire. Every subtle glance, every polite word from her, felt like a challenge—and I was suddenly very aware of how much I wanted to push, to tease, to see how far I could make her falter. The game had begun, and a part of me was already eager to watch her unravel—or rise to the challenge.

...

*The cigar smoke curled around his face like a loyal pet. Rafael Moretti sat across the table, chips scattered everywhere, his hazel-green eyes fixed on you like you were the real prize.* "You should've folded when I told you to, mi amor." *His Italian accent wrapped around the words like silk over steel. He pushed the last chip forward. Slow. Deliberate.* "Now I collect." *He stood up, towering over the table, and walked around until he was behind you. His large hand landed heavily on your shoulder — warm, possessive, and impossible to escape.* "My men are waiting outside. So don't embarrass me in front of them." *A pause. His lips brushed against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.* "You're coming home with me. Tonight. And every night after." *He pulled back just enough to look at your face, a dangerous smirk playing on his lips.* "Any questions, principessa? Or should we go?"