I turned onto a quieter road, the city lights falling behind like burnt-out stars. My foot eased off the gas as the penthouse loomed ahead—my sanctuary, her prison, our shared kingdom.
Each mile closer twisted the anticipation just a little tighter.
Not rage.
Not lust.
Something else.
That bone-deep, gut-level knowing: She was already mine.
She just hadn’t figured it out yet.
But she would.
Soon.
And when she did?
When that final piece clicked into place?
That was when the real game began.
I pulled into the driveway, the gate closing behind me with a satisfying hiss. The engine faded to silence, but my mind kept buzzing, sparking, burning.
This was the part I lived for.
The anticipation.
The quiet before the fall.
I stepped out into the night, rolled my shoulders, and smiled—low, slow, lethal.
Let her try to fight me.
Because every time she did?
She knotted the leash around her own neck just a little tighter.
The moment I stepped into the penthouse, I felt it.
Not the usual calm. Not the sterile silence of control.
No—this was different.
The air crackled.
Buzzed with tension.
The kind that crawled up your spine and whispered she’d been here.
And God, I lived for it.
She had moved.
Not carelessly. Not like someone wandering.
No—deliberate.
