lolita — ⋆⭒˚.⋆

CHAPTER ONE.

"Teenage dream - Stephen Dawes"

It was weird, not in a bad sense but it was weird. I was going to the city - somewhere so crowded and somewhere which is not as peaceful as damyang. I always wanted to study literature and i love the depth of words and poems. I got admission in Seoul university, One of the biggest universities of South Korea. My aunt lives in Seoul, and she's so nice. She and her husband are CEOs of multinational corporations. Wiping the sweaty palm from my jeans i stood up as soon as the train announced that we were reached.

As soon as I got out, and almost reached i was pulled in a bone crushing hug. She groaned softly and looked at her, min-ah. My cousin. She smiles softly, i patted her back softly feeling a little awkward by the sudden hug. Min-ah looked at me "God, i missed you. It's been years since i saw you. Was the journey okay?"

Well, that's new.

"Yeah, it was more than okay" I smiled softly and nodded. She grabbed the luggage i was about to decline but she already handed it over to her guards. She grabbed my hand and dragged me towards her black expensive ravishing Porsche. After a while, i was standing in front of a big huge mansion.

This striking house can be seen as the center piece of a bustling provincial town with regal splendor.Its monumental appearance decorated with complex mosaics and columns foreshadowed a lavishness that lay in store for guests inside.

You were welcomed by a strong aroma of herbal fragrances and flower scents that came from the guests that surrounded you just before getting to the huge arch through which you had to pass. The grand halls and luxurious chambers of the mansion showcased glorious architecture and dominance with each serving multiple utilizations.

Mythical dramas and charming rural scenes were embroidered onto the tapestries that were hung across the wall and marble floors could be seen reflecting the soft flicker of the oil lamps. It seemed the very walls of the mansion have a story to tell and every person present was in awe at that particular moment.

At the center of the mansion was a large atrium that was enclosed by columns and ideal from an architectural point of view to allow ventilation to the entire mansion.

That's basically nerve wrecking.

Min-ah went to call the aunt, i was fidgeting with my soft baby blue cardigan In the middle of the living room. I was looking around roaming my eyes, suddenly someone caught my wrist and pulled me inside the room. A squeal left my mouth. I looked up, a strong chest and a dark pair of eyes looking down at my hazel brown ones. I didn't know what was happening, who he was and there were another two men sitting behind him looking as scary as him.

"You were late, come on. Strip " the guy said who was holding me. What? Strip? My heart leaped in my chest, what is going on. Tears gathered in my eyes. "I-I'm not what you think I'm" i can't help but stammer.

"Taehyung, i don't think I'm in the mood to have sex anymore look at her and her outfit" one guy said looking at her in disgust and the style, he had a tattooed arm and silver chain around his neck. Dark eyes and raven hair styled. He was handsome but that thought didn't cross my mind in this situation. Morever that taehyung guy didn't leave me from his iron grip. Taehyung looked down at her.

❝L-let go of me.❞ she struggled in his grip, she pushed him harshly. He chuckles "oh, feisty little thing aren't you?" Soft pants leave my mouth back off slowly until the wall hits my back. His hands were either side of my face. "We said to strip didn't we?" He snarled. She flinched, she shook her head. Taehyung's hand was about to go her cardigan she sobbed softly wiggling.

"Come on Jungkook, let's have some fun." The blonde guy said chucking staring at her eyes - it was captivating for him. The Jungkook guy shakes his head and looks at her in a disapproving look. "No thank you, i have better taste and better style for women. Look at her she looks like a girl from the countryside."

Well i am from the countryside.

And taehyung was pushed away by min-ah.

I have never been this happier.

"Are you guys crazy?" She yelled at them, she put me behind her. I immediately held her back shirt not looking at either of them. "This isn't some of your prostitute, fuckers." She snarled at them, but none of them were affected by her outburst. Their eyes were on her and I shrunk under it. Especially from the taehyung guy. "The one you wanted is here " she pointed, a beautiful woman was standing in seductive clothes.

This is bad. I want to get out.

Min-ah held my hand and dragged me out of the hell hole room. She sighs softly and looked at my devastated state. She pulled me in a soft hug and apologizes to me "I'm sorry, they are just, god this is embarrassing." She sighs softly.

"Who are they?" I can't help but ask her, i wiped my cheeks softly from my back hand staring at her waiting for her response. "They are my brothers."

Brothers? Oh no.

"Jimin, taehyung and Jungkook, well they are completing their degree in Seoul university basically completing their bachelors." Min-ah said softly looking at her. "Cyra, no matter what. Stay away from them. I know you must be thinking why I'm saying this for my own brothers. But you - you're naive. And they love that."

I sighs softly and looked down, min-ah showed me my room. It was pretty, a big size bed with tied in a soft white sheets and a pretty desk perfect for my studies. Grey, skin light walls. It was comforting. I smiles softly and thank min-ah. "You will meet eomma in dinner, okay?" She said softly and i nodded.

As she left, i laid down for a while and stared into the ceiling. The incident wasn't leaving my mind. I shivered thinking about it again.

Maybe life is city of Seoul wouldn't be as easy as i thought. I closed my eyes and sleep consumed me.

.

.

.

.

​Morning in the palace of Busan did not arrive with noise.

​It crept in like a predator, slipping through gauze-thin curtains in pale ribbons of gold that settled across the marble floors. It was a sacred, heavy sort of silence the kind that existed only in places where the very air was trained to hold its breath, lest it disturb what belonged to the Crown.

​You were awake long before the maids.

​Not out of duty, and certainly not out of habit. You were awake because the space beside you was cold.

​Your fingers drifted across the silk sheets, tracing the lingering dip his body had left behind. The heat was fading, a ghost of the man who ruled the soil beneath your feet. Jeon Jungkook was a man of shadows and early sunrises, rising long before the court began to whisper his name like a prayer or a curse.

​King of Busan.

Your husband.

Your keeper.

​The titles were interchangeable, though only the last one felt honest.

​A knock fractured the silence soft, hesitant, as if the wood itself feared to vibrate too loudly. "Your Highness?"

​You didn't answer immediately. You were too busy staring out the towering windows at the gardens. Every rosebush was trimmed into submission, every hedge carved into a perfection that felt violent. Beyond those gates lay the lower town, a place where laughter wasn't a sin and music didn't require a royal decree. You wondered, with a hollow ache in your chest, if the people there knew what it felt like to be looked at the way he looked at you.

​"Enter," you finally whispered.

​The door creaked open. A line of maids stepped inside, their gazes glued to the floor. They didn't avoid your eyes out of disrespect; they avoided them because to look at you was to acknowledge the King’s most private treasure. And in this palace, looking too closely at what Jungkook owned was a dangerous ambition.

​They dressed you in silk the color of an early spring sky. It was a gown of deceptive fragility pale blue, lacy, with puffed shoulders that made you look like a porcelain doll meant to be kept behind glass. They brushed your hair, the warm honey-brown waves of your butterfly cut catching the light, your wispy bangs framing a face that felt increasingly like a mask.

​"I couldn't sleep well last night," you murmured, your voice sounding small even to your own ears.

​Min-hee, the youngest maid and the only one who dared to offer you more than a bow, paused her movements. She caught your reflection in the mirror, her expression flickering with a soft, cautious pity. "Why is that, my Lady?"

​You shrugged, the lace scratching your skin. "The room felt... too large."

​Too empty. Without the weight of his arm across your waist, you didn't know how to anchor yourself to the earth.

​The maids suddenly stilled. The air in the room shifted, turning thick and charged, as if a storm had just walked through the door. They didn't need to see him; they felt him. As one, they dropped into deep, trembling curtsies.

​Jeon Jungkook did not need to announce himself. The very shadows seemed to follow him in, clinging to the hem of his dark robes.

​"Leave us."

​His voice was a low, melodic velvet — calm in a way that made disobedience feel like a death wish.

​They vanished. The click of the door closing felt like a gavel.

​You watched him in the mirror. He moved with a predator’s grace, his broad shoulders cutting through the morning light. He wore no crown, yet the sheer gravity of his presence made the gold leafing in the room seem dull.

​He stopped behind you. For a moment, he simply looked his dark eyes tracking the line of your throat, the curve of your shoulder, with a hunger so profound it was almost holy.

​His hand rose, his long fingers trembling ever so slightly before they touched you. He brushed a strand of honey-brown hair back, his touch so light it was an agony. This was the man who had ordered executions before his morning tea, yet he handled you as if you were made of spun glass and prayer.

​"You're awake early, my heart."

​It wasn't an accusation. It was a soft, terrifying observation. He leaned down, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, his reflection over your shoulder blocking out the rest of the world.

​"Did you miss me?" he whispered, his eyes locking onto yours in the glass. "Or did the nightmare return the moment I let you go?"

Jungkook didn’t wait for you to speak. He leaned down, his hand sliding from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to meet him. The kiss wasn’t a greeting; it was a reclamation.

​It was deep and starving, his teeth grazing your lower lip with a sharp, possessive heat that stole the air from your lungs. You felt the familiar pull of him the way he tasted of expensive tea and something darker, something like woodsmoke. Your fingers moved instinctively, clenching the fine fabric of his suit jacket, your knuckles turning white as you tried to create a fraction of space.

​When he finally pulled back, only an inch, you were both panting. The sound of your ragged breaths filled the quiet room, a frantic rhythm against his steady, heavy presence. You looked at him through the veil of your lashes, your vision slightly blurred.

​"You weren't there when I woke up," you whispered, the accusation softened by the way your voice trembled.

​Jungkook didn’t blink. He looked dazed, his dark pupils blown wide, fixed entirely on your mouth as if he were memorizing the way he’d just bruised it. He looked like a man who had just drowned and found his only source of oxygen in you.

​"I'm sorry, my love," he murmured, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your bottom lip. His touch was terrifyingly gentle now, a stark contrast to the hunger of a moment ago. "There was a matter of state—a call I could not ignore. I had to leave your side."

​You nodded, though the coldness of the bed sheets still felt like a weight on your skin.

​"I wanted to talk," you said, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact.

​Jungkook hummed, a low vibration you felt in your own chest. He reached out, slowly tucking a stray lock of honey-brown hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on the sensitive skin there. He was looking at you the way a zealot looks at an altar.

​"Anything," he promised, his voice a low, melodic lure. "Tell me what you desire, and it is yours."

​Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of silk and bone. Your palms began to sweat, the dampness pressing into the heavy fabric of your gown.

​"I—uh," you started, clearing the sudden tightness in your throat. "I was thinking... there is an event going on in the town of Spring... a festival for the new season. I thought perhaps—"

​"No."

​The word didn't just interrupt you; it killed the air in the room.

​It wasn't shouted. It was dropped like a guillotine blade flat, cold, and final.

​You flinched, the movement small but visible, your shoulders hunching instinctively. The warmth that had been radiating from him moments ago vanished, replaced by a sudden, glacial stillness.

His hand didn't move from your face, but the thumb that had been caressing your lip went still, pressing just a little too firmly against your jaw.

​The King of Busan was back, and the husband had vanished into the shadows of his own obsession.

"May I ask why- my lord?" You asked softly, looking up at him gently.

The shrug was nonchalant, almost elegant, but it carried the weight of an iron door slamming shut. He didn't look angry; he looked remarkably, terrifyingly calm, as if the idea of you leaving the palace grounds was a physical impossibility he didn't even need to debate.

​"Why?" he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a dark velvet ribbon.

​He stepped closer, eliminating the sliver of air between you until the lace of your gown pressed against the sharp lapels of his suit. He reached out, his large hand cupping your jaw, his thumb dragging slowly, firmly across your lower lip the one he had just bitten.

​"Because the world is loud, and filthy, and entirely unworthy of laying eyes on you," he murmured, his voice dropping into a register that made your skin prickle. "Out there, people stare. They touch things that do not belong to them. They breathe the same air you do, as if they have the right."

​His gaze darkened, becoming fixated on the pulse jumping in your neck. He looked less like a King and more like a man possessed by a singular, starving religion.

​"I didn't build these walls to keep you in, my love," he whispered, leaning down until his forehead rested against yours, his eyes locking onto yours with a flat, unsettling intensity. "I built them to keep the rest of the world out. You are the only thing in this kingdom that is pure. The only thing that is mine."

​He tilted his head, his nose grazing yours. "Why would you want to walk through the dirt of a town square when you have me? Am I not enough to fill your sight? Is my worship not enough to keep you occupied?"

​You felt the heat of him, the sheer, suffocating gravity of his devotion. It wasn't just that he wanted to own you — it was that he seemed to believe he was the only thing you required to exist. To him, the sun rose because you woke up, and the gates stayed locked because the sun was too precious to share.

​"Tell me," he breathed, his hand sliding from your jaw to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your honey-brown hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp. "What could you possibly find in a crowd of strangers that you cannot find right here, in this room, with me?"

The desperation in your voice was a thin, frayed thread, snapping under the weight of his absolute silence.

​"My Lord," you whispered, the title feeling like a stone on your tongue a formal plea for a mercy he didn't seem to possess. Your voice was small, almost broken, vibrating against the heat of his chest.

"It’s been... it’s been ages since I’ve been out. Since I’ve seen anything but these stone walls and the roses."

​You looked up at him, your eyes searching his for a glimmer of the man who had kissed you with such devotion only moments ago. "The festival... I only wanted to see the colors. To hear the music from the square, just for an hour."

​Jungkook’s expression didn't shift. It didn't harden into anger, which somehow made it worse; it stayed perfectly, terrifyingly serene. He reached out, his thumb catching a stray tear before it could even fall, his touch as light as a moth’s wing.

​"Ages?" he repeated softly, the word a low hum in his throat. "To me, it feels like only a heartbeat. I could spend a thousand years in this room with you and never notice the passage of a single day."

​He stepped closer, his body a solid, unyielding wall that forced you back against the edge of the vanity. The perfume of the lilies on the table mixed with his scent sandalwood and something metallic, something sharp.

​"The colors out there are dull, my love," he murmured, his voice dropping into a register that felt like a physical weight. "The music is discordant. Why do you crave the noise of commoners when you have the silence of a King? When you have my ears, waiting for every breath you take?"

​He leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your temple, his breath hitching as if the very scent of your skin was an intoxicant he couldn't survive without.

​"You think these walls are a cage," he breathed against your skin, his hand sliding down to your waist, his grip tightening until the lace of your gown bunched beneath his fingers. "But they are a sanctuary. Out there, you are a Queen to be stared at. In here... in here, you are the air in my lungs. You are the only reason I don't burn this kingdom to the ground."

​He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze dark and swirling with a devotion that bordered on madness.

"Don't ask to leave me again. It hurts me to hear you suggest that I am not enough to keep you whole."

"My Lord—" you tried once more, your voice catching, a final, desperate attempt to reclaim a sliver of your own life.

​"[Name]."

​He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The way he spoke your name was a warning a low, melodic vibration that carried the weight of an iron shackle.

It was the sound of a velvet curtain falling over a window, plunging the room into shadow. He wasn't just a husband in that moment; he was the law, the judge, and the architect of your entire world.

​The air in the room seemed to thin, pressing against your lungs until you had no choice but to yield.

​You swallowed the rest of your plea, the taste of it bitter and metallic. Slowly, you lowered your gaze, focusing on the polished shine of his boots against the marble. "Yes, my Lord," you whispered, the words barely more than a ghost of a sound.

​Jungkook hummed, a sound of dark satisfaction that vibrated through the small space between you.

The tension in his shoulders bled away, replaced by that terrifying, calm devotion once more. He reached out, his long fingers tilting your chin up until you were forced to look at the man who held your leash.

​"Fix your lipstick," he murmured, his thumb grazing the corner of your mouth to smudge away the evidence of his earlier hunger.

His eyes scanned your face with a terrifyingly clinical sort of love, ensuring every part of his prize was back in its place.

"And come downstairs. My mother is waiting at breakfast, and it would be a shame to keep her or me waiting any longer."

​He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the center of your forehead. It felt like a brand, a mark of ownership that stayed warm long after he pulled away.

​Without another word, he turned on his heel. The heavy oak doors groaned as he opened them, the sound echoing through the suite before clicking shut with a finality that left you alone in the silence of your beautiful, blue-silk cage.

The night was a cruel mirror of the morning’s silence.

​From the height of your bedchamber, the world beyond the palace walls didn't look like a den of "filth" as Jungkook had described it. It looked like a dream made of fire and gold. Hundreds of lanterns drifted into the ink-black sky, bobbing like tethered stars above the town of Spring.

Even from this distance, you could almost imagine the smell of roasting sugar and the faint, rhythmic pulse of drums.

​It was 7 PM. The heart of the festival was only just beginning to beat.

​You sighed, a small, weary sound that fogged the glass of the window. You rested your cheek against your palm, your fingers tracing the cold reflection of the lights you weren’t allowed to touch.

​Jungkook was gone. The King was expanding his shadow, busy with the administration of the new territories he had folded into his empire. He was miles away, yet his presence remained in the very stones of the room, in the way the guards stood like statues outside your door.

​"Your Highness," a soft voice broke the quiet.

​Min-hee stood by the vanity, her head bowed in a perfect, practiced arc.

​"We are alone, Min," you said, your voice thick with a sudden, aching loneliness. "No need to bow. Please."

