Johan POV

He kissed me back.

That’s what kept replaying in my head like a drugged-up echo.

He kissed me back.

It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t a mistake. It was real — lips warm, breath shaking, his fingers curled into my coat like he was scared I might vanish.

And then he looked up at me.

Cheeks pink, eyes wide, lips still parted from the kiss.

A blushing mess.

Because of me.

Because of Mark.

I had to grip the counter behind me just to keep from showing how hard it hit me — how deep that look dug under my skin and stayed there, carving out space where nothing should’ve existed.

He doesn’t know what I’ve done.

He doesn’t know who I really am.

And yet, in that moment… he looked at me like I was safe. Like I was his safe place.

God, I could’ve destroyed the world for that expression.

I could’ve burned down every rival, sunk every shipment, and erased every threat with my bare hands if it meant keeping that look — that softness — reserved for me.

Just me.

No one had ever looked at me like that without fear.

No one had touched me like that without flinching.

I wasn’t used to being wanted this way.

Not because of power. Not because of money. Not out of fear.

But because I made someone feel something.

And now?

Now I couldn’t stop staring at him as he nervously glanced down, brushing his fingers through his hair, his voice soft as he said:

"Do you... maybe wanna come over? Just to talk. I mean—only if you're free—”

My jaw clenched.

He had no idea what he was doing to me. No idea how dangerous that invitation was.

Because the second he gave me a window into his world — a real window — I wanted to slam it shut behind me and never leave.

I wanted to walk through his door and strip away the false name, the careful mask, the entire empire I’d built on violence and silence — just to sit next to him on that worn-out couch and pretend we were normal.

But I also wanted to lock the door behind us.

To keep anyone else from ever seeing him the way I did.

To make sure that the warmth he gave me never landed on anyone else’s skin.

I’d spent my life taking what I wanted with force. But this—this soft, blooming feeling—was different.

It was terrifying.

And it was mine.

North.

He was mine now, even if he didn’t know it yet.

And that blush?

That nervous little half-smile?

That was going to be for me, and only me.

No one else would earn it.

Not in this life — not in any.

He asked me to come over.

And I said yes.

I didn’t even hesitate. Not outwardly, at least. Not where he could see it. But inside, it was chaos.

I’d killed men for less than what I was feeling right now.

North… he had no idea what he’d done with those simple words. The way he’d shifted his weight, nervous, hopeful. The way his eyes flicked up to mine for a second and then quickly away like he wasn’t sure what to expect from me.

What he wanted from me.

What I was.

And I? I was barely keeping myself together.

I followed him down the quiet street toward his apartment. The rain had stopped, leaving the air damp and full of petrichor. Streetlights reflected off the puddles like golden cracks in the sidewalk.

He kept glancing over his shoulder, like he couldn’t believe I was still there. His small, unsure smile made something in my chest burn.

He didn’t know that I would’ve followed him anywhere. That I’d already memorized every step of his path home before he’d even invited me. I knew how many floors up he lived, the broken intercom in the lobby, the neighbor who always left their shoes outside their door.

But tonight I didn’t walk in as Johan Armani, the man who ruled silence and fear.

I walked in as Mark—a name he trusted.

That trust was a gift. One I didn’t deserve. And yet, when he unlocked the door and stepped aside to let me in, it felt like the world tilted on its axis.

The space was small, cluttered but clean, with mismatched furniture and a warmth that couldn’t be faked. It smelled like him—laundry detergent and faint vanilla, a scent that would now live in my lungs.

“Sorry it’s… nothing fancy,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck as he kicked off his shoes. “I’ve been meaning to decorate.”

I stepped in silently, taking everything in—books stacked on every surface, a half-eaten bag of cookies on the coffee table, his coat tossed lazily over a chair.

I wanted to touch everything.

I wanted to breathe it in, press it into my skin.

“It’s perfect,” I said, and I meant it.

He turned to me with a shy smile, brushing his fingers through his hair again. He was fidgeting—tapping his fingers on the back of the couch, then stopping. Starting again.

“You can sit,” he offered, his voice soft. “Or… um, I have tea? If you want?”

I sat.

I didn’t want tea.

I wanted him.

He disappeared into the kitchenette, rattling cups and opening a cabinet with more noise than necessary. Nervous. And that made my chest ache even more.

I leaned back into the couch and let my gaze roam. A framed photo on the bookshelf caught my eye—him and an older woman, probably his mother. He was smiling wide, genuine.

God, I wanted to see that smile again. I wanted it aimed at me. Only at me.

North returned with two mugs, handing one to me with both hands. Our fingers brushed. He looked like he was about to say something, but stopped, opting for a sip of his tea instead.

It was then I noticed how close he’d sat—right at the edge of the couch cushion, angled toward me. Our knees almost touched.

He was warm. He radiated it.

This room, this moment, he—they were everything I’d never been allowed to have.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked, my voice low.

He blinked, startled. “I—um. I don’t know. Just… stuff. You. Us.”

That single word—us—made me freeze.

There shouldn’t be an “us.”

And yet, here we were.

“I feel safe when you’re around,” he added, voice quieter now. “I know that sounds weird. I don’t even really know you, but it’s like… you make everything else feel quieter.”

Safe.

That word shouldn’t have been mine.

But I took it anyway.

He looked up at me then, eyes filled with too much hope. Too much light.

I leaned in, slowly, carefully—watching him for any hesitation. There was none.

