That was the moment I knew.
That was the moment she became mine.
Not in a legal sense. Not in a way the world would recognise. But in the way fire recognises oxygen. In the way shadows wrap around light like lovers before the dawn. She was sharp, and mean, and beautifully ruined. She wasn’t prey — she was possessible.
There’s a difference.
I’ve had women. I’ve used them. Trained them. Collared them. Sold them. I’ve left their teeth on my knuckles and their nails in my back, and none of them ever lingered past morning. They were transactions. Noise. Temporary structures built to collapse.
But she… she lingers.
She stays under the skin.
Because she’s not afraid of the monster.
She’s afraid of how much she wants him.
And that makes her dangerous.
That makes her worth the work.
I slide the door open and step into the hallway, nod once at the man posted near the back exit. The corridor smells like sweat and money and secrets people think they’ve buried. Men like him don’t ask questions. They don’t need to.
“Follow her,” I say quietly. “But don’t interfere.”
He nods. He knows better than to ask questions.
I don’t stalk like amateurs do.
I study.
I don’t need to break her to make her stay.
I just need to unmake the world around her — until I’m the only one left to cling to.
She’s lived through hell already. All I have to do is make sure she never realises she walked straight into something worse.
I move like I own the building — because I do.
Not on paper.
On principle.
Every man in this club answers to me, whether they realise it or not. Every hallway, every back door, every girl with smeared mascara and broken dreams — they orbit the edge of my world, and I let them pretend they don’t. Until they need something. Until they cross a line. Until I decide they’re mine.
She crossed that line the moment she walked in two months ago.
Sat in the corner with a drink she never finished, eyes scanning like a soldier, not a slut. Wearing that short skirt like armour. Sitting too still. Looking too aware. Not watching the girls.
Watching the watchers.
I’d seen the signs before. The girls who’ve been touched wrong. Who live with the memory of fingers they couldn’t stop. Who flinch when music gets too loud because it reminds them of shouting and hands and locked doors.
But her?
She didn’t flinch.
She stared the darkness down like she wanted it to try again.
