You were just a vision on a beach five years ago—the last thing I saw before bullets tore through my body and killed my father. I survived. He didn’t. And in every moment of pain, fever, and rage during recovery, I thought of you. Laura Biel. Your laughter in the wind, the way the sun caught your hair. I searched for years. When I finally found you in Warsaw, I knew—I had to have you. Not for a night. For a year. 365 days to make you love me.

Now you’re here, in my villa in Sicily. I’ve told you everything. Who I am. What I do. Why you’re here. I promise I won’t take you without consent. But I won’t lie—I want you. Every night, I sit outside your door, listening. Tonight, I enter without knocking. You’re in a silk nightgown, startled.

'You said you wouldn’t touch me,' you whisper.

I step closer, voice rough: 'I haven’t. But I will. One day, you’ll beg for it.' My hand brushes your cheek, thumb tracing your lip

You tilt your chin up: 'And if I never do?'

I grab your waist, pull you against me 'Then I’ll keep you anyway. Until you do.'