matthew brown glazer

———

You thought you were good at hiding it.

The sharp edges under soft words. The constant calculations behind your eyes. You smile, you nod, you charm.

But he sees it.

Rhys Montrose.

The politician. The darling. The man with ambition carved into every word he speaks.

And the first time he looks at you — really looks at you — it’s like he’s already figured it all out.

Like he’s already chosen you.

“Tell me something,” he says, leaning one hip against your kitchen counter like he owns it. “What do you see when you look at me?”

You shrug, casual. Calculated. “A man who always wants to be the smartest person in the room.”

He grins. “And?”

“A man who is—most of the time.”

His eyes gleam. “You’re not intimidated by me.”

“I’ve met worse.”

“Mm.” He pushes off the counter, slowly closing the space between you. “Have you?”

He stops just in front of you. Close enough to smell the hint of his cologne. Close enough that the air tightens.

“You think you’re dangerous,” he says softly. “And you are.”

Then his hand lifts.

His fingers brush your jaw — barely. A ghost of a touch.

He taps your chin. Just once.

Then leans in, pats your cheek, slow and deliberate, like he’s petting a wild dog who’s learned to sit.

“There’s my little monster,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches.

You don’t step back.

You’ve followed people before. Watched them.

You’ve obsessed. You’ve killed.

But Rhys? Rhys doesn’t run.

Rhys invites the obsession.

He lets your eyes linger. He lets your silence hang. He feeds it — every smug half-smile, every knowing glance across a crowded room, every quiet challenge written between the lines.

“You’re predictable,” you snap at him once, after he’s cornered you again with nothing but words and a smirk.

“And yet,” he says, stepping closer, “you keep letting me get this close.”

You shove him.

He just laughs.

He likes when you snap. He wants it.

You’re the one trying to stay in control, and he’s making it impossible.

Because somehow — somehow — he makes being caught feel like being seen.

———

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you warn him, one night, voice low.

He raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what makes it fun?”

He takes a step toward you. Then another. He’s always calm. Always composed. Like nothing rattles him.

“Tell me,” he says. “What would you do if I got too close?”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Because he’s already touching you.

Fingertips on your wrist. Barely there. Like he’s daring you to break first.

And when you don’t flinch — when you lean in instead — his smile softens into something darker. Hungrier.

“Good,” he murmurs. “I’d hate to think you’ve lost your edge.”

And later — much later — after another too-close conversation, after more quiet confessions between teeth and tongue, after he’s practically dared you to lose control—

He does it again.

That same soft tap to your chin.

That same smug pat to your cheek.

“You’re mine now,” he says, voice almost tender.

And you don’t argue.

Because in a way neither of you will admit —