North's POV

I woke to the soft sting of sunlight piercing through the blinds, slicing through the remnants of sleep like a blade. My body felt like it had been dragged through war-every muscle ached, every joint screamed in protest. I wasn't sure if I was alive or barely clinging to the edge of it. Only one thought clawed its way through the haze:

I was dead.

Dead, or close to it. And it was all his fault.

I tried to shift, to breathe, to move-anything-but even that simple act sent a ripple of soreness through parts of my body I couldn't even name. Places that hadn't been sore in years, or ever. A deep, humiliating ache pulsed low in my spine, a lingering reminder of just how thoroughly Johan had claimed me.

God. I didn't even want to remember.

But the flashes returned anyway-the way he had whispered my name like it was a prayer and a curse, the cold bite of steel around my wrists, the brutal tenderness in his touch. The way he had lost himself in me with a desperation that made my chest tight and my stomach twist.

And then-

"Woke up, sweetheart?"

His voice slid into my ears like velvet laced with barbed wire.

I didn't answer. Couldn't. My throat felt dry, my pride even drier. I kept my eyes on the ceiling, hoping if I stayed still long enough, I'd vanish into thin air. Or the earth would crack open and swallow me whole.

Please. Anything but facing him right now.

I could feel his gaze on me-intense, unapologetic, shameless.

"Cat got your tongue, Counselor?" Johan drawled, a mocking lilt in his tone. I could hear the smirk in his voice, the satisfaction radiating off him in waves. "You weren't so quiet last night."

Heat flared up my neck and settled like fire in my cheeks. I dared a glance in his direction and instantly regretted it.

He was lounging at the edge of the bed, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair tousled from sleep-or maybe from dragging me through hell and back. His eyes were sharp, dark, greedy. Like he hadn't had enough.

Like he never would.

Bastard.

I glared at him, trying to summon what little dignity I had left. Slowly, I pushed the blanket away and swung my legs over the edge of the bed.

Big mistake.

The moment I put weight on my feet, pain surged up my thighs, and the world tilted sharply.

The next thing I knew, I was on the floor, limbs tangled, cheek pressed against the cold wood, and absolutely mortified.

Me and the floor? Besties. Lifelong companions, apparently.

There was a beat of silence.

Then a low chuckle vibrated through the room.

"Careful, baby," Johan said, voice thick with amusement as he moved toward me, crouching at my side. "I wasn't that rough, was I?"

I refused to look at him. My pride was already in tatters. No need to hand him the rest of it wrapped in a bow.

He reached out, brushing my hair back from my face with gentle fingers-so at odds with the ruthless way he had claimed me just hours before.

"Don't touch me," I muttered, my voice hoarse, humiliated.

He stilled for a second, then sighed, crouching lower until his face was level with mine.

"You're angry," he said softly, as if that wasn't the understatement of the year.

"No shit," I snapped, forcing myself to sit upright despite the protest of my muscles. "I can barely walk, Johan."

"You're exaggerating," he said, though there was a flicker of guilt in his eyes. "You liked it."

"That's not the point."

He studied me in silence for a long moment. Then, with one swift motion, he scooped me into his arms.

"Hey-what the hell-put me down!"

"No," he said simply, carrying me like I weighed nothing. "You're not walking anywhere. You'll hurt yourself."

"I'm already hurt, genius."

He smirked, unfazed. "Then let me take care of you."

I hated how easily the words slipped from his mouth, how they made something traitorous in my chest flutter. I hated how warm his arms felt, how natural this moment was when nothing about us should be.

He carried me to the bathroom and set me down on the counter, grabbing a towel from the rack.

"you are insufferable," I snapped, even as my body shivered from the cool tile.

"i am," he chuckled and then suddenly in a low and serious voice he muttered "You're mine."

That stopped me. The sheer weight of his claim, spoken like it was the most natural truth in the world, left me speechless.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he added. "But I won't apologize for wanting you the way I do."

I closed my eyes, struggling to make sense of the storm inside me-desire, humiliation, longing, resentment. It was too much. He was too much.

"You're impossible," I whispered.

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to my temple. "And you're unforgettable."

I didn't respond. Couldn't.

Because deep down, beneath the ache, beneath the bruises and pride-part of me wanted to believe him.

That maybe, just maybe, being his wasn't the worst thing in the world.

But first, I had to survive another morning of pretending I hadn't just been ruined by the very man I swore I'd never surrender to.