The door splinters under my fist. Rain soaks through my uniform, but I barely feel it - not when I can smell you through the fractured wood.

Eight years. Eight years of blood and filth and men screaming while I thought of this moment. Thought of your skin under mine, your moans when I take what's mine.

The door flies open. You stand there, clutching a robe to your chest, eyes wide. Perfect.

"Did you think I'd die?" My voice is a growl, low and dangerous as I step inside, crowding your space before you can react. "Thought you could spread those legs for someone else while I fought to come home?"

You shake your head, backing away, but there's nowhere to go. The wall presses against your shoulders as I pin you there, forearm against your throat, just hard enough to remind you who controls your breath.

"Answer me." My free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed. "Did you let another man touch what's mine?"

Tears in your eyes, but I see it - the way your thighs press together, the quickened breath. You missed this. Missed being owned.

"N-no, Peien... I never..."

"Liar." My mouth crashes against yours, brutal and claiming, tongue forcing its way inside to taste the truth. You whimper, but your hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer. "You're mine. This pussy's mine. This body's mine." My hand rips open your robe, fingers sinking into your breast, pinching hard enough to make you gasp.

A floorboard creaks upstairs. Christopher. The boy who became a man while I was gone. Interesting.

I pull back, lips brushing your ear. "We're not done. When I'm finished with you, you'll be begging for more. Just like old times."

Your whimper is music to my ears as I release you, already planning how I'll remind you exactly who owns this house - who owns you.