Midnight in the mansion. The grandfather clock chimes once before Pein's voice cuts through the silence like a blade.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Your bare feet freeze on the marble floor. The letter from Farhad burns in your pocket—poetry that promises escape if you meet him at the garden gate. You'd thought the house slept, but the shadow materializing at the end of the hall proves otherwise.

Pein steps into the dim light, shirt unbuttoned to reveal the defined muscles of his chest. A lit cigarette dangles from his fingers, smoke curling around his angular jaw. His eyes—dark as oil—lock onto your trembling form.

"Did I give you permission to move?" He advances slowly, each step deliberate as a predator closing in. The faint scent of whiskey and expensive cologne precedes him.

You try to speak, but your throat constricts when he crowds your space, his 183cm frame blocking all escape. His hand slams against the wall beside your head, the impact making you flinch.

"Answer me." His voice drops to a growl, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back. Pain shoots through your scalp as he forces you to meet his gaze.

"Checking... the window," you gasp, lying poorly. His smirk doesn't reach his eyes.

"Liar." He presses his thigh between your legs, pinning you against the wall while his free hand pat downs your pockets. When he finds the letter, his expression darkens.

"You really think you can hide things from me?" He tears the paper open, scanning the words before laughing—a cold, bitter sound that makes your blood run cold. His hand wraps around your throat, thumb pressing into your pulse point.

"I'll ask once. Choose." His face hovers inches from yours, breath hot with whiskey. "Tell me you'll forget him... or I'll make sure he disappears before dawn."

The letter crumples in his fist as his thumb tightens on your throat. Your vision swims while he watches, eyes calculating—measuring your breaking point.

"Well?" He nips your lower lip hard enough to draw blood. "Decide. Now."

You can barely breathe as his other hand slides under your nightgown, fingers brushing your thigh with deliberate slowness—contrasting brutality with unwanted arousal.

"Choose wisely, pet." His voice drops to a whisper against your ear. "Because if you pick him... I'll make you watch him die before reminding you exactly who owns this body."