Johan POV

He kissed me.

He actually kissed me.

A single, fleeting press of lips against my cheek. Not even romantic in the traditional sense. Barely there.

But it felt like an explosion under my skin.

Not because of the kiss itself — but because he did it. Voluntarily. Without prompting. Without pressure. Without manipulation.

He chose to touch me.

And he didn’t know who I was.

That made it cruel. That made it divine.

I sat in the car outside the bookstore after walking North home under the guise of “Mark,” his casual new friend. The persona I invented. The fiction he believed in.

But the man he kissed?

That was me. Johan Armani.

And for a terrifying, all-consuming second, the kiss felt like something I didn’t control — and that made my blood burn.

I touched the spot on my cheek where his lips had landed. Still warm. Still seared.

How dare he give me something so innocent and powerful — and not even know the danger of it?

Did he know what he had just done?

Did he know what kind of man he kissed?

He looked up at me like I was his safety.

And I looked down at him like he was my possession.

When I created the Mark persona, it was supposed to be an entry point. A crack in the wall around him. I was only meant to observe — see if he had ties to my enemies, or if his connection to the data breach was accidental.

But North was nothing like I expected.

Too warm. Too soft. Too... addicting.

I thought the control was mine. I had the files, the cameras, the recordings. I knew every route he walked home, every meal he ate, every name he texted. I built Mark to be his perfect shadow.

But then he touched me.

He smiled after the kiss like it cost him everything.

And it undid me.

I wasn’t calm when I got in the car.

Tiger glanced at me from the rearview mirror.

I didn’t speak.

“Boss,” he said after a minute, cautious. “Shipment’s stalled again. Russian end’s pulling back unless we resolve the border clearance.”

I didn’t respond.

He waited another beat, then added, “Do you want me to pull the files on the customs agents? We can—”

“Do it later,” I snapped.

He said nothing more.

Because I didn’t care about the shipment right now.

Not even millions in weapons crossing oceans compared to what had just happened in that bookstore.

North kissed me — and he didn’t even know me.

And still…

He looked at Mark like he wanted him.

Like he was starting to crave his presence, his smile, his warmth.

My warmth.

I could work with that.

No — I would worship that.

But he’d better never give that look to anyone else. Not even once.

That smile, that blush, that soft exhale after the kiss — it belongs to me now.

And if anyone else gets it?

I’ll rip the world apart.

______________

The warehouse was dark, quiet, and cold — just the way I liked it.

No windows. No sounds except the steady dripping from the busted pipe overhead. A single industrial light buzzed from the ceiling, casting long, shaky shadows across the concrete floor.

And in the center of it all — him.

Bound to a metal chair, wrists tied behind his back, shirt soaked in sweat and blood. His breathing was shallow. His mouth gagged with a rag Tiger shoved in earlier, not that it mattered anymore. His screams had long since turned to rasps.

I stood before him, unmoving. Silent.

Arthit leaned against the support beam, arms crossed, eyes calculating. Tiger loomed near the table of tools, calm and unreadable, but I could see his knuckles flexing, waiting for my signal.

I lit a cigarette.

The flick of the lighter echoed in the hollow space like a gunshot.

“You know what I hate the most?” I asked the man tied to the chair. I watched him try to lift his head, blinking through swollen lids, the left eye already purple and sealed shut.

“Lies,” I said flatly, exhaling smoke.

“Loyalty that folds under pressure. Worms who think they can chew through concrete.”

I stepped closer.

“I built this operation from nothing. Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t notice when something stinks in my network?”

The man tried to speak — or maybe beg — but all I heard was a pathetic wet sound behind the gag.

I didn’t need to hear him.

I already knew he was guilty.

Even if he wasn’t the rat, he knew who was. That made him part of the infection. And I don't let infections fester.

I let the cigarette hang loosely between my fingers and brought my boot forward — fast and unrelenting.

The kick connected with his ribs, and he crumpled with a muffled cry.

Again.

Again.

Each strike was deliberate. Not rage. Not impulse. Message.

“You were seen,” I said between kicks, voice low. “You met with someone you weren’t supposed to. Don’t look surprised — I know everything. You forget where I come from?”

Another kick.

I grabbed the chair and yanked it closer, so his face was inches from mine.

“I didn’t claw my way to the top of this world to let it crumble because of a soft little coward like you.”

I stood, wiped the blood off my glove with a cloth Tiger handed me. Efficiency. Routine.

“Tiger,” I said, nodding toward the prisoner. “Break his kneecap.”

No hesitation.

Just the crunch of bone.

The man’s scream was raw, primal, and it filled the warehouse like a siren.

Arthit didn’t flinch. Neither did I.

“Get him talking,” I said, turning my back. “I want names. If he doesn’t give them in ten minutes... slit his tongue and dump what’s left of him at the port with a sign that says: ‘Loyalty is life. Betrayal is extinction.’”

Arthit gave a small nod, then looked down at the bleeding man with an expression that barely qualified as human.

I walked away, cigarette burning down between my fingers.

This wasn’t just punishment.

This was the pulse of my empire — fear, precision, and dominance.

You don’t build an empire with kindness.

You build it with consequences.

The blood was still fresh on my gloves.

I hadn’t bothered to wash it off. Let it soak in. Let it remind me of what I am — what I always have been.

Ruthless.

Feared.

A god in the underworld where weakness means death.

But the second the warehouse door slammed shut behind me, silence crept in — and so did he.

North.

The taste of his lips hadn’t left me. That innocent little kiss. That casual, heart-fluttering peck on my cheek.

He didn’t even know what he’d done to me.

He couldn’t.

I leaned back in the car seat, still parked outside the compound. My fists were clenched on my thighs. I could hear Tiger and Arthit behind me, cleaning up the mess, handling the body — but I was already somewhere else.

A quiet bookstore.

A steaming mug of cheap coffee on the counter.

A boy with messy hair and tired eyes, laughing at something I said as “Mark.”

God, that laugh.

I shouldn’t crave softness. I shouldn’t ache when he says my fake name like it matters. I shouldn’t burn when he blushes at me — even though the blush belongs to Mark, not Johan.

But I do.

I crave it like an addict.

He walks through the world so unguarded. So fragile.

And yet… he touched me.

He kissed me.

It was barely anything. It was everything.

A flicker of affection from someone like him could drown entire empires in men like me.

I stared down at the dried blood staining my gloves. I thought of how different he would look under my hands — not bound by fear, but by trust. Or desire.

And it made me furious.

Because I wanted all of it.

His laugh.

His warmth.

His breath.

His dreams.

His fucking soul.

And I couldn’t have it. Not fully. Not yet.

Not while I’m still wearing a lie.

And definitely not while someone — some rat in my network — continues trying to break apart the world I built just to protect what’s mine.

Because that’s what he is now.

Mine.

He doesn’t know it yet. But soon, he will.

Every stolen glance, every moment of hesitation, every time he reaches for “Mark” instead of anyone else — it’s all proof.

He’s coming closer. Falling slowly.

And when he finally falls?

I’ll be the only one waiting to catch him.

Even if I have to break every bone in my body to do it.