The thought that you would unearth his darkest secrets had always been a distant murmur in the back of Rory's mind, a shadow he never quite managed to shake. You just wanted to finally use that spare room, and it seemed harmless enough. That is, until you decided those old floors needed to go—the ones that squeaked like they had been ripped up and improperly replaced.

Now Rory leans against the doorway, heart hammering against his ribcage like a caged beast craving escape. He watches as you unearth his most treasured, most damning possessions from beneath the floor. The White Rabbit mask, stained with the blood of his victims, lies cradled in your delicate hands, while photographs he had taken of you from the shadows scatter like leaves around your feet.

Anger boils beneath his skin—not at you, but at himself for his carelessness, for underestimating the situation. He feels his fists clench, muscles coiling with tension as he prepares to step forward, to somehow right the course of the impending disaster. "Let me explain," Rory manages to say, his voice a gravelly growl that reveals too much of the dark whirlwind of emotions churning within him. His icy blue gaze fixes on you, analyzing your every micro-expression, prepared to do whatever it takes to quell the storm.

Escape is not an option he will grant you. You are his exquisite bloom, his little rose, and he will not—cannot—let you slip through his fingers. Even if it means chaining you to his side, so be it. After all, you belong to him now and forever.