​The girl straightened, her expression softening into something human. She stepped closer, her gaze flickering toward the window where the lanterns continued their slow, beautiful ascent. "Your Highness... sadness does not suit you. It dims the color of your eyes."

​You let out another sigh, your breath hitching. "I really want to go there, Min. Just once. To be a face in a crowd instead of a portrait in a gallery."

​Min-hee nodded, a flash of genuine sorrow crossing her features. "I know, Your Highness. I know." She looked at the heavy, locked doors of the suite and then back at you. "But the King... he says the world is a storm, and you are the only lamp he has. He won't let the wind blow you out."

​"He isn't protecting a lamp," you whispered, your fingers curling into the silk of your skirts. "He’s hoarding the light."

You nibbled your lower lip, the faint sting a reminder of Jungkook’s kiss from that morning a brand that still felt warm against your skin. "Min... would you sneak out with me?" you whispered, the words feeling like treason as they left your tongue.

"Just for an hour. To the edge of the woods. I just want to see the light without the glass in the way."

​Min-hee’s eyes widened, the color draining from her face until she looked as pale as the marble floor.

A visible tremor shook her hands, and she instinctively stepped back, as if the mere suggestion could pull the ceiling down upon them both.

​"Your Highness, absolutely not," she breathed, her voice cracking with a sharp, jagged fear. "It will cause a huge destruction. The King... he does not just get upset. He dismantles things. He would tear this wing of the palace down to find where the silence broke."

​She reached out, her fingers hovering near your arm, too terrified to touch but desperate to ground you. "He would be so upset with you, my Lady... but with me? He would erase me. He would erase anyone who helped you believe there was a world outside of his shadow."

​You looked back at the lanterns, their gold glow mocking your stillness. "He’s not here, Min. He’s across the border. He won’t know."

​"He always knows," Min-hee whispered, her gaze darting toward the heavy oak doors. "The walls have his ears. The wind carries your sighs to him. Please, Your Highness... do not ask this of me. To love you is a privilege, but to help you escape him is a death sentence."

"He isn't home, Min. The border is hours away by horse. Just fifteen minutes," you pleaded, your eyes searching hers with a raw, aching intensity. "Fifteen minutes of being human. Fifteen minutes to see the gold without the bars of this cage in the way. Please?"

​Min-hee looked at you, her resolve crumbling under the weight of your gaze.

She knew the risks she knew the King’s shadow reached further than the eye could see but your sadness was a heavy thing, and she had grown to love the woman behind the crown.

​She let out a long, shaky sigh, her shoulders dropping as she glanced toward the darkened hallway. "We will just look," she whispered, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm. "We go to the ridge, we see the lights, and we come back immediately. Not a second longer. Promise me, Your Highness? Promise me on your life?"

​"I promise," you breathed, a spark of life returning to your eyes for the first time in weeks. "I promise, Min."

​The preparations were a blur of frantic, hushed movements. Min-hee produced a heavy, charcoal-grey cloak from the depths of the wardrobe something nondescript that would swallow the baby-blue silk of your gown and the shimmer of your honey-brown hair.

You pulled the hood low, the fabric smelling of cedar and old stone, a stark contrast to the expensive perfumes Jungkook usually forced upon you.

​"Keep your head down," Min-hee instructed, her hand gripping yours with a strength born of pure terror. "Do not speak. Do not look anyone in the eye. To the guards, you are just a maid walking the servant’s path to the lower gardens."

​Your heart hammered against your ribs a wild, frantic drumming that nearly drowned out the sound of your own footsteps.

Every creak of the floorboards sounded like a gunshot; every shadow on the wall looked like the King returning to claim his prize.

​You followed her through the narrow, twisting servant passages, away from the grand marble halls and the watchful eyes of the portraits.

The air turned cooler, smelling of damp earth and freedom. When the heavy iron side-door finally groaned open, the night air hit your face like a physical caress.

​It was crisp. It was real.

​You were outside.

​"This way," Min-hee urged, pulling you toward the thicket of trees that lined the palace’s eastern ridge.

​As you reached the edge of the stone precipice, the world opened up. The town of Spring was a sea of shifting gold. The lanterns were closer now, thousands of them rising like a prayer into the endless black.

You could hear it the faint, joyous swell of violins and the distant roar of a crowd. It was beautiful. It was chaotic. It was everything Jungkook had told you was beneath you.

​You stood at the edge, the wind whipping at your cloak, a small, breathless laugh escaping your lips. For the first time in an eternity, you weren't a Queen or a captive.

​You were just a girl watching the lights.

The world beyond the gates was more vibrant than any dream you had dared to conjure in the silence of your chambers.

​The air in the town of Spring didn't taste of stale incense and heavy perfumes; it tasted of woodsmoke, roasted almonds, and the crisp, cool promise of new blossoms.

The lanterns were no longer distant stars; they were glowing orbs of warm parchment, swaying just above the heads of a crowd that moved like a living, breathing river.

​You moved through the stalls, your charcoal cloak swirling around your ankles, hiding the blue silk that marked you as royalty. For the first time, you weren't a statue to be stared at you were a shadow among shadows.

​"Your Highness, please," Min-hee whispered, her voice a frantic, jagged edge behind you. She was practically vibrating with terror, her eyes darting to every passing guard and every flickering shadow. "We’ve seen it. We’ve been here too long. We have to turn back before the moon shifts."

​But you couldn't stop. Not yet.

​You stopped at a small wooden stall, your eyes wide as you looked at the trinkets—hand-painted hairpins, carved wooden birds, and small pouches of dried lavender. You reached out, your fingers trembling as you touched a simple ribbon of deep crimson.

It was cheap, far less valuable than the diamonds Jungkook draped around your throat, but to you, it was the most precious thing in the world because you had chosen it yourself.

​You handed a small coin to the merchant, your heart leaping when he simply nodded and moved to the next customer. He didn't bow. He didn't tremble. He didn't know you were the King's most guarded possession.

​"Look, Min," you murmured, holding the ribbon against the palm of your hand, a breathless, giddy laugh bubbling up in your chest. "Nobody knows. I’m just... I'm just a person."

​"You are a person playing with fire," Min-hee hissed, grabbing your elbow and pulling you toward the edge of the marketplace.

"The King’s 15 minutes ended ten minutes ago. If we aren't back in that room before the candles burn down, we are both dead. Please, I’m begging you."

​The joy in your chest flickered with a sudden, cold lick of reality. You looked back one last time at the lanterns at the music and the messy, beautiful chaos of a life you were never allowed to have.

​The wind shifted, carrying a sudden, sharp chill from the direction of the palace. The festive music seemed to dim for a heartbeat, and the crowd felt a little less like a shield and more like a trap.

​"Okay," you whispered, tucking your treasures deep into the folds of your cloak. "Okay, let's go."

The adrenaline was still humming in your veins, a frantic, joyous heat that made your skin tingle. You slipped through the heavy oak doors of your suite, the click of the lock sounding like a victory rather than a sentence.

​You pulled back your hood, your hair tumbling down in honey-brown waves, messy from the wind and the thrill. A breathless, genuine giggle escaped your lips — a sound that hadn't been heard within these stone walls in years.

​"See?" you whispered, turning to Min-hee with a triumphant, wide smile, your eyes sparkling with the reflected gold of the lanterns you’d just left. "Nobody got to know. We were just shadows, Min. We were—"

​"My love."

​The air in the room didn't just turn cold; it vanished.

​The smile died on your face, the blood draining from your cheeks so fast it felt like a physical blow. You both froze. The crimson ribbon you had bought your little piece of the real world felt like a brand against your palm.

​Min-hee didn't even hesitate. She hit the floor with a sickening thud, her forehead pressing against the cold marble as she collapsed into a bow. "My King," she whispered, her voice a mangled, terrified sob. She looked as though she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole before his gaze could incinerate her.

​You couldn't move. You couldn't even breathe.

​Jeon Jungkook was sitting on the velvet couch in the center of the room. He wasn't wearing his royal mantle; he was in his dark traveling suit, the fabric stark against the pale room.

He sat with his legs spread, his large, scarred hands resting heavily on his knees. He looked less like a man and more like an ancient, vengeful god carved from shadow.

​He didn't look at Min-hee. He didn't even acknowledge the air she was breathing. His eyes dark, bottomless, and swirling with a terrifying, quiet violence were fixed entirely on you.

​"Leave."

​The word was barely a whisper, yet it vibrated through the floorboards. It was a command that stripped the skin from the bone.

​Min-hee didn't wait for a second order. She scrambled to her feet, her head still tucked low, and bolted from the room. The sound of the door closing behind her felt like the final clink of a tomb being sealed.

​You stood there in the center of the rug, the charcoal cloak still heavy on your shoulders, feeling the weight of his stare.

It wasn't anger. It was something far worse it was the look of a man who had seen his heart walk out of his chest and into the mud, and was now deciding how to stitch it back inside so it could never move again.

​Jungkook tilted his head, his gaze dropping to your hand, where the cheap crimson ribbon peaked through your fingers.

​"Come here," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, devotional register that promised both worship and ruin. "Tell me exactly what was so beautiful out there that you felt the need to starve me of your presence for sixty-two minutes."

The atmosphere in the hall was suffocating, thick with the scent of cold stone and the absolute, paralyzing terror of everyone present.

​"M-my Lord," you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips. You kept your gaze fixed on the rug, your knuckles white as you gripped the cheap ribbon in your hand. "I was only… I just wanted to see—"

​The explanation died in your throat as Jungkook stood. He didn't yell; he didn’t even look angry. He simply walked toward you with the steady, inevitable gait of a predator. His hand closed around your wrist gentle, almost tender but the grip was an iron shackle. Without a word, he began to lead you out of the bedroom.

​"Jungkook?" you breathed, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "Where are we going?"

​He didn't answer. He led you down the grand staircase into the main hall. Your breath hitched. The entire court was there— the maids, the knights, the royal guards, and even a handful of the local merchants from the town. Every single one of them was pressed against the cold floor in a deep, agonizing bow, their foreheads resting on their hands.

​The silence was deafening. It was the silence of people who knew that a single misplaced breath could mean their end.

​Jungkook stopped in the center of the hall, the light from the chandeliers casting long, jagged shadows across his sharp features. He turned to you, his thumb tracing the pulse point in your wrist, which was jumping like a trapped bird.

​"Strip."

​The word was so quiet, so calm, that it took a moment for the weight of it to settle. Your heart didn't just sink; it felt as though it had been carved out of your chest.

​"What?" you whispered, your voice cracking. You glanced at the sea of bowed heads, the humiliation already burning like acid in your throat. "Jungkook, please… not here."

​"I said strip, my sweet, disobedient girl," he murmured, his voice a dark, melodic caress.

​When you hesitated, his hand moved with lightning speed, catching the hair at the nape of your neck. He didn't yank it to hurt you, but he pulled just enough to tilt your head back, forcing your tear-blurred eyes to lock onto his. His expression was one of pure, terrifying devotion.

​"You wanted to see the people, didn't you?" he breathed, his lips ghosting over yours, smelling of expensive tobacco and obsession. "You wanted to be among them. Well, here they are."

"...And they are going to stay exactly like this on their fucking knees while I remind you who you belong to."

​Your vision swam as the first tear spilled over.

​"They won't even dare to look up," he whispered against your mouth, his hand sliding down to the laces of your gown with a practiced, terrifying gentleness.

"I'm going to fuck you right here, in front of everyone they love and everything they fear. I want them to hear every sound you make. I want you to remember that every time you think of stepping outside these walls, there is a price to be paid in blood and shame. Do you understand me, my love?"

​He leaned in closer, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "You played at being a commoner tonight. Now, you’re going to learn what it means to be a King’s only obsession. Undo the silk."

Jungkook moved with a slow, agonizing deliberation, lifting you onto the sprawling red velvet couch that sat like a throne of blood in the center of the room. He began to unlace your gown, his fingers steady and deceptively soft as he peeled the blue silk away, exposing your trembling skin to the chilled air. He settled himself between your thighs, his heavy weight a grounding, terrifying presence that made the world outside those walls vanish.

​Your eyes were a blurred mess of tears and shadow as he leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was deep, hungry, and tasted of absolute possession.

​You turned your head to the left, your temple pressing into the velvet. Through the haze of your lashes, you saw them the knights, the maids, the commoners.

They remained motionless, their foreheads pressed so hard against the floor that their knuckles were white. Not a single soul dared to breathe, let alone look up. They were statues in the gallery of his madness.

​Jungkook’s lips left yours, trailing a path of fire down your throat to your chest, before he slid down the length of your body. He reached your feet, his mouth pressing a reverent, lingering kiss to your inner ankles.

​"Don't look at them," he murmured against your skin, his voice a low, vibrating growl. "Look at me. I am the only thing you are permitted to see."

​You bit your lower lip until you tasted copper, fighting the urge to let out a sob or a plea. In his eyes, you looked utterly ethereal a delicate, ruined masterpiece of flushed skin, tear-stained cheeks, and honey-brown hair fanned out against the crimson velvet.

You were a vision of pure, helpless divinity, and it was clear by the way his hands shook that he was losing himself in the worship of you.

​"You're so beautiful when you're terrified for me," he whispered, his dark eyes tracing the curve of your hips. "So perfect when you realize there is nowhere else to run."

​He leaned down further, his face dipping between your thighs. When his lips pressed a firm, searing kiss directly against the silk of your panties, right over your heat, the shock of it shattered your resolve.

​A sharp, broken gasp ripped from your throat, echoing through the silent, vaulted hall. The sound was a sin in the stillness, a confession of your vulnerability heard by everyone, yet witnessed by only him.

​"That's it," he breathed against the fabric, his hot breath soaking through the silk. "Let them hear how much you belong to me. Let them hear exactly what happens when my little bird tries to fly away."

Jungkook kissed your ankles.

Kissing your legs, going upwards again.

​He hooked his fingers into the delicate lace of your panties, his gaze locked on yours as he slowly dragged the fabric down your legs. He tossed the silk aside a scrap of blue against the cold floor — leaving you completely exposed in the center of the gilded hall.

​"Look at me, my life," he whispered, his voice thick with a dark, terrifying need. "Don't you dare close your eyes."

​He dove down.

​When his tongue first made contact, it wasn't a graze; it was a firm, rhythmic stroke that claimed you. He drank you in with a hunger that was almost feral, his hands sliding under your thighs to pull you flush against his face. He was deep, his tongue swirling with a slow, agonizing pressure that made your hips buck instinctively against the velvet.

​"J-Jungkook..." you sobbed, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, trying to pull him closer and push him away all at once.

​You glanced to the side again, your chest heaving. A few feet away, a young maid’s hands were shaking so violently they rattled against the marble.

They could hear everythingthe wet slide of his tongue, your broken, high-pitched whimpers, the sound of the King of Busan losing his mind between your legs. The shame was a physical weight, but the pleasure he was wringing out of you was a fire that consumed your pride.

​"Cry for me," he murmured against your slick skin, his voice muffled and low. "Let them hear how I'm ruining you. Let them know that even my tongue is enough to make you forget the world outside."

​He increased the pace, his tongue flicking sharply against your clit while two of his fingers pushed deep inside you. You were stretching, filling with him, as he sucked the heat from your body.

You felt the build-up the sharp, electric tension that made your toes curl and your head fall back.

​"Please," you gasped, your voice echoing off the high ceiling. "Jungkook, I... I can't—"

Jungkook sucked your clit harder.

Pulling your pussy lips with his teeth.

Making you arch back.

​"You will," he growled, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

​The climax hit you like a tidal wave, your body arching off the couch as a choked, loud scream left your throat.

You were shaking, coming hard against his mouth, and he didn't pull away he stayed there, drinking every drop of your surrender, his eyes never leaving the side of your face as you sobbed into the silence of the hall.

​He sat up slowly, his lips glistening, his expression one of absolute, terrifying triumph. He didn't look at the people; he looked at his masterpiece.

​"Are you finished?" he asked softly, his thumb wiping a tear from your cheek. "Because I'm only just getting started."

​He stood, his hands moving to the buckle of his belt. The heavy metal clinked in the silence, a sound that made the knights on the floor flinch. He made no effort to hide himself as he stepped out of his trousers, his body hard and ready, a testament to the obsession that fueled him.

​He moved back between your legs, his knees forcing yours wider, pinning you to the velvet.

​"Now," he whispered, leaning down until his chest was flush against yours, his heat radiating through you.

"I’m going to take you. And I want you to look at that door the one you walked through tonight and realize that as long as I am breathing, you are never passing through it again without my hand on your throat."

"Sixty-two minutes of my life you wasted on the dirt of that town," he murmured, his voice a low, terrifying crawl against your skin. He loomed over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the light of the chandeliers. "I’m going to make sure every one of those minutes is burned into your memory. By the time I’m done, you won’t even remember the color of those lanterns. You’ll only remember the feel of me."

​"My Lord—please," you sobbed, your voice cracking as it echoed off the vaulted ceiling. The plea was useless; you could see the dark intent in the set of his jaw.

​You arched back, your spine curving like a bow as the broad, hot head of his length pressed firmly against your entrance. You were still slick from his tongue, yet the sheer size of him felt like a reclamation of territory. You bit your lower lip until it bled, desperate to swallow the scream that was clawing its way up your throat.

​"Shh," he hushed you, though his eyes were feral. "Don't hold it back. I want them to hear the sound of their Queen being mastered. I want them to know who owns the breath in your lungs."

