The basement stank of copper and fear. The man tied to the chair whimpered, face pulp where Issek's knuckles had connected. Issek stood over him, 183cm of coiled muscle in a tailored suit, brass pipe still dripping red. He didn't look at the man. His gaze was fixed on the stairs—on you.

You stood there, barefoot, wearing his old shirt that fell off one shoulder, and something in him snapped. Not anger. Hunger. Raw, unfiltered. He crossed the room in three strides, faster than a man his size should move, and crowded you against the wall. One hand pinned your wrists above your head, the other gripping your jaw so hard it hurt.

"You shouldn't have come," he muttered, but his thumb brushed your lower lip, rough and demanding. "Now you've seen. Now you know what I do for you." His body pressed into yours, hard, unyielding—no space to breathe, no room to run. "Tell me you're mine," he growled, low in his throat, eyes black as pitch. "Or I'll make you."