And this time, when I kissed him, it wasn’t just want.

It was need.

Our lips met like magnets drawn too tightly together. He tasted like peppermint and nervous energy, and his hands curled lightly into my sleeve, grounding himself.

I cradled the back of his head, deepening the kiss just enough to feel the tremble in his breath. My other hand rested on his waist, anchoring him in place, reminding myself to be gentle.

He wasn’t like the world I came from.

He was soft where everything else had been hard. Honest where everything else was built on lies.

I pulled back slightly, and his eyes fluttered open.

He looked wrecked in the most beautiful way.

Blushing. Flustered. Adorable.

Mine.

I wanted to burn the city down just to protect that expression.

“I like you, North,” I whispered, brushing my thumb along his cheek. “Too much.”

He leaned into my touch without thinking.

That was the moment I knew.

There was no going back.

Not for me.

Not from this.

Not when I’d tasted him.

Not when I’d seen how his eyes softened when he looked at me, like I was something good.

And certainly not when he’d invited me into his home—his sanctuary—completely unaware of the wolf he’d let in.

My name wasn’t Mark.

And one day, he’d find out the truth.

But until then?

He was mine.

Every flushed cheek. Every nervous laugh. Every secret glance.

Mine.

And I would do whatever it took to keep it that way.

Even if it meant bleeding the world dry.

____________

It was past midnight when the call came.

Tiger never called unless it was urgent.

I lay on North’s couch, his scent still clinging to the throw blanket he'd insisted I use. The warmth of his body still echoed in my arms. He had fallen asleep against me after we spent hours talking about everything and nothing—from his favorite poetry to how he hated loud shoes in libraries.

He was beautiful when he slept. Vulnerable. Trusting.

And I would’ve stayed like that until morning if the burner phone hadn’t lit up in my coat pocket.

One vibration. Another.

I slipped out from under him, slow and silent, draping the blanket back around his frame like armor.

He stirred, eyes cracking open. “Mark?”

I swallowed. That name again. The name I wore like a costume.

“Just a quick call,” I lied, brushing my fingers through his hair. “Go back to sleep.”

His hand caught mine. “You’ll be here when I wake up?”

It nearly shattered me.

“Of course.”

I didn’t know if that was a promise I could keep.

The warehouse stank of oil and betrayal.

Tiger met me at the gate, his expression a stone wall as usual, but I could see the tension in his jaw. Arthit was pacing inside, phone pressed to his ear, barking orders in Thai.

A body was slumped against one of the steel support beams.

Blood pooled around the man's knees, slick and too fresh.

"Report," I said without preamble.

Tiger handed me a folder. "One of the southern arms routes got intercepted. Not by police. Privateers. Gear gone. Men gone. Whoever did it knew exactly when and where to hit."

"The mole again?"

"Most likely. But now they’re escalating. This wasn't a warning. It was a statement."

Arthit hung up. "We traced a coded signal from Bangkok back to one of our interim safehouses. The rat might be embedded there."

I stared at the bloodied man groaning on the floor. He looked up, face half-swollen. "I don't know anything! I swear!"

Wrong answer.

I grabbed the nearest wrench off the table. The clang it made as it met bone echoed across the space like a church bell of violence.

"You don't get to swear. You get to scream."

He did.

Again and again.

Until Tiger had to pull me off.

My chest heaved. My hands were shaking.

North's face flashed in my mind. His soft voice. His sleepy smile. His quiet, fragile world.

"Find them," I growled to Arthit. "Every last one. I want heads. On stakes if necessary."

"And North?" Tiger asked quietly.

I froze.

"He doesn't know anything. He stays out of this. Protected. Always."

Tiger nodded. "Understood."

I wiped the blood from my hands with a rag and tossed it aside. My heart still hadn't slowed.

I needed to return to him.

But not like this.

Not with this rage in my veins.

Not with this war on my back.

So I waited until dawn before heading back to the apartment—to the boy who didn’t know the world had turned a shade darker while he dreamed.

And when he looked at me with sleepy eyes and whispered, “You came back,”

I lied again.

“I never left.”

_____________________

Weeks passed, and Mark began to stay over more frequently. What started as casual visits turned into shared breakfasts, cups of tea brewed half-asleep, and quiet evenings curled up with books neither of them finished reading. North had cleared out a drawer for Mark. That drawer soon became two.

Mark cooked once, terribly. The omelet was overdone and the toast burnt, but North smiled anyway, eating it with exaggerated appreciation. “A+ for effort,” he teased, his eyes warm.

They spent lazy Sundays sprawled across the bed, wrapped in blankets and one another. Mark would run fingers through North's hair while North traced idle patterns across Mark's chest.

There were kisses—more frequent, more tender. Laughter that echoed from the bathroom when they brushed their teeth side-by-side. Warm arguments over what movie to watch, quiet apologies shared beneath the covers.

North had never felt this safe before. This seen.

And Mark—Johan—had never felt this vulnerable.

Each time North smiled, it chipped away at the walls he’d built. Each time North touched him, he forgot the weight of his empire.

Yet even as Johan sank into this domestic peace, the possessiveness never left.

He watched North laugh with classmates at campus. He saw the lingering glances, the friendly brushes of hands.

And it made his blood boil.

North was his.

His to protect. His to love.

His to keep.

So he smiled and played the role of Mark. But inside, the wolf never stopped watching.

Waiting for the next threat. The next rat.

The next reason to burn the world down for the boy who had become his universe.