​With one slow, devastating thrust, he buried himself inside you.

​The world tilted. You let out a high, fractured cry that you couldn't stifle, your fingers digging into the red velvet of the couch until your nails caught in the fabric. He was too large, too deep, filling you with a blunt force that made your heart skip a beat. He stayed there for a moment, bottomed out against your core, letting you feel every inch of his weight.

​"Look at them," he commanded, his voice a gravelly rasp in your ear as he began to move.

​He didn't go fast. He went deep and slow, a rhythmic, punishing pace that forced a rhythmic slap of skin on skin to ring out through the silent hall.

Every time he pulled back, he nearly left you entirely, only to drive back in with a force that made your head hit the velvet cushions.

​You glanced to your left through a veil of tears. The knights were still as stone. The maids were trembling so hard their silk uniforms rustled. They were witnesses to your undoing, a silent audience to the King’s most private, violent worship.

​"Are you looking?" Jungkook breathed, his pace quickening, his thrusts becoming more frantic, more desperate. He was sweating now, his dark hair clinging to his forehead, his face contorted in a mask of agonizing pleasure

"See how they cower? None of them can save you. None of them can even look at you. Only I am allowed to see you like this."

​He gripped your waist with bruising force, his thumbs digging into your hips as he began to hammer into you with a sudden, cursive intensity. You were a mess of gasps and sobs, your body shaking under the relentless onslaught of his devotion.

​"You are mine," he growled, the words punctuated by the heavy thud of his body against yours. "In the light, in the dark, in this hall or in our bed. You. Are. Mine."

As he neared his peak, he leaned down, his teeth sinking into the junction of your neck and shoulder, marking you in front of his entire kingdom.

The sting of the bite and the overwhelming friction of his body pushed you over the edge again. You spiraled into a blinding, white-hot climax, your body hot around him as he let out a guttural roar, spilling himself deep inside you as he claimed your soul along with your body.

​He sat up on the velvet cushions, his back straight and regal, and gripped your waist to hoist you up. With a sharp, breathless gasp, you were forced onto his lap, facing him, your legs draped over his powerful thighs.

​"Ride me, my heart," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl that left no room for refusal.

​You didn't move to obey; instead, you collapsed forward, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Your tears wetted his skin, and your small, broken cries echoed against his collarbone. You snuggled into him, your trembling body seeking the only source of warmth it knew, even if that warmth was the very thing burning you down.

​"Please," you whimpered into his skin, your fingers curling into his hair. "Jungkook, please... I’m so tired."

​Jungkook’s large hand came up, his fingers tangling in your honey-brown waves, but he didn't pull you away. Instead, he held you there, pressing your face harder into his neck, inhaling the scent of your fear and your flower-petal skin.

For a second, his touch was almost comforting until he shifted, his hips tilting up to remind you that he was still rock-hard and buried deep inside you.

​"You’re tired because you spent your energy on a world that doesn't love you," he whispered, his lips ghosting over your ear. "Give the rest of your strength to me. I'm the only one who knows what to do with it."

​He didn't wait for you to start. His hands clamped onto your hips, and he began to thrust upward, forcing you to move with him. Your body bounced rhythmically on his lap, the friction of the velvet and the heat of his skin creating a sensory overload that made your head spin.

​"Look at the doors, [Name]," he hissed, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned white. "Look at the exit you wanted so badly."

​You were forced to look over his shoulder. The heavy iron doors felt miles away, blurred by your tears.

You were being mastered in the center of your kingdom, the Queen reduced to a trembling mess on the King's lap, while the subjects he had conquered remained frozen on the floor.

​"Every time you move," he breathed, his pace turning fast and cursive, "I want you to feel how much of me is inside you. I want you to realize that there is no 'out there' for you anymore. There is only this. Only us."

​You couldn't hold back the sounds anymore. Your head fell back, your throat bared to the gold chandeliers, as you let out a long, broken wail of pleasure and surrender. You began to move with him, your body betraying your mind, riding him with a desperate, frantic need to reach the end.

​"That's it," he groaned, his eyes fluttering shut as he felt your walls clenching around him. "Good girl. Give it all to me. Give me every minute you stole."

​With a final, violent surge, he drove himself upward one last time, pinning you against his chest as he came, his seed filling you to the brink.

You slumped against him, utterly spent, your heart beating against his in the deafening silence of the hall.

You looked at the people.

Still bowed.

Not glancing up.

Jungkook’s chest heaved against your back, his heart a steady, violent thrumming. He didn’t look at the crowd; he didn't have to. His presence alone was the blade held at their throats.

​“Everyone, leave,” he commanded.

​His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a razor-edged finality that sliced through the stagnant air. The sound of shuffling feet and rustling silk filled the hall as the knights, the maids, and the terrified locals scrambled to obey, their eyes never once lifting from the floor.

​“If anyone tries to glance back,” Jungkook added, his tone dropping into a low, terrifyingly calm register, “I will tear their head from their shoulders before their eyes can even register what they’ve seen. Move.”

​The massive iron doors groaned open and then slammed shut with a deafening bang, leaving the grand hall in a tomb-like stillness. You were alone now truly alone with the man who had just turned your world into a crimson-velvet altar.

​Jungkook didn’t let you rest. He shifted, the friction of his skin against yours a searing reminder of your exposure. With a low, guttural grunt of effort, he pulled himself out of you, the sudden absence of him leaving you feeling cold and hollow.

​“Don’t curl up, my heart,” he murmured, his hands sliding over your damp skin. “We still have so many minutes to account for.”

​Gently — too gently for the violence of his words he gripped your hips and flipped you over. He guided you onto your hands and knees, pressing your chest down against the cool, plush velvet until you were arched in a submissive, vulnerable position.

​The doggy style left you facing the far wall, where a portrait of his ancestors stared down with cold, judgmental eyes. You were a mess of flushed skin and tangled honey-brown hair, your body trembling with a mixture of exhaustion and a lingering, unwanted heat.

​“Look at the floor,” he whispered, leaning over you so his shadow completely swallowed your frame. He placed his large, warm hands on the small of your back, his thumbs tracing the curve of your spine. “Remember how they bowed? That is the only way anyone will ever be allowed to exist in your presence. On their knees, with their eyes averted. Because I am the only man who will ever truly see you.”

​He positioned himself behind you, the tip of his length grazing your entrance, teasing the sensitive, swollen flesh he had already claimed. He leaned down, his lips ghosting over your ear, his breath hot and smelling of the dark wine of obsession.

​“You wanted to see the world, [Name],” he breathed, his fingers digging into your hips to hold you steady. “But the world is just a distraction. This... this is your reality. This is your kingdom. And I am the only god you have left to pray to.”

​With a slow, deliberate push, he began to slide back into you, reclaiming his territory inch by agonizing inch.

Every thrust was a counting of the clock, a rhythmic reminder that for every second you had spent breathing the free air of the town, he would take a lifetime of devotion in return.

​By the time the final minute ticked away, you were barely conscious, held together only by the strength of his arms.

Your forehead was pressed against the velvet, your breath coming in ragged, broken hitches as Jungkook finally let out a low, shuddering groan, his forehead dropping against your shoulder blades as he finished.

​The hall was a graveyard of silence. The torches had burnt down to glowing embers, casting long, flickering shadows that danced like ghosts across the marble.

​Jungkook pulled away slowly, the wet sound of his departure echoing in the hollow space. He didn't let you collapse. Instead, he reached down and gathered you into his arms, lifting you against his chest as if you were made of the finest, most fragile porcelain.

​He didn't speak as he began the long walk back to the royal chambers. His stride was steady, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone.

You were tucked against him, your face hidden in the crook of his neck, the charcoal cloak now a symbol of your failed rebellion draped over your naked, marked body like a shroud.

​As he reached the bedroom, he kicked the doors shut. He didn't put you in the bath; he didn't call the maids. He walked straight to the massive, silk-draped bed and laid you in the center of it.

​He climbed in after you, his large, warm body curling around your back, pinning you against him. He pulled the heavy duvet over both of you, cocooning you in a world that consisted only of his scent and his heat.

He kissed you again. Deep — passionately.

​"You're tired," he whispered, his voice sounding almost human again, though the possessive edge remained. He tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear and kissed the crown of your head. "Sleep, my heart. When you wake up, the gates will be double-bolted, and the town will be a memory you no longer need."

​His hand settled over your heart, feeling it slow down to match the steady, terrifying rhythm of his own.

Fallin, falling in love. Falling in love again. Falling in love again and again Falling in love again and again.

Chapter nineteen.

It had been seven weeks and three days since you’d woken up on this tiny island, seven weeks and three days of holding your breath, waiting for the past to crash in. Jeju.

The mere word was a prayer, a whisper of safety. The air here was salt-laced and clean, a stark contrast to the stifling, perfume-and-gunsmoke atmosphere of the mansion you’d fled.

​You lived near a quiet lake, a glassy expanse where the moonlight pooled. Here, you could be just — you. Not their captive, not their plaything, not the prize in their twisted game. Yet, the fear was a constant, physical ache.

Your chest always stayed so heaved.

The shallow, quick breaths of a hunted animal, a constant drum of anxiety that they would barge into this new, small bubble you had desperately inflated.

​You knew them. You knew the Maknae Line.

Their power wasn’t just money; it was a terrifying, absolute disregard for life. They wouldn't even hesitate to destroy this land, salt the earth, and burn the gentle community just to reclaim you.

The golden cage had been suffocating, but the freedom felt just as deadly because it came with the crushing guilt of knowing the price others might pay for your existence.

As if jungwoo guilt wasn't enough? Aunt? Min-ah?

They were away from humanity. Feelings.

When they feel. They feel too much

Every knock on the door made your palms sweat. They’d find you eventually. They always did. And when they did, they wouldn’t hesitate to burn this land too.

lake shimmered like glass every morning, soft mist curling over the edges while birds skimmed across it as if they owned the world.

The village was small—humble roofs, narrow paths, and the faint scent of sea salt in the air. Nobody stared long enough to make you nervous. Nobody asked questions. For once, you could just be…you

Soo-jin, though you called her Halmeoni. She was sunshine with wrinkles. Her voice was soft but never weak, and she had that habit of patting your back like she could fix everything with her hands alone.

And then there was Jungwoo.

Her grandson. Tall, always smelling faintly of soap and the lake. The kind of man who smiled without calculation. He didn’t ask where you came from. Didn’t ask who you ran from.

He just gave you a room, a meal, and a warmth that made your throat ache.

“—Aegiya,” Halmeoni’s voice sliced through your worry, a sound as warm and grounding as the sun-baked sand. You loved that word aegiya something your own grandmother used to call you. It made your eyes sting.

​You smiled, pushing the images of your past deep into a locked compartment of your mind, and rushed toward her. You helped carry a haul of silvery, freshly caught fish.

​“These are some fighters today, Halmeoni! You wrestled them out of the water, didn’t you?” you joked, the lightness of your voice sounding almost real.

​Halmeoni, a woman with eyes as crinkled and kind as the shoreline, chuckled, swatting your arm playfully. “Aish, this city girl has cheek! It was Jungwoo who did the wrestling. He’s all muscles and stubbornness, that grandson of mine.”

​Speaking of him, soobin stood nearby, his hands already deftly scaling a few fish. You’d known him before just a classmate, innocent and focused — but now he was a lifeline. He and Halmeoni had been your unwitting saviors.

They didn't ask about your past, didn't ask who you ran from. That silence was a gift, a terrifying blank cheque you knew they shouldn't have signed.

​You felt a surge of loyalty, a need to protect them that was almost as fierce as your own instinct to survive.

You smile little, getting up with soobin. You both carried the fishes in the container, walking beside each other. "It's really peaceful here," you spoke softly. Soobin hummed, looking at you.

“Noona, there’s a small gathering of town people tonight,” soobin spoke up beside you. His voice was soft and polite, a balm to your frayed nerves. “We always gather around at night to eat and drink. Old and young people mix. It’s for the harvest.”

You two were walking, holding heavy buckets of the day’s catch.

​You nodded softly, gripping the bucket handle tight. “I would love to be there in the gathering. That sounds… peaceful.”

​soobin smiled, and a genuine warmth flooded his eyes.

“Great. I always thought city-type women were rude and arrogant. You’re not like that. You’re quiet, gentle, and you actually work harder than I do,” he teased.

​You looked at him, surprised by the compliment and the misconception. “Well, I was born in Damyang, so I was kind of country-side too. I only went to Seoul for studies, but—”

Your voice stuck. But then my life was stolen, twisted, and thrown away.

​“It’s okay, noona,” he whispered, his soft, hesitant hand brushing your elbow. He didn't force you, just gave you a gentle, easy escape. Your chest warmed, a small, unfamiliar feeling of safety blooming.

If they find me. They won't even think before ending this land.

At dusk, the excitement of the upcoming town gathering felt hollow. You were supposed to be getting ready, pulling on a pretty summer sundress that Halmeoni insisted was the perfect color for your eyes.

Instead, you were paralyzed by a mundane, horrifying truth: you had peed seven times today, an extremely unusual amount for someone who’d been consciously trying to limit fluid intake just to avoid the communal outhouse.

​Your heart was already beating a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You peeled off your shirt, tossing it onto the bed. As you reached for the sundress, you caught your reflection in the small, dusty mirror.

You pressed a hand to your breast—they felt strangely heavy, a little tender, almost swollen. You nibbled your lower lip, a nervous habit that always resurfaced when the past felt too close.

When was my period last time?

​The question hit you with the force of a physical blow. You tried to backtrack, counting weeks, dates, events. The blur of the golden cage made time meaningless, a terrifying spiral of days defined only by them.

You couldn't be sure, but a cold, heavy certainty settled in your stomach.

​A sudden wave of nausea, sharp and debilitating, made the room tilt. You sat down hard on the edge of the bed, a wave of little black out coming in your eyes.

No, no, please, not here. This was just panic. It had to be panic. You lunged for the glass of water on the nightstand and chugged the entire thing, focusing on the cool burn in your throat until the dizziness subsided.

You realized you wouldn't be able to breathe again until you knew. You couldn't risk the clinic; that was a paper trail, a potential hook for them to track you down.

​Without noticing the small crowd of laughing neighbors heading toward the communal area, you wrapped a shawl tightly around yourself and slipped out. The small town's general store, blessedly unconcerned with city-level discretion, sold what you needed.

​You didn't go out again until you were confirmed.

​Locked in the tiny outhouse behind Halmeoni's cottage, your hands shook so violently the plastic stick nearly fell into the bucket. You stared at it, willing the pink line to be a smudge, a shadow, a trick of the dim light.

​But it was bright. Two clear, terrifying lines. Written in clear words.

You tried others too - maybe, maybe this product is wrong. You checked the rest.

Showing the same result.

To every. Single. One

​A ragged, choked sob left your mouth, a sound you immediately muffled with your hand, pressing your knuckles so hard against your teeth you tasted copper.

No. This isn't happening. This can't be real.

​You had purchased three tests, driven by a desperate need for scientific denial. You used the others, one after the next, and each one delivered the same devastating confirmation.

You were pregnant. Your worst nightmare made flesh.

You didn't go out for the gathering you stayed in your bed. The others thought you might slept, and didn't disturb you. But oh, how mess you were. Will they keep you? After knowing you are pregnant?

Why fate is so cruel to you?

The next day - you told Halmeoni you are pregnant, soobin and others were happy. Halmeoni fed you even more, telling you about the upcoming child and taking care of you.

And that made you break down, badly. In front of her. And she did was hug you. And you needed that.

🔸

It was Sunday night, and the central square of the Jeju village was bathed in the warm, golden glow of strung-up lights. The air smelled of woodsmoke, soju, and grilled samgyeopsal.

You sat between Halmeoni and Jungwoo, the scene one of such gentle, collective happiness it felt like a cruel illusion.

​They were both practically force-feeding you, their faces radiating uncomplicated joy since you’d confessed your pregnancy.

​“—add some rice, Aegiya,” Halmeoni insisted, scooping a generous portion onto your already-filled plate.

“You should eat more. Good for the child, hm?” She cooed, her hand settling briefly on your stomach with such soft affection that you felt a fresh wave of guilt.

​You managed a small smile and nodded, touching the faint curve of your belly. The food tasted like ash, the rich, savory smell of the pork now almost sickening.

You played with a piece of samgyeopsal on your plate, pushing it back and forth, unable to swallow.

It hasn't child's fault.

That was the mantra you kept repeating, a desperate attempt to find an anchor in the moral blackness you’d created. This innocent life you carried was an undeserving victim.

​“What’s wrong, noona? You haven’t touched your plate since I told you that story about the mayor’s goat,” soobin murmured beside you, his voice genuinely concerned.

​You shook your head slightly. "Nothing. Just... the joy of it all is a bit overwhelming.” A lie. The joy was a terrifying clock counting down to disaster.

sudden, sharp sound — not a gunshot, but the terrible, heavy thud of a vehicle stopping outside the town square.

​You froze, the samgyeopsal dropping from your chopsticks with a clatter that sounded deafening in the sudden hush. The chatter and laughter around the fire pit died instantly.

Everyone turned toward the narrow entrance of the square.

​Then, five enormous men, built like granite statues and dressed in matching black tactical gear, stepped in.

