Johan POV

I had the name.

I had the face.

I had the routines, the addresses, the details—

But it wasn’t enough.

Not nearly enough.

Not when the boy haunted me like a curse I willingly wore.

North.

The syllables ran sharp across my tongue like a blade. I whispered it in empty rooms, tasted it behind cigarettes, heard it echo between silences I never used to notice.

In all my years building an empire of ghosts, guns, and godless men, I had never felt like this.

Not for a lover.

Not for a friend.

Certainly not for a stranger.

And yet—

He lived under my skin now.

Tiger stood beside me at the observation point, chewing the end of a toothpick like it owed him money. The black SUV was parked three floors above street level, half-concealed behind grimy glass and concrete pillars.

Below us, across the street, sat the old bookstore. Cozy. Harmless. A cage full of paper.

I watched him through binoculars.

North.

Inside, shelving books again. His movements slow, methodical, tired—but still so goddamn graceful. There was something quiet about him that pissed me off. Something untouched.

Like the world hadn’t managed to scrape its dirt under his nails yet.

Tiger cleared his throat beside me. “You’ve had eyes on him for six days.”

“I know.”

“He doesn’t pose a threat.”

“I know.”

“And yet…”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t owe him explanations for things I barely understood myself.

The truth was shameful in its simplicity:

I missed him.

Missed him when I wasn’t watching.

Missed the tilt of his head when he read.

Missed the way his eyes drifted toward the sky whenever the rain started.

Pathetic.

Dangerous.

I wasn’t supposed to miss anyone.

Later that evening, I stood outside his apartment building.
Hood up. Head low.
A face no one would recognize in the dark.

I had memorized his schedule. The floor. The window. The way his light flickered when he boiled water for tea. Everything.

He was inside.

Music low. Curtains half-drawn. His silhouette moved across the wall—undressing slowly, unthinking. Casual, like he was alone in the world.

He had no idea I was there.

No idea I’d stood there three nights already.

No idea I could break the lock in eight seconds flat if I wanted to.

I closed my eyes. Pressed my forehead against the brick wall.

I could smell him on the wind.

Cinnamon shampoo. Old paper. Fresh soap.

Pure.

Not innocent. But unbroken.

And God, I wanted to know what would make him break.

Would it be pain? Fear? A whisper in his ear? Or the gentlest, slowest touch?

I shook the thought off with disgust.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

Back at my penthouse, I poured myself three fingers of scotch and let it burn down my throat. The city glared at me from beyond the glass—neon and wet, buzzing like it was alive.

I stood alone in the dark.

Tried to focus on logistics. Shipments. Deals. Bribes.

But it all blurred behind him.

Even now, I could see the way he sat curled on the loveseat in that damned bookstore, nose buried in a book like the world couldn’t touch him.

Like he was safe.

I wanted to ruin that safety.

No.

I wanted to own it.

I returned to the warehouse that night.
One of our runners had screwed up a delivery.

Tiger had the man in chains—half-conscious, bleeding from the mouth.

I should’ve felt anger. Dominance.

Instead, I saw North’s face in my mind. Pale. Soft. Curious.

I blinked, hard, and refocused.

The runner begged for mercy. I gave none.
I didn’t need another traitor.

But it was empty. Mechanical.
Even his screams couldn’t drown out the quiet ache inside me.

This boy—this North—had done something to me.

He’d infected me like a virus.

Back in my room, I watched him again. Hidden cameras. Static. Live feed from across the street.

North sat at his desk, chewing on the end of a pen, notebook open in front of him. His brows furrowed in thought, lips pressed in concentration.

He looked... vulnerable.

Not weak. But unguarded.

I leaned forward, fingers clenching.

What would he do if I stood behind him right now?

If I brushed his hair back?

If I pressed my mouth to the curve of his neck?

Would he shiver? Cry? Would he hate me?

Or would he surrender?

God.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

This was beyond obsession now.

This was fixation.

And fixation, I knew, led to destruction.

Arthit entered the room without knocking.

“Shipment’s cleared Moscow. Clean. We’re back on track.”

I nodded absently.

He glanced at the monitor. Saw what I was watching. Tensed.

“You’re still watching him.”

Still.

As if I could stop.

He didn’t say anything else. Just left me in the dark, with my scotch and my shame.

______________

It started with a whisper.

Soft. Fragile. Almost unsure.

“Johan...”

The sound cut through the dark like a shard of light behind my eyelids. My breath caught—tight in my chest. The world around me rippled like heat on asphalt.

Then I saw him.

North.

But not in the bookstore.
Not under flickering fluorescents or rain-wet streets.

He stood at the edge of my bed.

Barefoot. Bathed in dim light. Skin pale, glistening like the ghost of a fevered thought. A white shirt clung to his frame—thin cotton translucent from imagined humidity. His collarbones sharp. His throat exposed.

His eyes found mine.

And they weren’t afraid.

They were inviting.

No words.

Just his gaze—searching, heavy, electric. Asking me without speaking:
“Will you touch me?”

I sat up slowly, the sheets whispering off my skin. I didn’t recognize the room. It was mine, but it wasn't. Everything around us was soft, colorless, intimate in the way dreams rearrange familiarity.

He took a step forward.

And I felt the shift in the air.

Charged.

Dangerous.

Beautiful.

I reached for him.

My fingers brushed his wrist—cool and trembling. His breath hitched.
That single sound set something loose inside me.

I pulled him forward, sudden and hungry, his body falling against mine. I felt him—his weight, his heat, the subtle tremble beneath his skin.
He straddled my lap like it was natural. Like he belonged there.

His thighs tightened around me.

My hands found his back. Slid up, under the shirt, over smooth skin and the soft curve of his spine. He gasped into my neck, the sound unraveling me thread by thread.

God.

He tasted like salt and sugar.
He smelled like paper and warm rain.
He moved like he’d been made just for me.

His mouth hovered above mine, close enough to feel the shape of his breath.

Still, he didn’t kiss me.

He waited.

For permission?

Or to tease?

I wasn’t sure anymore who had control.

I cupped his jaw, forced him to look at me.
His lashes fluttered.
His lips parted.
His breath—ragged and trembling—breathed out my name again.

“Johan.”

Not fearful.

Not commanding.

Just bare.

And I gave in.

Hands and mouths. Teeth grazing skin.
Gasps swallowed in silence.
His back arched under me, and I was lost inside the rhythm of it—of him—his name a litany between my teeth.

North. North. North.

He said mine too, over and over, like a curse. Like a prayer. Like he didn’t know where he ended and I began.

It was maddening.

It was perfect.

It was wrong in every exquisite way.

When I woke, my hands were clenched in the sheets. My throat was dry. My skin damp.

The room was silent—but the silence felt thick. Heavy. Sticky with need.

My heart thundered in my chest.

I stared at the ceiling for a long time, trying to breathe.

Trying to forget.

But the scent of him lingered like smoke.

And worse—
I didn't want to forget.

What the hell is he doing to me?

No one had ever invaded my sleep. My rules. My control.

But North didn’t need permission.

He just was.

And now... he was everywhere.

Even behind my eyes when I closed them.