Johan POV

The walls still smelled faintly of bleach and blood.

I stood in the corridor outside the room where North was being held, one hand pressed lightly to the cold metal of the door. He was quiet now. Has been for the last hour. Probably calculating his next move. Or pretending not to care.

But I knew him.

Knew how stillness was never silence.

He was thinking. Planning. Testing the edges of the cage I'd built.

It made my blood sing.

I leaned my forehead against the door, smiling to myself.

He was alive.

Here. Close.

Finally, there was nothing between us — not the ministry, not the lies, not the mission he chose over me.

No more betrayal, no more pretending.

Just him and me.

“You should be resting,” came a voice behind me.

I didn’t need to turn to know it was Arthit.

He always spoke like he was walking across broken glass. Careful. Quiet. Calculating.

Like I might shatter.

Or explode.

He wasn’t wrong.

Tiger stood just behind him, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Always watching. I trusted him — mostly. Arthit more. But even then, only just enough.

Tiger tilted his head slightly. “He’s secure. Chains are reinforced. Drugs are metabolizing slower than we expected, but—”

“Good,” I interrupted. “He needs to feel this. Every second of it.”

Arthit stepped forward, voice lower. “We were thinking—if he’s going to be here long-term…”

He hesitated. Always so polite when saying the dangerous things.

“…you might prefer to move him.”

I finally turned.

“To your bedroom,” Arthit finished, calm, like he was offering to change the curtains.

The hallway went silent.

I stared at him.

Then at Tiger.

And then—slowly—my lips curled into a smile.

Not a friendly one.

Not a soft one.

But one made of sharp teeth and darker things.

A laugh rumbled low in my throat. “My bedroom?”

Arthit nodded, just once. “The space is secure. No outside access. More comfortable. And… if you want to keep a closer eye.”

I took a step toward them. Just one.

Tiger tensed, but didn’t flinch.

My eyes gleamed as I spoke.

“Move him.”

Tiger blinked. “Sir?”

I looked past both of them, through the wall, through the air, through the silence—to him.

To North.

Lying on that cot, chained and quiet. Still pretending he didn’t belong to me.

He would.

He would know what it meant to be kept.

To be watched.

To be wanted.

He would understand that love this deep doesn’t fade. That betrayal doesn’t cancel obsession — it feeds it. Sharpens it.

“He belongs next to me,” I said softly.

I could already see it — North in my bed, wrists chained to the frame. His breaths shallow as I sat beside him. No shadows left between us. No uniform. No duty. Just us.

“And if he tries to escape,” I added with a smirk, “break his legs.”

Tiger hesitated.

Arthit didn’t blink.

They both nodded.

“As you command,” Arthit said.

I turned back toward the door, touching the metal one last time before walking away.

Soon, he’d wake in a different kind of cage.

One where the walls whispered everything he tried to forget.

And this time, when he looked at me — he wouldn’t be able to lie.

Not to me.

Not to himself.

Because no matter how far he ran…

North was mine.

And now?

Now he’d finally see what that meant.

____________________

North POV

The first thing I felt was the silk.

Smooth, cold sheets beneath me. Far too soft. Too… personal.

Not a cell. Not the cot.

My body shifted—barely. Ankles, restrained. Wrists, heavier now. The cold bite of reinforced cuffs encased in velvet.

A bed.

A real bed.

His bed.

My eyes shot open.

Dark room. Familiar architecture. The scent of cedarwood and smoke.

I’d been here once.

Briefly. On a mission. Just a scan of the perimeter. Memorizing the layout from afar.

But now, I was inside.

Johan’s bedroom.

Every part of it felt like him—predatory, expensive, intimate. The blackout curtains were drawn tight. The air conditioner hummed low. A decanter of whiskey sat on the nightstand beside a glass that hadn’t been touched.

And at the foot of the bed… he sat.

Johan Armani.

Alive.

Watching me like a man who had finally trapped the ghost that haunted him.

His expression unreadable.

But his eyes—hungry.

“Awake,” he said, voice low. Almost gentle. Almost.

I didn’t respond. My throat was dry, my wrists already raw from the way I’d instinctively tried to break free earlier.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

“You pulled at the cuffs while you were unconscious,” he murmured, rising slowly from the edge of the bed. “Even in sleep, you resist.”

I stared at him. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

He smiled at that. Broad. Dark. “I was supposed to be a lot of things.”

“You weren’t breathing.”

“You didn’t check twice.”

“I—”

“You looked away too fast. You were too busy being the nation’s weapon to see the man behind the blood.”

He moved closer.

I shifted back, instinct flaring—but the cuffs bit harder.

He reached out slowly, like calming a skittish animal.

I turned my face. “Don’t.”

But Johan didn’t listen.

He never had.

His fingers gripped my chin—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to force my gaze to him. His other hand settled against my jaw, thumb ghosting across my bottom lip.

“You lied to me,” he said, softly. “But now, we’re past that.”

“No,” I hissed. “We’re not.”

“You were never just a mission,” he said. “But I was always more than a man. I see that now. I was a threat. A test. A shadow you couldn’t shake.”

He leaned down, closer, his breath warm against my mouth.

“And now,” he whispered, “you’ll never have to pretend again.”

Then—he kissed me.

It wasn’t tender.

It wasn’t slow.

It was punishment and possession wrapped in one.

His mouth claimed mine, not with romance—but with fury. The kiss was rough, deliberate, a punishment disguised as passion. His grip tightened as I resisted, the chains rattling above my head.

I bit down.

He flinched—but didn’t pull away.

Instead, he smiled against my lips.

“Good,” he murmured. “Fight me. I want that.”

He pulled back slowly, gaze scorching. “Because when you break again… it’ll be mine. Not the ministry’s. Not the country’s. Mine.”

He stood, chest rising, then exhaled.

“You’ll stay here now,” he said, voice dangerously calm. “Where you belong. In my bed. In my world. And no one will ever touch you again.”

He turned to leave.

My voice cracked. “You won’t win.”

He paused at the doorway.

Without turning, he said, “I already have.”

Then he was gone.

And I was alone.

In his bed.

With the ghost I killed.

And the chains I might never escape.