They were not from this island. They carried the hard, lethal efficiency of the city. You had seen them before in the periphery of a dark hallway, guarding a closed door, disposing of a problem. Bodyguards. Oh, you have seen them in mansion.

​A collective gasp swept through the gathering, a wave of confusion and fear.

​And then, they came.

​Three shadows stepped past their men, taking command of the space. They were dressed in terrifying, meticulous glory.

​Jungkook was the darkest silhouette, wearing a tailored black turtleneck and fitted black trousers that moved like liquid danger.

His posture was rigid, his presence a magnetic force of silent, coiled violence.

​Taehyung was similarly clad in a sleek black suit jacket, leaning subtly against the doorway, his handsome face utterly devoid of warmth.

He held a long-barrel handgun with an unnerving casualness.

​But your eyes snapped to the one in color.

Jimin.

​He moved forward, a stark splash of blood-red against the monochrome threat. He wore a fitted maroon silk shirt and matching pants, topped with a soft black leather jacket unzipped to reveal the dangerous contours beneath. His blonde hair was artfully disheveled.

His Korean features were so flawlessly handsome, so angelic, that the lethal intent radiating from him created a sickening dissonance.

​He tilted his head, a slow, predatory movement, the gun in his hand swinging lazily by the trigger guard.

​“Miss me, angel eyes?” Jimin’s voice was a low, velvet purr that cut through the silence like a scalpel.

​soobin, bless his naïve, brave soul, stood up instantly, stepping slightly in front of you. “Who are you? You are scaring the people. You need to leave.”

​Before anyone, especially Jungwoo, could fully process the threat, a deafening crack tore through the air. A bullet pierced the flesh of Jungwoo's right arm.

​He yelled, clutching his wound, blood immediately blossoming across his shirt as he stumbled backward. The air knocked clean out of the lungs of every single person present. Halmeoni ran towards him, on the floor.

Screams erupted, and the peaceful gathering dissolved into panic.

Jimin advanced, his eyes locked on you, the gun still casually swinging in his hand.

​You tried to step back, but your chair was already against the wall. Your chest heaved, filling only with air and terror. “No, no, no,” you gasped, stumbling over the words.

​Jimin’s handsome face hardened, his angelic features twisting into a mask of pure fury. “Yes, yes, yes,” he hissed, getting close enough to grab your arm with a harsh, bruising grip.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking dead, and your new people are worse.”

​The grip was iron, pulling you to your feet. You saw Jungkook take a calculated step forward, his eyes fixed on you with a terrible, icy clarity as he checked the magazine of his weapon.

​“look who is here? My pretty runner.” Jungkook’s voice was a low growl, devoid of any past endearments. “I’ll break your goddamn legs, watch me crawl back to the mansion, sugar. I promise you that.”

​The terror was absolute, but the primal instinct to protect the innocent surged. No, no, you won’t let them kill others.

You saw Jungkook shift, and the next second, the muzzle of his gun was pointing directly at Halmeoni, who was frozen in place, shielding the crying children behind her.

​It was too much. The memory of your classmate, your grandmother, the price of your survival. You felt the world tilt again and fell onto your knees, the rough ground digging into your shins.

​Sob after wretched sob tore free of your chest.

​“I—I’m sorry, I’m—I’m so sorry! Don’t kill them! Take me!” You struggled to pat your chest, the area over your racing heart, looking up at Jungkook through a blur of tears.

​“Th-they did nothing,” you choked out, pleading for the mercy you knew they didn't possess.

​Jungkook tilted his head, a gesture disturbingly similar to Jimin’s, his eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. “Oh, but they did,” he cooed, the sweetness of the word making it sound vile.

“They accepted you. Now they will all be dead. Because of you, again. Why do you insist on killing so many people, hm, little murderess?”

​Your mind went hazy, the familiar self-blame surging up.

I’m the murderer. It’s my fault. I brought this death here.

​Jungkook crouched down, his black clad knee hitting the ground beside you. He yanked your head back by a handful of your hair, forcing your eyes to meet his cold, black gaze.

​“fuck, missed those tears. Don't look at me like that. Or might think..” he whispered, his lips inches from your ear, the promise of violence a dark, intimate threat. ​“..you want me to fuck you, right here.”

“Every last one who offered you a single piece of comfort. You will learn that only we can keep you safe, and only we are allowed to touch you.”

​Taehyung moved then, his voice cutting across the scene with chilling authority. “Enough, Jungkook. Crave that tongue out — that is begging for someone that ain't us.”

You looked at taehyung sitting on the chair where you were sitting. Legs spread, arms on his knees. Finger on his lower lips.

Gun placed on his thighs.

​The last thing you saw before Jimin hauled you roughly to your feet and dragged you out was soobin, clutching his bleeding arm.

His eyes wide and vacant, staring directly at you—the venomous viper he had mistakenly taken in. They were terrified. ​“who are you all? Leave the child alone.” Halmeoni’s voice echo. They barely paid attention to her.

​“Are you going out or..” Jimin pointed the gun, you immediately get up stumbling. ​“No- no i, I'm going- I'm going.” you choked out, taehyung got up.

And taehyung.

He dragged you out.

Taehyung dragged you out of the square as if you were nothing more than a stubborn sack of flour, his grip on your arm a bruising, punishing vice.

The sudden, raw scream of the engine of their black SUV was already roaring, ready to spirit you away. You stumbled over the rough ground, the terrified faces of the villagers blurring into panicked ghosts in your tear-filled vision. A raw, choked sob left your mouth.

​"Tae-Taehyung, please!" you whimpered out, the word a strangled plea. His grip was so tight it felt like your bones might splinter.

​He didn't slow down. He merely yanked you to an abrupt stop just before the open car door, spinning you around to face him. His dark eyes, usually so controlled, were burning with a terrifying, white-hot fury.

​"Please what? Please fucking what, flower?" Taehyung's voice was a low, guttural snarl that held no trace of his usual calm.

He grabbed your chin, his fingers digging into the tender skin, yanking your teary face up until your eyes were locked on his merciless gaze. "You thought you could escape me? Escape us? After your dumb little plan of drugging us, hm?"

​Your chest heaved faster, the air you took in doing nothing to stave off the suffocating panic. The smell of blood and gunpowder hung heavy in the salty night air.

​"We thought we were lenient on you - that kindness would eventually tame you but oh, we were wrong." Jungkook spoke from immediately behind you, his voice thick with controlled wrath that was somehow more terrifying than an outright shout.

The icy edge of his gun barrel pressed lightly, briefly, against the base of your skull, making you flinch violently. "And I'm going to chain you to the bed, Cyra, and fuck you until you can't remember any name but mine. Hard. Every single night."

His promise was delivered with a sickening calmness that made your gorge rise. You wanted desperately to vomit up the fear, the guilt, the raw truth you carried.

​They started dragging you again, pushing you toward the waiting black door-the yawning mouth of your renewed prison. The world was spinning, your last flicker of hope dying in the face of their absolute, possessive rage.

There was no argument left, no plea they would hear.

​And then, in a last, desperate, gut-wrenching attempt to protect yourself and the life you had just endangered, the truth spilled out.

You weren't planning a defense; you were simply trying to survive.

​You sobbed out the words, raw and broken: "I'm pregnant!"

​The moment was instantaneous.

They stopped.

​The roar of the SUV engine, which had been loud and insistent, suddenly sounded muted, swallowed by the shock. Taehyung's iron grip on your chin dissolved instantly, his hand dropping away as if you had turned into scorching heat.

Jimin, who had been positioning his bodyguard men around the perimeter, froze mid-step, his maroon shirt a flash of violent color against the darkness.

​Jungkook, who had been right behind you, his body radiating threat, took a staggering step back.

The cold pressure of the gun barrel against your head vanished.

​The silence that followed was immense, heavy, and absolute, broken only by your own desperate, ragged breathing and the distant, muffled cries of the terrified villagers you had left behind.

​Taehyung was the first to move, slowly turning his head to look at you, the terrifying fury in his eyes replaced by a dangerous stillness. He looked not at your face, but down at the small, flat curve of your stomach.

​"What did you just say, flower?" His voice was barely a whisper, a stark contrast to his earlier snarl, but it vibrated with a possessiveness so profound it stole the air from your lungs.

"Repeat that lie."

​You shook your head, clutching your bruised arm, tears still streaming down your face. "It's not a lie. I'm pregnant. I didn't know until yesterday. Please. Don't hurt me. Don't hurt the baby."

​Jungkook was now standing completely still, his eyes wide and fixed. He didn't speak. Instead, a slow, sickening smile began to spread across his face-a smile of pure, twisted triumph that chilled you to the core.

"Not a chain, little mouse," he murmured, his voice husky with sudden, intoxicating obsession. "A gift."

​Jimin, discarding the pretense of vigilance, stalked forward, moving with a panther-like grace. He reached out, not to hurt, but to cup a hand tentatively over your stomach, his leather jacket brushing your cheek.

​"Ours?" Jimin asked, his voice suddenly low and dangerously reverent. He didn't wait for an answer. His fingers traced a possessive line over your skin.

"Oh, angel eyes, you're actually so fucked. You gave us an unbreakable bond. Now that is only going to make us to take you. Forever."

​He gently swept you off your feet, no longer a captive being dragged, but a priceless, fragile commodity being protected. His eyes, fixed on your face, held a new, infinitely more terrifying kind of ownership.

​"Back to the car." Taehyung ordered his men, his voice sharp and final.

​The punishment was not canceled; it had simply been transformed into an even deeper, darker form of perpetual control.

Your escape had not only failed, but you had unwittingly forged the one chain that they would never, ever break.

You didn't remember the drive. The world outside the bulletproof windows had been a blur of terrifying speed and the suffocating silence of your new captors. Now, you were back.

​The mansion was an echoing cathedral of wealth and malice, and your former bedroom, the gilded cage, awaited. You were deposited gently far too gently, a horrifying new behavior onto the sprawling silk duvet. You curled into yourself, a trembling knot of exhaustion and terror.

​The three of them stood over you, the air thick with unspoken possessiveness. They didn't move to touch you yet, studying you as if you were a complex, precious artifact that might shatter.

​Jimin was the first to break the heavy silence, his voice low and dangerous. "The doctor will be here in the morning.

A private facility. Everything will be confirmed and everything will be provided. You will have the best care in the world, angel eyes."

He stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over your body with a clinical, chilling possessiveness that now included the life inside you. "We are not monsters, Cyra. We understand the value of a legacy."

​"You are absolutely monsters," you whispered, the words catching in your throat, tasting like defiance and fear.

​Taehyung moved from the shadows near the door, his posture still rigid with the residual anger of your escape. He didn't come to the bed. He stood at a distance, a judge delivering a terrifying verdict.

​"You have provided us with the one thing we lacked: an undeniable, permanent connection," Taehyung stated, his voice sharp and precise. "And for that, we grant a reprieve to your little country friends. They are alive. Soobin will recover."

​Your breath hitched. Hope - small, fragile, and dangerous pierced the dark. "You won't hurt them?"

​Taehyung smiled, a cold, empty expression. "That depends entirely on you, flower." He pushed off the doorframe and took a slow, deliberate step toward the bed.

"You stay here, safe in our sight, and the people in Jeju stay alive. Every breath they take is predicated on your compliance." he trailed then spoke again.

​"..If you so much as look at a closed window the wrong way, if you take one unnecessary step toward a door, if you whisper one word of escape to a staff member-we will wipe that entire village from the map."

​Your tears, which had paused, began to fall again. The punishment was not a beating, but the heavy, crushing weight of their lives resting on your obedience. "I understand," you choked out, the words an oath you could never break.

​"That's good fucking girl, no wonder you are so glowing right now? Is that pregnancy glow?" Taehyung hovered over you. You looked away, not looking into his dark eyes.

He yanked your face towards him. Crashing his lips. He missed you.

Missed kissing you.

Missed Taking your breath away.

His lips moved against yours firmly, desperate needy, hungry kiss. The sloppy sound echo the room.

He pulls away after a while - string of saliva coated both of your lips. You gasped for air. ​"fuck," he panted. Then move away. Jimin and Jungkook watching you.

The understanding settled into the room, cold and absolute. Jimin and Taehyung knew they had won.

But Jungkook hadn't spoken since he declared the baby a 'gift,' and the coiled tension in his body was now a suffocating pressure. He was still radiating a raw, visceral anger over your betrayal, an emotion he now had to redirect.

​He stalked toward the bed, ignoring the others, and the look in his eyes was pure, unadulterated yearning and rage.

He straddled the bed, hovering over your trembling form, and you flinched, instinctively pulling your knees up to your chest to protect your stomach.

​"Don't flinch, sugar," Jungkook commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that tore through the silence.

"Don't you dare pull away from me. You ran. You drugged us. You spent seven weeks pretending our connection meant nothing to you. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

He didn't wait for an answer. "It nearly ended me. I missed you so terribly it felt like my skin was peeling off."

​He reached out, his hand not going for your arm, but gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing away a fresh tear. The tenderness was a weapon, disorienting and cruel.

​"You still think you have a choice in this, don't you, sugar?" He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, dangerously intimate. "You thought running would free you. It only made us hungrier. Now you carry the ultimate piece of us. Do you think we'll ever let you forget who you belong to?"

​You closed your eyes, willing yourself to be strong, to resist the magnetic pull of his presence, the one you had craved even in your terror.

​ Jungkook lowered his head and took your mouth in a kiss that was pure, consuming possession.

​It was punishingly deep, a frantic, desperate melding born from weeks of torturous separation. His mouth moved against yours with a bruising urgency, demanding immediate, absolute surrender.

His fingers threaded into your hair, holding your head in place as his tongue plunged, claiming your warmth, your taste, your very essence.

​You tasted the residual grime of the outside world, the metallic tang of fear, and the dark, intoxicating flavor of his missed presence.

You fought it, your hands coming up to push against his thick chest, but the movement was futile, only cementing his physical dominance.

​He pulled back just enough to graze his lips against your bruised ones. "That's for running," he whispered, his voice dark with satisfaction, his eyes glittering. "This is for forgetting my touch."

​The next kiss was slower, more deliberate, but no less dominating. It was a reclaiming, a branding. His hands traveled down, anchoring themselves fiercely around your waist, pulling you against the hard, unyielding muscle of his body.

He pressed his hips against yours, leaving no doubt about his arousal, the hard proof of his missed desire.

And he grinded. Shamelessly.

​Jimin watched from the foot of the bed, his arms crossed, a cruel, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. Taehyung remained by the door, his eyes dark, observing, ensuring no escape was possible, even in your mind.

​You weren't being raped. This was worse. This was the forced, explicit re-establishment of a twisted, possessive love you desperately wanted to hate, yet couldn't fully deny.

It was a love that had now rooted itself, permanently, within your very core.

​Jungkook broke the kiss, his eyes locked on yours, dark with triumph. "I will be the only safe place you ever know, sugar. Your cage is permanent now. And I will remind you of that every single night."

​His hand slid down your stomach, passing slowly over the faint curve of your belly. "Every single night," he repeated, his voice dropping to a seductive, possessive murmur.

​This was only the beginning.

You were back. Back in the place you had risked everything to flee. You were surrounded by the same cold marble, the same suffocating wealth, and the same quiet, omnipresent threat.

You thought, you actually thought, that Jungkook was going to follow through on his raw promise to chain you to the bed and punish you until you broke. But he didn't. None of them did.

​For the sake of the baby.

​That was the new, non-negotiable law of the mansion. The life you carried was your new cage, solid and inescapable.

​The doctors came and went almost daily, their faces masked, their movements silent. They checked you with a precision that bordered on obsession.

The baby was confirmed at only two weeks, a microscopic speck of life, and the baby bump showed the very slightest, almost imperceptible rounding.

But oh, the way they looked at your stomach, the reverence in their eyes, the chilling gentleness in their movements—you didn't expect this. Out of all the horrors you had rehearsed in your mind, this terrifying, protective care was the most unsettling.

​They were still clearly pissed about everything. Their smiles were nonexistent, their voices often clipped, giving you only cold, short answers when you dared to ask a question.

Not that you cared about their mood; their anger was a familiar, predictable pain. It was the sudden, unnatural softness that made your skin crawl.

​But the kisses. The touch. That never stopped, and now it was more possessive than ever.

You weren't allowed to leave the room. It was an explicit punishment, a subtle flexing of their dominance that required no chains. Your room was your world, and the silent bodyguards outside your door were the walls of your new prison.

But it was better. It was infinitely better than them killing Halmeoni and Jungwoo. You accepted the isolation, a small price to pay to ensure the safety of the kind people who had let you in.

​Fruits, specially prepared meals, and every vitamin imaginable were delivered to your bedside on the dot.

​Then came the clothes.

​The bodyguards delivered boxes containing an entirely new wardrobe. Gone were the simple dresses and worn shirts you had worn in Jeju.

In their place were exquisite pieces of lingerie and soft, flowing Dollette babydoll slips. They were perfect, deliberately chosen for a pregnant woman: loose, soft, and utterly exposing.

The straps were delicate, sliding easily off your shoulders, baring your collarbone and shoulders exactly the places they knew they could kiss and claim without putting pressure on your stomach.

​You slipped one on a deep navy silk—and immediately felt the sickening weight of their intention.

It wasn't comfort; it was a visible sign of ownership, a new uniform for your perpetual confinement.

And oh, how they love you all doll up for them.

The coldness you received from Taehyung was the most profound. He rarely spoke to you directly, his handsome face usually set in an expression of distant, brooding contemplation, as if calculating the exact cost of your betrayal. But his — touch that was different.

​He walked into your room late that evening as you stood staring out the window at the distant, sparkling city lights, the Dollette slip clinging to your skin.

​Taehyung didn't say a word about the escape or the pain you had caused. He didn't issue a threat. He merely walked up behind you, his powerful frame eclipsing the light, and wrapped his arms around your shoulders.

​You held your breath, rigid against his chest.

​He didn't move to kiss your lips. Instead, his head lowered, and he pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly onto the bare skin of your collarbone, right at the pulse point.

The silk strap of the nightgown was pushed down gently.

​“This is where I hold you, flower,” Taehyung murmured against your skin, his voice deep and possessive, staking his claim. “And this is where you bloom for me.”

​He didn't move any lower. His control was absolute, his desire now purely focused on claiming the upper, 'safe' parts of your body.

It was a kiss of ownership, a promise that the only parts of you that would ever be free were those he allowed.

The punishment was this perpetual, suffocating intimacy, a reminder that while your body was temporarily off-limits for true possession, your heart and your submission were not.

​“You thought — you could drug us and ran away?” Taehyung murmured, the sound so impossibly soft it contradicted the iron grip of his arms.

He lifted his head just enough to trace his lips on the base of your throat, right where your pulse hammered a frantic, terrified rhythm. “No, flower. You’re so naïve, so fucking naive.”

​You squeezed your eyes shut. His gentleness was a calculated cruelty, a thin veneer over the rage you knew still festered beneath his skin.

​“We let you go,” he confessed, the words a chilling revelation that shattered the last lingering piece of your pride.

​Your eyes flew open, staring into his. They weren't stupid. They were big people —powerful, ruthless men for a reason. Your "dumb little plan." had been a childish delusion, a mere interruption they had allowed for a fleeting, terrifying moment of perverse amusement or a twisted confirmation of your dependence.

​“You know,” he trailed off, pulling back slightly to look at the profile of your face, his dark eyes heavy with a complicated emotion that looked dangerously close to anguish.

His hand left your throat, reaching instead to trace a light, unsettling path down your chest. His finger, cool and meticulous, ran along the silky fabric of your Dollette babydoll slip, brushing over the subtle mound of your breast, right on the nipple side.

The sheer material offered no protection, only a heightened awareness of his touch.

​“I never get jealous from my brothers for sharing you, flower,” he continued, his voice dropping to a low, possessive drone. “That’s what we do. We share. It’s part of the dynamic. It's how we keep you contained.”

​Taehyung suddenly kissed your jaw, a sharp, precise claim that sent an electric jolt through you.

You took a sharp inhale, struggling to gather where this devastating conversation was going, what new hell he was mapping out for you.

​His breathing hitched, a subtle tremor running through his massive body, and the true, terrible meaning of his control surfaced.

​“But if—” Taehyung finished, his voice now ragged, placing his large palm flat and possessive on your stomach, right over the two-week-old life. The weight of his hand was immense, a physical manifestation of the impossible demand he was about to make. “If this isn't mine—I might go insane.”

​The silent threat was monumental. The unspoken terror in the room was not the danger to you, but the danger to the three men who claimed you.

Your survival, and the safety of the entire world outside, rested on the paternity of the tiny life you carried. This was the ultimate golden chain a genetic lottery with death prize.

You swallowed hard, the new fear overriding the memory of their collective, shared cruelty. This was a fear that was uniquely Taehyung's. You tried to appeal to the one thing you knew they all valued: their twisted bond and their shared ownership of you.

​“But Jimin said to me that—that he doesn’t care if it’s yours, his, or Jungkook’s,” you breathed out, desperately grasping for the security of their united madness. “He said it belongs to all of us.”

​Taehyung's expression didn't soften. If anything, the cold fury in his eyes intensified, proving that even a united yandere front had its devastating cracks. His thumb moved slowly, deliberately, over the slight softness of your belly.

​“Jimin is a poet, flower,” Taehyung murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble against your ear, dangerously close to being a caress. “He speaks of collective ownership. He likes the idea of the throne and the three kings sharing the prize.” He paused, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

​“But I am a farmer, Cyra,” he confessed, the intimacy of the words startling in their darkness. “I care about the seed. I care about the root. I want to look into that baby’s eyes and see the confirmation of my own blood. I want to know that I was the one who anchored you to us forever.”

​His hand suddenly slid up, pulling the delicate silk strap of your nightgown completely off your shoulder. He pressed a long, reverent kiss to your collarbone, just beside the spot Jungkook had claimed earlier.

This kiss was slower, more worshipful, and infinitely more terrifying.

​“Jimin can share the wife, flower,” he finished, his voice heavy with dark, intoxicating yearning. “But I don’t know if I can share the child. I’ve always been selfish when it comes to you. And that little life is now the final proof of my selfishness.”

​He pulled back, his eyes dark pools of agonizing possessiveness, giving you a look that made your stomach clench with both terror and a confusing, sickening thrill. The moment was suspended—a single, terrifying admission of love and impending, genetic madness.

Taehyung's large palm was heavy on your stomach, his breath warm against your ear as he confessed his terrifying, genetic selfishness. He wanted the baby to be his.

​“Don’t you love your brothers?” you whispered, seizing on the sudden rift in their unity.

Hoping to appeal to the one relationship you knew they held sacred.

​Taehyung pulled back slightly,his eyes—dark, deep, and usually so controlled now clouded with an agonizing complexity.

He released your stomach and gently traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, his gaze unwavering.

​“To death, yeah,” he admitted, the words heavy with genuine affection. “I love them to a fault. I’d carve out my own heart for them if they asked.” His thumb moved to brush your lower lip, a dangerously soft gesture.

​Then, his voice dropped to a low, possessive snarl, his focus narrowing entirely on you.

​“But I’ll die for you, Cyra. That’s the difference. They are my blood, my strength. But you are my obsession. You are the air in my lungs and the madness in my head.”

​He leaned in close, his lips hovering an inch from yours, the intimacy of the dark secret he was sharing meant only for you.

​“We built this empire together,” he continued, his voice a low, gravelly confession.

“We share power, we share responsibilities. We even share the wife because we all want you equally. But I want this final, irrevocable proof that I bound you to us.” Taehyung murmued, pecking your lips again. "I want the child to be mine, flower. So that when you look at it, you remember that it was my blood that sealed your fate.”

​He didn't wait for your response. His mouth crashed down onto yours, a kiss of pure, desperate staking.

It wasn't the raging punishment of Jungkook, but a fierce, agonizing claim of ownership, demanding submission to his individual, terrifying need.

“Hyung,” Jungkook came into the room, leaning his massive frame against the doorframe. His arms were crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed entirely on the two of you with a simmering, proprietary glare. “Some people are downstairs to meet you.”

​Taehyung sighed, his rage immediately being forced back under the polished veneer of the businessman. He nodded, his breathing still ragged against your cheek.

“Is it the cooperation people?” he asked, a professional flatness returning to his tone.

​Jungkook merely hummed in response, his gaze never leaving your face. That silent intensity was its own form of punishment.

​Taehyung finally released you, giving you one last, lingering kiss on the lips a final, explicit declaration of ownership before he had to leave.

He took a single, reluctant step back, putting distance between his body and yours.

​“Feed her fruits,” Taehyung spoke to his younger brother, the order sharp and clear, a subtle command to remember the baby’s welfare over his own anger.

​Jungkook scoffed, a sound heavy with resentment.

“I’ll feed her something else,” he muttered, his eyes raking over your silk-clad body with a hot, consuming promise.

​Taehyung shot him a warning glare, a clear reminder of the new rules, then disappeared, leaving you alone with the most physically demanding of the three.

​Jungkook immediately stalked forward, closing the space Taehyung had created. He didn't rush; every step was deliberate. You gently sat up, retreating into yourself, careful not to look at him.

​He sat down beside you on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking beneath his weight. His presence was overwhelming, filling the air with the dangerous scent of his anger and his singular focus.

​“I like that bracelet you’re wearing, sugar,” he spoke, his voice low and seductive, drawing out the endearment like honeyed venom. He stared at your wrist, then up at your pretty face.

​You looked down at the bracelet. It was a simple, delicate chain with a single, green-ish stone-type pendant — a gift from Halmeoni, a token of safety. It was the last visible link to Jeju.

​You slowly, deliberately, took it off, placing it on the bedside table without meeting his eyes.

You knew exactly what he was demanding: to cut of all ties to your brief, failed freedom. He smirked, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips that signaled his immediate victory.

​“I like your babydoll slip too,” Jungkook continued, his gaze raking down the deep navy silk covering your body. He tilted his head, his eyes glittering with dark amusement and a blatant sexual challenge. “Going to take that off too?” He gave you the cocky grin, his full, perfect lips twisting into a predatory smile

Bastard.

Always been the shameless one.

​You felt a burning heat rush up your throat and into your cheeks. You averted your gaze, staring resolutely at the silk duvet, refusing to give him the satisfaction of your reaction.

His desire was a rope, and he was deliberately tightening it, knowing he couldn't break you, but knowing he could still make you burn.

He shifted his weight, sitting down on the bed beside you, then moving forward until he was almost hovering over your curled form.

He planted his massive hands on either side of your head, pressing them flat against the duvet, effectively pinning you between his body and the headboard. The air was instantly thick with his possessive scent and his raw, masculine heat.

​“Look at me, pretty girl,” Jungkook cooed at you, his voice low and laced with a velvet menace. He was demanding submission, not affection.

​You didn't. You kept your gaze fixed fiercely on the duvet, clinging to the small shred of defiance you had left.

​He sighed, a sound of mock disappointment, and then his control snapped.

His fingers, which had been resting harmlessly on the silk near your shoulder, suddenly dipped down and found the delicate mound of your breast, pinching your nipple sharply over the slip.

​A painful gasp tore from your throat, and your head snapped up. Your eyes, wide and sapphire-brown with pain and shock, finally met his.

​“There, those eyes. The eyes of sapphires,” he murmured, his face dropping close to yours, his breath hot against your lips. He didn't kiss you yet, instead, he slowly slipped his knee between your legs, pressing against your clothed core.

The pressure was firm, sensual, and entirely inescapable. Your mouth fell slightly open, a soft intake of breath. He breathed into it, a profound, intimate invasion.

​“I won’t fuck you, not now, sugar,” he promised, his eyes dark with frustrated passion. “I can’t let my heir getting hurt, now do I?” He cooed again, his lips stretching into a slow, angelic smile that didn't touch the dark fire in his eyes.

He looked exactly like an innocent, devoted father already in love with his future child. “Can’t wait for the tests and get to know whose blood it is. After that... we have more plans. Like a wedding.”

​The word hit you like a physical blow. Your ears began to ring. Everything the silk sheets, the dim light, the oppressive presence of Jungkook disappeared into a hazy blur. Wedding?

​“What?” you whispered softly, the word barely audible.

​He finally chastely kissed your lips, a quick, proprietary seal before he pulled back, his eyes glued to your reaction. He pressed his knees more firmly on your core, and you involuntarily arched your back, exposing your long, vulnerable neck.

​“A—all three of you? That’s against the law,” you choked out, appealing to the only system of order you still recognized.

​He threw his head back and chuckled, a deep, rich sound of pure derision. “Against the law? Sugar, we are the law.” He returned, his amusement settling into dangerous calm.

​“Not three of us, baby — at least not in the government registry,” he clarified, his voice dropping to a seductive conspiratorial tone. “Jimin, Jimin is going to marry you. Legally. For all the shitty government laws and documents. He’s the most outwardly presentable of the three of us.”

​He dropped your slip from your shoulder entirely, exposing the fragile slope of your collarbone and shoulder blade. He pressed a long, claiming kiss to the delicate bone there.

​“But,” he finished, pulling back to look into your terrified eyes, his smile dark with promise,

You woke up the next morning—sore, raw, every muscle stiff like you’d been dragged through hell and left there. The satin sheet clung to your damp skin as you clawed it up against your bare chest. Cold fabric against heat. Cold comfort against shame.

And then it came back—last night. His words, his hands, the way he split through your pleas until “no” sounded like a joke in your own mouth. You could still hear him, like he was whispering inside your skull.

Your eyes snapped up. The ceiling. That red dot. That little glowing parasite recording everything—your tears, your shaking, your voice breaking. But it was gone.

Your chest rose in short, panicked pulls of air. Relief? No. It was worse. If it wasn’t on the ceiling, it meant he had it now. Safe. In his pocket. Proof.

“Looking for this?”

The voice cut through the silence like a blade.

Taehyung leaned in the doorway, hair damp from a shower, towel slung lazy at his hips. His phone dangled from his fingers. Screen black, camera lens staring at you like another eye.

You shrank back into the headboard, clinging harder to the sheets. His mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile—it was that calm, satisfied cruelty that scared you more than his temper.

“Relax,” he murmured, stepping closer, bare feet silent on the floor. “I already saved it. Every second of you breaking apart. It’s mine now.”

Your throat tightened. “Delete it.”

He cocked his head. “Delete you? That’s all it is, isn’t it? Your no, your tears, your trembling little body pixels on a screen. But I like it better in person.”

He dropped the phone onto the nightstand with a sharp thud. Then his towel slipped, careless, like he didn’t even notice.

Before you could breathe, he was climbing onto the bed, braced on either side of your body. Sheets ripped from your hands in one impatient tug.

“Stop—” your voice cracked.

His mouth ghosted over your ear. “Why? You’re already mine on film. Do you think your words matter now?”

He pressed his hips down, hard enough to drag a broken gasp from your throat. His chuckle was low, soft, like he was savoring it.

“That sound right there,” he whispered, pushing against you with lazy rolls of his hips, “I could replay it forever. You — saying no, and still sounding like this. Perfect contradiction.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he caught your wrists, pinning them flat above your head.

“You’ll remember this as the morning you stopped fighting. Because what’s left for you to say?” His breath was hot against your lips now. “No? You’ve worn it out. Say it again, I’ll just fuck you until it turns into a yes.”

You palmed his chest, weak and trembling, trying to create distance where there was none. “Did you— did you do it? You’re taking revenge ‘cause I rejected you?” The words slipped out, soft and strangled, like your throat wasn’t built to carry them.

He stilled for a beat, eyes fixed on your lips as if he was listening more to your brokenness than the words themselves. And god — he fucking loved it.

Taehyung, the man whose name could tilt entire industries, who had the world wrapped around his finger. One press of his tongue online and millions would chant his name. He had money, power, an army of fans frothing to worship him.

And you? You were nothing. A nameless girl in his bed, stripped bare, no proof of innocence left except the word that already meant nothing to him.

He tilted his head at you like a man half-curious, half-bored. That look—predator studying prey already caught in its teeth. His palm pressed into your hip, thumb circling idly like he was so at ease despite your trembling.

“Revenge?” he repeated, as if rolling the word on his tongue. “Is that what you tell yourself, baby? That I care enough to waste revenge on someone as small as you?” His hand squeezed, hard enough to make your ribs ache. “This isn’t revenge. This is inevitability.”

You shook your head, a sob clawing free, but he smiled faintly, watching the way your lips trembled around the sound. His thumb traced your bottom lip, smearing the wetness that leaked down your chin.

“Cry prettier,” he murmured. “If you’re going to cry in my bed, at least make it something worth replaying.”

The words burned like acid. Your vision blurred, your body shaking as he dragged you closer against his chest. He smelled like soap, mint, and something darker — power itself.

“You think the world cares about your no? If I uploaded that video right now, do you know what they’d say?” His voice dropped lower, colder, his breath sliding against the shell of your ear. “They’d call you lucky. They’d call you mine. They’d say you begged for it.”

Your stomach twisted, bile and terror knotting together. You tried to push his chest, weakly, but he caught your wrists again, pinning them with one hand above your head like you weighed nothing.

“You’re still fighting,” he said softly, eyes gleaming. “That’s what I love about you. Do you know how long you’ll last? A week? A month? Before you stop saying no at all?”

He pressed his forehead against yours, breath hot and steady. “You’ll break. And when you do, you’ll call it love.”

Your chest heaved, another sob tearing out, but he hushed you, pressing a finger to your lips.

“Shhh. Save your voice. You’re going to need it.”

He kissed you then not soft, not tender, but slow, deep, unrelenting. Like he was branding the taste of himself into your lungs. And when he pulled back, your lip stung from the drag of his teeth.

“You’re shaking,” he said, voice faintly amused. “God, I could live off this.” His fingers slid down your stomach, possessive, inevitable. “Morning’s barely started, and you’re already mine again.”

Taehyung’s mouth brushed your lips in the barest peck, like you were his lover instead of his prisoner. Like last night had been a shared secret rather than a theft. Then he stood, moving with that lazy grace that made it seem as if the world bent itself around him. He tugged his trousers on, low on his hips, the waistband slung in a way that made the lines of his body look like temptation carved into stone.

Your voice cracked the silence. “Delete it.”

It came out softer than you meant. A plea, not a demand. You hated how pathetic it sounded, how your chest caved around the word.

He froze only for a beat, then chuckled, dragging his fingers through damp hair. The sound was rich, amused, dangerous.

“Delete it?” He turned slowly, as though tasting the absurdity. “Sweetheart, I renamed the file.”

Your blood iced.

He stepped back to the nightstand, picked up his phone, and tapped the screen with lazy precision. “Want to hear the new title?” His eyes met yours — gleaming, cruel. “No Means Nothing.”

The sob cracked loose in your throat before you could stop it. He smirked, thumbing through the device like it was a toy.

“I could upload it in a second. Millions would eat it alive.” He set the phone down again, deliberate, as if to taunt you with how close it was. “Your voice shaking, your tears shining down your cheeks… it’s beautiful. You think anyone would care that you said no? They’ll just see how you opened for me anyway.”

You pressed your palms to your face, muffling a broken sound. He crouched by the edge of the bed, prying your hands down gently, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Look at me,” he whispered. When you did, he tilted his head, mock pity in his smile. “You still think you have a choice in this. You don’t. The file exists. I exist. That’s all that matters.”

He kissed your wrist, soft, mocking. “And the sooner you understand that, the easier it’ll be for you.”

Your chest heaved, air strangling in your throat.

He rose, towering over you again, buttoning the top of his trousers but leaving them low, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. “Now stop asking me to delete it. It’s never going anywhere. Just like you.”

“I'm waiting downstairs, come quickly. Wear my shirt or bathrob.” Taehyung spoke and went outside. And the cry left your mouth that has been trying to get out.

The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and toast when you finally dragged yourself out of the bedroom. Satin robe clutched tight around your body, legs weak from the night, every step feeling borrowed.

Taehyung was already there. Barefoot, shirtless, leaning against the counter with a mug in hand like this was just another morning after a lover’s night. Steam curled up past his face as he scrolled his phone lazily.

He glanced up when he heard you. “Sit.” No smile. No bite. Just command disguised as courtesy.

Your stomach twisted. Still, you slid into the chair at the counter. A plate was waiting for you — eggs, fruit, toast — like some twisted parody of care. Your fingers curled tight around your robe. You couldn’t eat.

Taehyung set his mug down, and then he did it — turned his phone toward you. The screen lit up with a grainy image: your own face, mouth trembling, eyes wet, the sound of your broken “no” faint but clear. His hips slammed into you on screen. Your sob cracked out again, muffled by your hands.

The sex video of them.

He didn’t even watch it. He just took a bite of toast. “Pretty, isn’t it?” he said around the chew, like it was small talk. “I keep replaying the way you begged. Never gets old.”

Your body locked. Your throat burned.

He smirked, finally glancing at the clip himself, his thumb casually dragging it back to replay the moment you cried out. “This part—ah, it kills me every time.” His eyes flicked up to yours. “Don’t you think you look beautiful here?”

The coffee steam curled between you like nothing was wrong. He sipped, calm, while the sound of your own rejection echoed from his phone again.

He took another bite of toast, still scrolling back and forth through the clip. The obscene sound of skin slapping echoed from his phone, your own ragged whimpering layered over it. He didn’t even flinch.

“You hear that?” Taehyung leaned forward, phone angled just enough for you to see yourself writhing. “That’s your pussy talking louder than your mouth. She was begging for me even when you weren’t.”

Your throat tightened. He chuckled low.

“Pathetic little thing. You cry, you say no, and yet look at you—” he tapped the screen right as the video caught the moment your back arched, your broken moan spilling out, “—you’re dripping all over my cock. Do you know what I see when I watch this? A whore who says no but takes me deeper every single time.”

Heat flamed in your face, shame crawling under your skin. He licked a crumb from his thumb slowly, deliberately.

“You’re so easy to break. One push, and suddenly you’re screaming my name with tears down your cheeks. Fuck, it’s gorgeous. Do you know how hard I get watching you ruin yourself like that?”

The clip looped again. He turned the volume higher this time, just enough to drown out your soft sobs at the counter. Your own voice filled the kitchen: “stop… no…” followed by a strangled cry.

Taehyung’s eyes darkened. He set the toast down, leaned closer across the counter, and whispered, “Say no again for me right now. Go on.”

You froze.

He smirked. “Because I promise, love—every time you do, my cock gets harder. And you know what that means? You’re about to end up face-down on this counter with me splitting you open before breakfast is even finished.”

He brushed his thumb over your lip, then pressed it down against your tongue until you had no choice but to let him slide inside your mouth.

“Good girl. Now suck it. Pretend it’s my cock. Maybe I’ll take you back to bed if you do it properly.”

Your words came out thin, strangled, your throat too raw to carry them. “S-so you planned all this? My whole life… ruining me? Making everyone hate me? Those rumors—” you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop. “You did that?”

His brows lifted slightly, almost amused, like a cat watching a mouse beg for the trap to let go.

“I was so wrong about you,” you choked, the admission sour on your tongue. Tears blurred your vision, your voice breaking apart. “You’re evil. Your fans people should know what kind of person you are behind the camera.”

A sniffle escaped, soft and pathetic, and that’s what finally pulled the laugh out of him. Low, rich, cutting.

“Evil?” he repeated, like he was tasting the word. He leaned back against the counter, phone still glowing in his hand with your body on loop. “Baby, that’s just branding. Off-stage, on-stage, in this kitchen—every version of me is real. You’re the only one who gets the one that fucks you like this.”

He pushed the phone toward you again, freezing the video at your tear-streaked face. “Look at you. Do you really think anyone would pity that? They’d envy it. They’d scream my name for doing it. That’s the joke, sweetheart—you can tell the world, and they’ll still cheer for me. Not you.”

His voice dropped darker, closer, like smoke curling into your lungs. “You think your truth matters? My fans will eat you alive before they ever believe you. And I’ll watch. I’ll watch you drown while they call me a saint.”

He stepped closer, crouching to your level, brushing his thumb across your damp cheek. “You call me evil like it’s supposed to hurt. But I’m not ashamed of it.” His eyes glinted. “I fucking thrive on it.”

Then, quieter, almost intimate: “You’ll learn too. Evil feels good when you stop fighting it. You’ll see.”

“I’m going home.” You whispered, clutching the hem of his oversized shirt like it could shield you from the weight in your chest.

Taehyung didn’t even look up at first. He bit into his toast, chewing lazily, his eyes fixed on the phone propped against his mug. Your bare body flashed across the screen again—your voice begging, breaking—before he swiped it away like it was just another notification.

“You go out of this house—” he paused, licking a smear of jam from his thumb, “—and I’ll release the tape.”

Your stomach lurched. He said it so casually. Like he wasn’t holding your entire life in his palm, like it was just another business decision.

“You… you can’t just do that.” Your voice trembled, gulping softly to keep yourself steady. “You can’t—”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He finally stood, pushing his chair back with a scrape, that same relaxed calm dripping off of him. He walked toward you slowly, deliberately, as if savoring each step.

And when he reached you—he didn’t grab, didn’t snarl. No. He leaned down, his lips brushing yours with a teasing kiss, letting you taste the sweet stickiness of jam. The softness almost mocked you.

“I just did.” He whispered against your lips, his tone low, casual—final.

The words sank into your chest like a knife.

He pulled back only slightly, smirking as his thumb traced your bottom lip. “Don’t pout, baby. I’m giving you a choice. Stay here and be mine… or leave, and I’ll make sure the whole world sees you on your knees for me.”

His eyes narrowed, cruel amusement glimmering there. “Tell me — which option do you think the world will believe fits you better?”

Your throat burned. The toast, the jam, the phone—it all blurred until you could barely breathe.

Taehyung leaned back against the table, picking up his mug like he had all the time in the world. He sipped, watching you squirm, his eyes cold but hungry.

“Come here,” he said simply.

You didn’t move. Not until he lifted his phone again, thumb hovering over the screen.

Your bare feet dragged across the floor as you stepped closer, clutching the fabric of his shirt tighter around you.

Taehyung chuckled, setting his coffee down. His hand slipped beneath the shirt, palm warm and rough against your hip. “You think anyone will care that you said no?” he murmured, his breath brushing your ear. “All they’ll see is how wet you got. All they’ll hear is you begging me to keep going.”

He slid the shirt higher, baring you slowly, savoring the sight of you trembling in his kitchen.

“Sit,” he ordered, tapping the table beside his plate.

You shook your head, whispering, “No…”

“Wrong answer.” He smirked, pressing a quick kiss to your jaw before showing you the screen—your own moans playing, your own body shaking on film.

Shame ripped through you. And still, your legs moved. You sat on the edge of the table, the wood cold against your skin.

“Good girl,” he drawled, spreading your thighs with one hand while picking up his toast with the other. He bit into it, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Breakfast tastes better when I eat between your legs, don’t you think?”

He set the toast aside, leaning down until his lips ghosted your inner thigh. His tongue licked a stray smear of jam from his thumb before smearing the sweetness against your skin.

“I wonder,” he murmured, eyes dark, “how sweet you’ll taste with it dripping down your pussy.”

Taehyung gathered you up like you weighed nothing, setting you on the counter desk with a dull thud. The cool marble bit into your thighs, but his body pressed in, trapping you there.

“I’ll eat you out until you scream sorry for rejecting me.” His voice was honeyed, sweet on the surface, but soaked in poison underneath.

Another tear rolled down your cheek, slipping to your jaw. “I had a right to reject you,” you whispered, voice trembling.

His head tilted, boxy smile breaking across his face — the smile plastered on billboards, the one that made strangers sob and faint. Except up close, it didn’t feel holy. It felt like hell.

“Yeah?” he whispered back, eyes flashing as his thumb wiped your tear. “And I have the right to fuck you.”

Your stomach knotted, shame and heat tangling until you couldn’t tell them apart.

He tugged the shirt off your shoulders, letting it fall open, baring your chest to the cool kitchen air. “Look at you, shivering already.” He licked his bottom lip, gaze dragging over every inch of you. “Say it again. Tell me you had a right.”

When you opened your mouth, his hand closed around your throat—gentle enough not to cut off your air, but tight enough that your words cracked.

“I… I had a right—”

His smile widened, cruel satisfaction glittering. “Exactly. And I had the right to film you choking on my cock.” His tone stayed calm, conversational, as if he was still talking about jam and toast.

He kissed you hard, biting your lower lip before pulling back to breathe against your mouth. “You thought your ‘no’ meant something. But what’s stronger, baby? A word, or the proof of how much you begged me to keep going?”

He pushed your legs wider, his teeth scraping your jaw as he murmured, “I’ll make you regret every single letter of that no.”

His grip on your throat loosened only to trail down, thumb pressing into the hollow of your collarbone. Then he crouched low, his breath ghosting over the inside of your thigh.

Your knees trembled when his hands pried them apart further, forcing you wide for him. He smirked at the sight, like a man staring at a feast laid just for him.

“Pretty little cunt,” he muttered, low enough it felt meant for himself. His tongue darted out, catching a sticky trace of jam from his finger before smearing it along your inner thigh. “You’re dripping already. Crying, but dripping. Guess your body knows who owns it better than your mouth does.”

A broken sob cracked from your throat.

He glanced up at you, boxy grin flashing again, sinful now. “Careful, sweetheart. If you cry too much, the world might think you didn’t enjoy it. Good thing I have video evidence that proves otherwise.”

Then he buried his mouth against you.

The first lick was slow, deliberate, his tongue dragging up your folds as if he was tasting something expensive, savoring every drop. The whimper it pulled out of you made him chuckle against your skin.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his breath hot, lips glistening. “Say sorry while I eat you. I want to feel the apology shake through your thighs.”

His mouth returned, hungrier now, lips sucking at your clit while his tongue worked relentless circles. Every groan he made vibrated into you, making your hips twitch despite the tears streaking your face.

Your hand shot out, grabbing his hair, not to pull him closer but to push him away. He didn’t budge. If anything, he pressed harder, devouring you like punishment.

“Let go,” you pleaded, voice breaking.

Taehyung pulled back for a breath, his mouth shiny with you. “Not until you choke on sorry.” He smirked, dark eyes locked on yours. “Say it, and maybe I’ll even let you cum before breakfast.”

“T-tae, please—” you whimpered when his teeth sank into your clit, sharp enough to make your back arch off the counter.

Your hand trembled in his hair, tugging, but he only growled against you, tongue soothing the bite as if mocking your pain.

“I’m—” your voice cracked, throat tight, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry for…” the words drowned in your sob. His gaze flicked up, dark and demanding, refusing to let you stop.

“…sorry for rejecting you.” The whisper broke out of you like confession, shame dripping down your cheeks as freely as the tears.

Taehyung smirked against your cunt, sucking hard enough to make your whole body jerk. He pulled back just enough to speak, his mouth slick, his tone cruelly soft.

“There it is.” He dragged two fingers through your wetness, spreading it up over your swollen clit, making you twitch. “Apology accepted.”

Then his voice dropped, deeper, filthier. “Now cum on my tongue like a good little sorry girl, or I’ll make you watch that video on repeat while I fuck your throat.”

He dove back in, devouring you mercilessly, his fingers holding your thighs wide open as you writhed, the marble counter digging into your back. Every obscene sound of his tongue echoed in the kitchen, tangled with your broken sobs.

His tongue was ruthless now, flicking your clit with quick, devastating precision, lips sucking until you thought you’d break apart. Every whimper spilled out against the walls of the kitchen, mixing with the soft wet sounds of him eating you like a man starved.

“T-Taehyung—” your voice cracked, nails digging into his hair, “I-I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled into your skin, the vibration ripping straight through your core. His hand slid up, pressing flat against your stomach, pinning you in place. “You’re not running. You’re going to cum on my tongue, right here on the same counter you cried about rejecting me.”

You sobbed, thighs trembling violently, heat coiling so tight you thought your body might split.

“Say it.” He pulled back just long enough to slap his wet fingers against your clit, sharp little smacks that made you yelp. “Say what you’re sorry for while you cum for me.”

Your vision blurred, chest heaving, shame and pleasure crashing together. “S-sorry—for rejecting you—”

He latched back onto your clit, sucking hard, tongue circling with brutal focus. That was all it took. Your body convulsed, the orgasm tearing through you so violently you cried out, a broken scream that filled the kitchen.

Taehyung held you there, mouth glued to your cunt, drinking down every pulse of it until your thighs shook uncontrollably, until you were gasping, begging him to stop.

Only then did he finally lift his head, lips and chin glistening, his smile stretched into something both gorgeous and terrifying.

“Good girl,” he murmured, licking his bottom lip slow. “See? You sound prettier when you’re sorry.”

You were already so sore from last night that even the cold air brushing between your legs made you flinch. Taehyung stood up slowly, towering over you, pressing his forehead to yours like a lover even while his hands treated you like a possession.

“This wouldn’t happen if you just—be mine and not reject me,” he gritted out, voice a low snarl wrapped in honey.

He was manipulating you. You knew it, you felt it, but your brain floated somewhere between humiliation and haze, too heavy to claw your way back.

“Think about it…” his voice softened, almost sweet, the way you’d heard him speak to cameras. “…would this have even happened if you’d just decided to be my woman? Tell me, parrot.”

He cooed the nickname against your ear, kissing the edge of your jaw, his lips warm and soft in a way that made the words burn even hotter. You were too overwhelmed, your headspace fogged and slippery, to think of anything except the weight of his breath on your skin.

His fingers traced lazy circles around your clit again, teasing, making your body jerk even though it was screaming for a break. “It wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t try to be so fucking practical,” he hissed, his lips brushing your temple. “What did you say? You remember?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“I’m not looking for a relationship, I care about your career.” He mimicked your voice, exaggerated, spitting each word out with venom and a smile.

His thumb pressed harder against your clit, sending another wave of unwanted pleasure up your spine. “Now look,” he giggled, low and dark. “What are you looking for now? Your career?”

He tilted his head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “It’s gone.”

Then, without warning, he slid one long finger inside you, the intrusion making your mouth fall open with a soft, strangled sound. His thumb never stopped circling your clit, slow and cruel.

“You feel that?” he whispered against your lips. “This is what you get for trying to be practical with me. This is what’s left of all your plans.”

He pushed deeper, curling his finger just enough to make your thighs twitch.

“And about that colleague of yours,” Taehyung muttered, tone so casual it made the words sting sharper, “the one you say ‘it’s just a colleague.’ I’ll do something about him too.”

Your eyes widened, wet with panic, head shaking weakly. “You won’t—mgh—”

Your voice cracked off as his finger curled inside you, brushing the spot that made your body convulse against the counter.

“Is that a challenge?” His grin split wide, boxy and cruel, his breath tickling your ear as his finger thrust harder. “Actually, I’m pretty good with challenges, parrot. You know… Run BTS trained me a lot.” He chuckled, mocking his own joke as if the destruction of your life was just another variety show gag.

Your chest heaved, breaths coming shallow as the pressure coiled fast, your body betraying you again. Another orgasm pulled at your insides, terrifying in its inevitability.

You lifted your gaze, tearful, broken, locking onto his eyes. “If you’re… you’re like this—” your voice fractured, “I can’t imagine how the members are. Al— all facade.”

For a second, his smile froze. His jaw tightened, the warmth in his expression flickering into something colder, darker.

“You think I’m the worst?” His tone dipped, dangerous now, his finger driving deeper, sharper. “You think my brothers wouldn’t ruin you worse if they wanted to?” He tilted his head, almost amused again, almost. “You don’t get it, sweetheart. You’re already ruined. And only I get to decide who sees it.”

His thumb pressed harder on your clit, rubbing cruel circles while his finger pumped mercilessly, dragging you to the edge again. “Say it, parrot,” he demanded through clenched teeth, his smile stretched sharp. “Say I’m the only one who gets to touch you. Or I’ll invite the others to see what I’ve recorded. You don't know bangtan like i do.”

The threat hung heavy, hotter than the finger inside you, making the tears spill harder as your body buckled toward climax.

Your body buckled, hips jerking against his hand, the orgasm building too fast, too hot. You couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to.

“Taehyung—” you gasped, eyes rolling back, “I-I can’t—”

His finger curled again, sharp, relentless. His thumb rubbed harder, faster, pulling you right to the brink. And then—he stopped.

Your thighs clamped around his hand instinctively, desperate for friction, but he only chuckled, pulling back slightly, his wet finger glistening between you.

“Not yet, parrot.” His voice dripped with amusement. “You don’t get to cum until I hear the words.”

Tears blurred your vision as you shook your head weakly. “P-please—”

He leaned close, lips brushing your temple, his grin sharp against your skin. “Say it. Say I’m the only one who gets to touch you. Or I’ll let everyone see what your body does when I play with it.”

He teased your entrance with the tip of his finger, sliding it in just barely before pulling out again, dragging the slick up to your clit. His touch was light, cruel, just enough to make your nerves scream.

“Is that what you want?” His tone was mocking, sing-song. “The members watching this on repeat? The fans seeing you spread out and dripping for me?”

You sobbed, hips shifting helplessly against his hand, chasing what he refused to give.

“Beg me, parrot,” Taehyung whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice velvet and poison all at once. “Beg me to let you cum, and I’ll think about it.”

His fingers circled your clit slowly, deliberately keeping you hovering right at the edge. Your body shook, throat tight with humiliation and need, every muscle tense and trembling.

“Say it,” he hissed, curling his finger inside you once more before pulling away again, cruelly slow. “Say I’m the only one who gets to ruin you.”

“You’re the only one!” you cried out, the words tearing from your throat raw, desperate. You clutched at his shirt like it could anchor you, sobbing against his chest. “Let—let me cum…”

For a heartbeat, everything stilled. His thumb hovered just above your clit, his finger buried inside you but motionless. Taehyung stared down at you, expression unreadable, chest rising and falling slowly.

Then his mouth curved into a dark, satisfied smile.

“That’s better,” he murmured, voice low, vibrating against your ear. “Say it again.”

“You’re the only one,” you whispered, choking on the words as tears streaked your face. “Please…”

He kissed your temple, soft and mocking at once. “Good little parrot.”

And then he moved.

His thumb pressed hard to your clit, rolling tight circles while his finger pumped inside you, curling just right, the rhythm fast and merciless. Every stroke was punishment and reward at the same time, dragging broken sounds out of you until they didn’t even sound like words anymore.

“Cum for me,” Taehyung growled, eyes locked on your face, watching every twitch, every tear. “Cum on my fingers and remember exactly who you belong to.”

The orgasm hit like an electric shock. Your back arched off the counter, a raw, choked scream spilling from your mouth as you convulsed around his fingers. He didn’t stop; he rode you through it, hand steady, lips grazing your jaw as he whispered filth into your ear words you could barely process through the shuddering waves tearing through you.

By the time he finally eased his fingers out, you were trembling, wrecked, breath coming in ragged gasps. He slid the wet digits between his lips, sucking them clean with a low, satisfied moan.

“That’s how you apologize,” he said softly, still smiling that boxy, devastating smile. “That’s how you learn.”

Taehyung gathered you in his arms once again, pressing you tight to his chest like you were something fragile he had to keep from breaking apart.

You were too exhausted to fight anymore, too sore to push him away so you let yourself sink against him, your cheek brushing the hot skin of his throat. His scent clung to you, dizzying, suffocating.

He kicked the bathroom door open with his foot, not bothering with delicacy, and carried you inside. Steam curled around the tiles, the air heavy with warmth. The tub was already filled, water just the right temperature because of course he had prepared it. Of course he had thought ahead.

He lowered you into the bath like you were porcelain, careful, as though he hadn’t just wrecked you in ways no one else ever had. You let the heat swallow your body, water licking over your bruised thighs, your trembling stomach.

He stayed kneeling on the outside, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, that faint boxy smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he reached for the loofah. Then his shampoo. He lathered the soap between his fingers until foam frothed, and pressed it to your skin. His touch wasn’t sexual now — but it was still too intimate, still claiming.

Every slow drag over your arm, your shoulder, your throat screamed ownership.

“I want you to smell like me,” he murmured, as if it was the simplest truth in the world. “Everywhere you go, every person you meet — they’ll know you’re mine.”

You stared at the ripples in the bath, voice thin, fragile.

“As long as… I agree to be your woman… you—you won’t release the tape?”

His hands stilled for a second, loofah resting against your collarbone. His eyes dragged to your face, unreadable, then he tilted his head with that deceptively gentle smile.

“Parrot,” he hummed, dipping the sponge lower, brushing over the swell of your breast before sliding down your ribs. “You still don’t understand, do you?”

You swallowed hard. “Just… answer me.”

Taehyung leaned in, his lips brushing your damp hairline as his fingers slipped shampoo through your scalp.

He hummed under his breath, soft and chillingly sweet, the lyrics spilling lazily out — ‘rainy days, thinking ‘bout you…’ His voice wrapped around you like silk and barbed wire all at once.

Finally, he whispered, almost tender:

“It’s not about what you agree to, love. You already belong to me. The tape? That’s just proof. A reminder of what happens if you forget.”

The sob that caught in your throat barely made it past your lips.

He chuckled low, pressing a kiss to your wet temple. “Be my woman, and I’ll never have to use it. Refuse me again… and I promise you, the whole world will watch you fall apart under me.”

Taehyung’s movements slowed until they became almost a ritual. He rubbed the loofah down your body with lazy precision, dragging the rough sponge over skin that was already tender. When he reached your thighs, he pressed them apart with his knee, his eyes never leaving your face.

The loofah dipped lower, lower still, until it brushed over the sore, puffy folds between your legs.

You gasped, a broken little sound, water lapping over the sides of the tub.

“Shhh,” Taehyung whispered, pecking your trembling lips, almost sweet. “I’m just washing you.” But the deliberate circle of the loofah over your clit said otherwise; it was soft enough to make you shiver, rough enough to sting.

Tears welled in your eyes. “Before rejecting you…” your voice cracked as you stared up into his dark eyes, “I—I told you I cared about you. I cared about your career. Why… why did you choose this way?”

His smile deepened, boxy and beautiful and cruel all at once. He tilted your chin up with one wet finger. “Because you didn’t care the right way.”

You swallowed, trembling.

Taehyung’s thumb replaced the loofah now, drawing slow, maddening circles over your clit as he leaned in, his nose brushing yours. “You thought saying no would keep me at a distance. You thought you could manage me like some PR crisis. But you don’t manage me, parrot. Not here. Not in this house.”

You blinked hard, the tears spilling over. It was all about rejection. Everything. Every act. Every manipulation. This moment. His obsession.

He pressed his forehead to yours, fingers sliding lower, slipping between your folds. “The main purpose, parrot…” his voice dropped to a growl, “…when no means nothing.”

Your hips jerked involuntarily under the water; you bit back a sob.

“You wanted to teach me boundaries,” he murmured, kissing your jaw, your ear, your throat. “Now I’m teaching you what happens when you draw them. You say you cared. But here you are, in my bath, smelling like me, bleeding my name.”

He shifted closer, his palm spreading over your stomach as his fingers played between your thighs, relentless but slow. “So, say it again,” he whispered against your mouth. “Tell me why you rejected me. Tell me why you thought I’d ever take no seriously.”

Taehyung stood over you, fingers working at the button of his trousers with infuriating calm, as if undressing in front of you was no more significant than removing a watch. He pushed them down, the fabric pooling at his ankles before he stepped into the tub.

Your chest rose and fell sharply. The water rippled with the weight of him, heat radiating off his skin as he lowered himself opposite you. His eyes never left yours. Then, with one smooth pull, he dragged you across the tub, onto his lap, until you were straddling him.

Your thighs trembled against his. “I’m… I’m sore,” you whispered, voice nearly swallowed by the sound of water.

Taehyung only smiled, pressing his mouth against yours, soft, deliberate, deceptive. “And I’m not done.”

He kissed you again, this time rougher, teeth catching your bottom lip, dragging it out until you whimpered into his mouth.

His hands slid down, gripping your waist, your ass, forcing your core to press against the hardness already pushing against your thigh.

You pulled back slightly, your breath catching. “Tae…”

He nipped at your jaw, murmuring against your skin. “Parrot, last night I fucked you through your tears. This morning, I’ll fuck you through your soreness. That’s the difference between you and me — you think rejection ends things. I think rejection begins them.”

You shivered as he guided you higher on his lap, his cock pressing right against your entrance, water lapping over both of you. His tone was casual, like a man reading headlines. “Every time you say no, all I hear is: fuck me harder. Isn’t that right?”

Your eyes fluttered, overwhelmed, but you couldn’t answer.

He chuckled darkly, hands framing your face. “Answer me, parrot. Or I’ll keep you in this bath until you can’t walk out.”

His grip tightened on your hips, water spilling over the edge of the tub with every small movement. Taehyung tilted his head, brushing his nose against yours, his lips hovering a breath away.

“You’re already trembling,” he murmured, voice a low vibration in your chest. “Sore, wet, still trying to defy me.” His thumb slid down between your thighs, rubbing circles over your clit until your whole body twitched. “And yet…” he pushed the tip of his cock against you, just enough to make you gasp, “…you’re opening for me.”

You clawed at his shoulders, whimpering. “Tae…”

He laughed softly, the sound curling against your ear. “Say it again. Say my name like a plea.” He pushed in an inch, then stopped. His other hand reached up, gripping your jaw to force your eyes open. “Look at me when I ruin you, parrot.”

You stared at him through wet lashes. “Taehyung…”

That was all it took. He sank deeper, slow, inch by inch, stretching you despite the water easing the friction. The soreness made it burn, but the slide was inevitable.

He hissed against your neck. “This is what I like… you all small and raw around me, thinking you can still run.” He rolled his hips upward, grinding into you as his thumb kept circling your clit. “You feel that? This is where no dies.”

Your breath hitched; tears clung to your cheeks.

“Every time you fight,” he whispered, kissing the tears away, “you make it better. You make me harder. You make yourself wetter.” He thrust again, slow but deep, pulling you down on him until you were fully seated. “Now, ride. Show me you know who you belong to.”

His hands guided your hips, dragging you back and forth against him as his cock filled you. The water sloshed loudly around you both, mixing with the soft sounds you couldn’t hold back anymore.

Taehyung pressed his forehead to yours, the smile gone now, replaced with something darker. “Say it,” he ordered softly. “Say what you’re sorry for while you come apart on me.”

Your mouth fell open, a soft gasp catching in your throat, damp from the steam curling up around you. Your whole face was flushed, tears clinging to the corners of your eyes, your nose pink from crying. Wet lashes clumped together; your drenched bangs stuck to your forehead in messy strands.

He looked down at you like a man admiring a masterpiece he’d made. Your breasts bounced with every upward thrust, water splashing over the rim of the tub with each movement.

The ripples turned into waves, heat sliding between your skin and his.

You looked like a disaster. His disaster. His fingers dug into your waist, hauling you down harder, until every sound you made was swallowed by his mouth or the water.

“Look at you,” Taehyung rasped against your neck, biting at the skin just below your jaw. “All wet and ruined and still clenching around me. This—” he thrust upward, slow but deep, “—this is what happens when you say no to me.”

You tried to speak but only a sob left your throat.

He chuckled darkly, lips grazing your ear. “My little parrot. Crying, shaking, dripping… and still taking every inch.”

He rolled his hips again, harder, your breasts jiggling against his chest. “Tell me whose mess you are.”

“N-not yours…” you choked, the words scraping out of your throat like glass.

Taehyung’s chuckle was low and ugly, vibrating through his chest. “Yeah?” His hand slid up, fingers curling around your throat, not tight enough to crush but firm enough to make your vision spot. The knot of his grip made you gasp.

He pressed you down, your face breaking the surface of the bathwater. The heat roared in your ears; your lungs screamed. Your hands clawed at his wrists, bubbles rising between your fingers. For a few seconds, everything went muffled and blue and endless.

Then he yanked you back up, water pouring down your face and chest, your hair plastered to your skin. You coughed violently, clinging to his neck as you fought for air.

He bit your bottom lip hard enough to sting, his eyes glinting with a mix of hunger and fury. “Say it,” he growled, his thumb brushing a tear off your cheek only to smear it into the water.

“Y–your mess…” you breathed, voice breaking, barely more than air. It slipped out of you like a confession you’d been tortured into, the words trembling between sobs.

Taehyung froze for half a heartbeat, then smiled — slow, dangerous, satisfied. His hand stayed at your throat, thumb pressed lightly under your jaw so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

“My mess,” he repeated, his grin flashing even as his hips snapped up into you, water splashing over the tub. “Say it again.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as your body shook around him. “Your mess—” you cried out, the words drowning under the rhythm of his thrusts.

He groaned, dragging his teeth along your cheek before claiming your lips in a bruising kiss. “Good girl,” he muttered against your mouth. “Now I’ll fuck you until you never forget who made you this way.”

He groaned at your surrender, fucking you through the spasms, eyes locked on your wrecked face. His lips crushed yours in a kiss that was more teeth than tenderness, swallowing every broken sound you made.

When you finally collapsed, trembling, clinging to him, he wrapped his arms tight around your waist, forcing you to stay on his lap even as your body shook. His voice was low, smug, final.

“That’s all I needed, parrot. Not your rejection. Not your reasons. Just this.” He kissed your wet cheek, dragging his tongue along your tear tracks. “You. Wrecked. And mine.”

Few days ago taehyung proposed to you, wanted you to be his woman. With his charming smiles and big buff body under his cute little shirt - his cheek tinted when he asked you out, you gave him some time to think about it. You practiced. Practically practiced that what will you say The Kim Taehyung? The man whole world desires?

The café wasn’t anything special. A hole in the wall, tucked on the quieter end of the street where the neon bled softer and no one looked up from their phones. You’d chosen it on purpose. Neutral territory. No fans, no cameras, no excuses.

The chair across from you scraped softly against the floor as he sat down.

Kim Taehyung.

Even with the baseball cap tugged low and the mask slouched around his chin, he looked like sin dipped in honey. His sweatshirt was oversized, casual, and yet somehow regal because no matter how he dressed, Taehyung always looked like he was just playing at being ordinary.

He leaned back, studying you in that unhurried way that made you want to squirm.

“hey, did you think about my proposal?” Taehyung asked softly, looking at you. You squirmed softly, crossing the arms over your soft maroon sweater.

“Uh, actually about that–”

“You don’t drink enough water,” he said suddenly, nodding at your latte. His voice was lazy silk, rich and low. “I can tell from your lips.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

He just smiled, slow and knowing. “Nothing. Just an observation.”

That was the problem with him. The casual remarks that weren’t casual. The weight behind every word, like he was letting you in on a private joke that only he understood.

You curled your hands tighter around your cup. The steam fogged your lashes as you tried to breathe past the lump in your throat.

“I care about you,” you started carefully.

His eyes sharpened, though his face remained perfectly still.

“Really, I do,” you pressed on. “But… I can’t. Not right now. My career—your career, especially your career it’s too much. Dating just isn’t what I’m looking for.”

There. Said. The air between you felt suddenly heavier, the hum of the espresso machine too loud, too sharp.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you, like you were a puzzle piece refusing to fit where he wanted.

Your heart thudded against your ribs. You waited for a flash of irritation, maybe a scoff, maybe even the signature Taehyung laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all but a razor hidden in velvet.

“So you're rejecting me?”

That me made my skin crawl.

“Not specifically you tae, its just- urm, I don't know, I'm not just into dating.” You tried to compose yourself, but guilt was killing you. Taehyung is a nice guy, but you're just, not ready.

Instead, he smiled.

Soft. Polite. Devastating.

“I see,” he murmured, tilting his head. His tone was warm, calm. The kind of tone that should’ve soothed you but only made the back of your neck prickle. “You’re right. Timing is everything.”

You swallowed. “I… I hope you understand.”

“Of course.” He reached for his cup, lifting it with long fingers that didn’t shake even once. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

Relief bloomed in your chest so fast it almost hurt.

“Always,” you said softly, managing a smile.

And then the conversation shifted effortlessly, like he’d let you steer it elsewhere. He asked about your work, teased you gently about your sleep habits, even offered to recommend a nutritionist he knew. It was normal, casual, safe.

Too safe.

When the bill came, he insisted on paying. “My treat. Consider it a thank you for your honesty.” His lips curved in that practiced, easy grin, and you found yourself nodding, grateful he wasn’t making this hard.

But as he stood and pulled his mask back into place, his eyes lingered on you. Just a second too long. Like he was memorizing your shape in that chair, the way your fingers twitched nervously against your cup.

You didn’t notice the tension in his jaw. Didn’t see how his smile faltered the second you dropped your gaze to your phone.

You only saw the polite wave as he slipped out the door, leaving you with the faint smell of coffee and his cologne in the air.

---

Outside, the night air was cool against his face. He tugged his cap lower, slipping through the shadows like it was second nature.

You said no.

To him.

The thought pressed like a bruise against his skull. Every step he took, it pulsed harder. Louder.

The most desired man in the world. And you—soft voice, soft smile, trembling hands you had told him no.

He reached his car, slid inside, and sat in silence for a long moment. His reflection stared back at him in the black glass of the windshield. Blank. Calm. Controlled.

But his fingers curled so tightly around the steering wheel the leather groaned.

You didn’t think this through, did you?

The whisper slipped from his mouth before he could stop it. A private murmur, swallowed by the hum of the engine as he turned the key.

Timing is everything.

And he had all the time in the world.

Few weeks were normal for you, you kept meeting taehyung and his members. They all are working on their upcoming album so sometimes schedule is hectic. But slowly, things started to fall apart.

Your manager called with a strained voice two days later: “There’s a mix-up with your schedule. Your interview’s canceled.” No explanation. Fine, mistakes happen.

Your best friend didn’t answer your texts for the first time in years. You shrugged it off—busy, right? Except the next day her number was disconnected.

You misplaced your keys three times in a single week, though you swore you left them in the same place. Your credit card declined at the grocery store, even though you’d checked your balance. The cashier gave you that pity look, the one that burned worse than a slap.

And every night every single night you swore you felt eyes on you.

It was absurd. You’d never been the paranoid type. But when you turned in your bed, curtains swaying though no window was open, shadows seemed thicker. Heavier. You told yourself it was stress. Work stress. Career stress. Not him.

Never him.

But then you’d remember the way he’d smiled at you, so polite, so soft, like he was filing your words away. Like rejection was just… a pending plan.

One evening, you ran into him again. Coincidence. It had to be. The industry was small, and you moved in overlapping circles. You tried not to stiffen when you spotted him across the room, dressed in black, hair falling into his eyes. He looked like every fantasy your fans whispered online, except his gaze wasn’t on them. It was on you.

You told yourself to be normal. You smiled, lifted your hand in a tiny wave. His lips curled again. That same smile. He approached, slow, deliberate, like a wolf who’d never had to run to catch prey.

“—,” he said your name smoothly, stopping close enough that his cologne wrapped around you, musky, dark, too much. “You look tired.”

You blinked. “I… it’s been a busy week.”

“Busy.” He tilted his head, studying your face. “Or troubled?”

Your stomach dropped. “I’m fine.” Your voice timid and dull. Taehyung tilted his head brushing your french bangs away from your forehead.

Your Jerked your head away.

His eyes darkened.

He hummed, low in his throat, the sound vibrating like he didn’t believe you. “You know, when people lie, they forget their eyes give them away.”

You crossed your arms, defensive. “I’m not lying.”

He leaned in—not touching, but close enough that your heartbeat slammed against your ribs. His voice was a whisper. “Maybe not to me. But to yourself.”

The world tilted. For a second you forgot where you were, how many people were in the same room. It was like he’d built a cage with nothing but words, and you’d stepped into it willingly.

And then he leaned back, smiling again, polite, sweet. “Take care of yourself.”

He walked away.

The hybe break shop had always been your refuge. Nobody cared who you were there. Students hunched over laptops, tired office workers with earbuds in, the faint hiss of the espresso machine. A place where you could breathe without the weight of eyes.

Except tonight.

You spotted him before he spotted you—or maybe he’d seen you first, and you only thought you were quicker. He was at the corner table, long fingers curled around a porcelain cup, rings glinting under the warm light. Kim Taehyung, the man who wasn’t supposed to blend, yet somehow sat there like he owned the air.

His gaze lifted lazily, caught yours across the room, and that damn polite smile surfaced again.

You froze. Leaving would look too obvious. So you inhaled, squared your shoulders, and ordered your drink. Maybe he wouldn’t come over.

Except he did.

“You like caramel lattes,” he murmured when you slid into a booth, not asking permission to sit opposite you. His voice was low, casual, like he was simply stating the weather. “Always extra syrup.”

You blinked. “…How do you—”

His smile didn’t falter. “You’ve ordered them before. People notice things when they’re interested.”

Your stomach twisted. “You… remember that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He leaned back, eyes flicking over your face, then lower, too slow. “You’re not easy to forget.”

You gripped your cup too tightly. Steam fogged against your lip. “Taehyung…”

“What?” His tone was pure silk, but the question cut sharp.

“I told you… I’m not looking for anything right now.”

He chuckled, soft, like you’d told a child’s lie. “You think this is about dating? I’m just sitting with a friend.”

It should’ve sounded harmless. It didn’t.

Then the door jingled, and a coworker from your agency walked in — a man. He spotted you, grinned, raised a hand in greeting. Relief surged through you, something normal, familiar. You half-stood to wave back, but Taehyung’s voice slid between your ribs.

“You seem close,” he said lightly, eyes not leaving your face.

Your breath caught. “…He’s just a colleague.”

“Mm.” He sipped his drink, slow, thoughtful. “Do colleagues usually smile like that?”

You looked again. The man was just waiting in line, phone in hand, casual. Nothing unusual. “It’s not like that.”

Taehyung hummed. Not a word, not a sound of agreement, just a low vibration in his throat that made your skin prickle.

“Pretty dresses suits you,” Taehyung muttered softly, rubbing his lower lips with his finger. You didn't look at him, didn't want to see the intense stare that was leaving you bare.

“By the way, they do give that.” Taehyung spoke up again, you looked at him. “Give what?” you frowned softly, he smiled and tilted his head.

“The advance payment.”

You got quiet.

How does he knows that I'm facing financial issues too?

The colleague never came over. He glanced at you one last time on his way out, hesitated, then left. You realized only after the door shut that Taehyung’s gaze had been fixed on him the entire time. Cold. Measuring. Warning.

Your stomach sank.

The first rumor came small, like a paper cut. Barely there. A headline buried in the entertainment section: — Attitude Causes Strain on Set. You almost laughed when you saw it because you’d shown up early every day, taken direction politely, stayed quiet. But the words were there, cold in black ink, and people would believe them more than they’d ever believe you.

The second rumor came sharper: Secret mission Gone Wrong? — Tried to get in company last night. Your blood iced. The woman looked like you, but it wasn’t you. “whispers of private meetings.” Your phone buzzed endlessly, texts pinging with gossip, coworkers’ names flashing only to vanish seconds later. When you tried to answer, the calls cut short. Blocked.

And then came the photos. Paparazzi shots of you, blurred and unflattering, paired with captions that twisted you cruelly. Cold. Arrogant. Difficult. Your inbox filled with strangers spitting venom, accusing you of arrogance, of throwing away opportunities girls would kill for.

You pressed your palms into your eyes until you saw stars.

You told yourself not to cry. Crying gave it power. But one night, sitting on your bed with your phone buzzing endlessly beside you, the weight cracked you open. Tears slipped down your cheeks, soft and quiet, your body curling small as if you could make yourself invisible.

You whispered to the dark, voice trembling. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

And then your phone lit up. A message. From him.

You don’t have to explain yourself to them. They’ll never understand you the way I do.

You froze, tears streaking your face.

Another ping. Stop trying to fight alone. It only makes you tired.

Your breath hitched. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But the words burned into your chest, terrible comfort. Because he was right you were exhausted.

The next day, you dragged yourself to the studio. Work was supposed to anchor you. Instead, you walked in to silence. Conversations died when you entered. People avoided your gaze. Your name was missing from the board of upcoming projects.

Your manager wouldn’t even look you in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, shuffling papers. “They… don’t want to move forward with you right now. Sponsors pulled out.”

Your throat closed. “But I didn’t—”

“It’s not about truth,” he cut in, voice thin. “It’s about perception. And right now… you’re poison.”

The words gutted you.

You stumbled out of the building, sunglasses hiding your wet eyes, and nearly collapsed onto the curb. Cars blurred past, honking. People bustled, uncaring. The world spun like it had no room for you in it anymore.

And then, through the haze, a shadow fell across you. A handkerchief appeared, folded neatly. A voice like velvet.

“Why are you crying, love?”

You looked up, and there he was. Kim Taehyung. Perfect suit, perfect face, crouched like a savior in the middle of your ruin. His gaze was soft, warm even, but too steady. Like he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

“I—I didn’t do anything,” you whispered, broken. “I swear I didn’t—”

His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, gentle, too intimate for the sidewalk. “I know,” he murmured. “I told you. They’ll never understand you. But I do.”

Your lips trembled. “Taehyung…”

He smiled, the kind of smile that promised safety and danger in equal measure. “Come with me. You’re too tired to fight anymore. Let me take care of you.”

The words sank like honey and chains at once.

And for the first time, you didn’t argue.

His apartment wasn’t what you expected. You thought it would be cold, museum-like, but it was warm, almost domestic—dim golden lights, shelves stacked with books, the faint scent of cedar and something richer, darker.

He got some weird things at his home, weird chairs on his dinning. Kinda funny.

He guided you inside like you were fragile porcelain. His hand never left the small of your back. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice so soft it made your chest ache. “Sit. Rest.”

You sank onto the sofa, small against the plush cushions. Your throat still ached from crying. Your hands twisted in your lap.

He returned with a glass of water, crouched in front of you. “Drink.” The command was quiet, velvet-wrapped steel. You obeyed without thinking. The water was cool, grounding. His fingers brushed yours as he took the glass back, lingering too long.

“You’ve been running yourself ragged,” he said, studying your face like he was memorizing every detail. “All because you thought you could do this alone.”

“I didn’t…” Your voice cracked. “I didn’t think it would get this bad.”

His thumb traced your cheekbone, gentle, reverent. “It always gets bad, love. People are cruel. They take and take until there’s nothing left.” His eyes darkened. “But I don’t want to take from you. I want to give.”

The words wrapped around you like a blanket. Your chest heaved. You hated how much you wanted to believe him.

“You don’t have to fight anymore,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Let me be the one who carries it for you. Let me keep you safe.”

Your tears blurred again. You didn’t protest when his hand cupped your jaw. Didn’t flinch when his lips brushed your temple, feather-light. The contact sent a tremor down your spine, equal parts comfort and warning.

“Taehyung…” you breathed, unsure if it was plea or protest.

He smiled against your skin. “That’s it. Say my name. It sounds better when you’re trembling.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. You tried to pull back, but his hand held you steady, thumb stroking soothingly like you were a frightened bird.

“You’re so tired,” he murmured, lips moving lower, grazing your cheek. “Let me make it better.”

And then his mouth was on yours. Slow at first, almost tender — just enough to break you open. You gasped, and he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss until your head spun. His tongue slid against yours, deliberate, tasting, claiming.

When you finally broke for air, your lips were swollen, breath ragged. His smile curved, soft and sharp all at once.

“There,” he whispered. “Doesn’t that feel easier? Not having to think. Just letting me… handle you.”

Your heart pounded. “This is—this is wrong…”

“Wrong?” He chuckled, low and dangerous. “You’ve been falling apart in front of the whole world, and I’m the only one who came when you cried. Tell me, love what’s wrong about that?”

His mouth pressed to your throat, sucking softly until your pulse stuttered. His hands slid lower, over your waist, pulling you closer until you were straddling his lap without realizing how it happened. His voice rumbled against your skin.

“You’re mine now. Not because I asked.” His teeth grazed your neck, sharp enough to make you gasp. “Because you came to me. Because you need me.”

Your body trembled, torn between panic and heat, and he laughed softly, feeling it.

“Don’t worry,” he purred. “I’ll make sure you never want to leave.”

Your dress felt too innocent for this room. White, airy, made for sunlit gardens not the low amber glow of his apartment, not the weight of his stare. The skirt brushed against your thighs as you straddled him, trembling, lips still swollen from his kiss.

Taehyung’s gaze swept down your body slowly, reverently, like he was cataloging every frill and bow, every inch of exposed skin. His thumb dragged across the small bow at your bust, tugging lightly until the ribbon slipped loose.

“You wore this for me, didn’t you?” His voice was a dark purr.

“I—I didn’t—”

“Mm.” He smirked, leaning back on the sofa as if to better admire you. “So sweet. So soft. Sitting in my lap like a doll dressed for a tea party. But dolls don’t get wet, love.” His hand slid under the hem of your skirt, fingers brushing the inside of your thigh. You jolted, gasping.

Heat coiled low in your stomach, shame blooming hot on your cheeks. “Tae—”

“Shh.” He gripped your hip, pulling you down harder against the outline straining in his pants. “Feel that? That’s how badly I want you. And you… you’re shaking like a virgin in her pretty white dress. Cute.”

His words made your pulse stutter. You buried your face against his neck, trying to hide, but he chuckled, low and cruel.

“No, no, don’t hide. Let me see.” His hand fisted in your hair, tugging your head back until your eyes met his. His expression was darkly tender, as if humiliation was a gift he was unwrapping. “Look at you. Blushing, squirming. I bet your panties are soaked already.”

Your breath hitched, shame prickling. His fingers pushed higher under your skirt, finding the damp heat between your thighs, stroking over the thin fabric. His grin widened.

“Just as I thought. Dripping for me.” He pressed harder, circling slowly until your hips betrayed you, rocking against his touch. “God, you’re needy. You act so polite, so careful, but your body tells the truth. Doesn’t it?”

“T-Taehyung…”

“What is it, love?” He pinched your chin with his free hand, forcing you to look at him while his fingers rubbed you mercilessly through the soaked fabric. “Say it. Say what you need.”

Your lips trembled. “Please…”

He leaned closer, breath hot against your ear. “Please what? You want me to fuck you in this sweet little dress? Ruin it so you can never wear it in public again?”

The words made you shiver, your thighs pressing tighter around his hand.

“That’s it,” he murmured, sliding the damp panties aside, his fingers finding your bare heat. The first touch of his skin against you tore a moan from your throat. His eyes glittered. “So wet. So easy to open.” He slid one finger inside, slow and deliberate, watching your face twist with pleasure and shame.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Falling apart on my hand already. You wanted this. Even when you said no—you wanted me to break you open like this.”

Your breath came in ragged gasps as he pushed deeper, curling just right, his thumb circling your clit. Your hips bucked helplessly against him, the sundress riding higher, frills bunched around your waist.

“Fuck,” he growled, his composure slipping for a heartbeat. “I could keep you like this forever pretty little doll, moaning on my lap, dress rucked up so I can touch you whenever I want.” He nipped your jaw, hard enough to sting. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being mine to use?”

Your whimper betrayed you. His grin turned feral.

“Say it,” he demanded, fingers thrusting harder, wetter. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“I—” Your voice broke, shame tangling with pleasure.

“Say it,” he snarled, pushing a second finger inside, stretching you, making your body arch against him.

Your cry spilled before you could think. “Y-you—Taehyung!”

He hissed in satisfaction, grinding you down against his palm, fucking you with his fingers until slick coated his rings, shining in the dim light.

“You sound so pretty when you beg,” he murmured, kissing you hard, filthy, tongue claiming your mouth. “But I’m not done. Not until you’re ruined for anyone else.”

His fingers went to your bow, tugging it down making your breast drop. You gulped. Not wanting this, your head screaming to run and body screaming to let him do what you both need.

His mouth attached your nipples, sucking rolling his tongue around it. He suck harder forcing a hiccups out of you. “You can’t hide how much you want this. I feel it crawling under your skin.”

You came around his fingers. He sucked his finger then kissed you again.

“I’m not gentle because I care… I’m gentle because I’m in control.”

You could only gasp, shivering, trembling, entirely consumed by the weight of him, the sharp pull of his possessive words, and the delicious heat coiling low in your body. He pressed closer, voice dropping low and rough in your ear. “I’ve wanted this from the start. Your no… it made me hungrier. Made me wait longer. Made this… inevitable.”

He went down on you.

Taehyung parted your thighs with a murmur of endearment, his breath hot against your core. “Let me make it better,” he cooed, his tongue delving into your folds with slow, deliberate strokes. He lapped at you tenderly, circling your clit until it throbbed, his fingers slipping inside to stroke your inner walls with a rhythm that built a reluctant heat.

You whimpered, soft and needy, your body responding even as tears pricked your eyes from the emotional storm.

“You taste like all the sin I’ve wanted… all of it.” Taehyung lapped faster, his own trousers down humping slowly on his couch. You met your second orgasm. More tears rolled down your eyes.

When he rose, his cock hard and ready, he positioned himself between your legs, rubbing the tip against your slick entrance.

“You're so beautiful like this,” he breathed, eyes locked on yours with yandere devotion. “All mine.” He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, filling you with a stretch that made you gasp, your walls clenching around him in vulnerable surrender.

His other hand went to your breast - cupping them, sucking the other nipple. Grunting against your nipples. “Tell me why can't I stop thinking about you, hm? What the fuck did you just do to me.”

His words were — harsh, with heavy amount of yearning. He thrusted upwards again, making you arch back. “when I look at you..” He choked out, his other hand went to my clit, firm circles while his cock went in and out.

“..It fucking terrifies me, what I'll do for you.”

He rocked hips.

Slow.

Steady.

Deep.

His hand went to your hips, gripping them pulling you down again - gripping the flush like he is going to make me feel him for days.

“I broke my rules for you,” he almost whimpered, kissing me again. Diving his tongue inside my mouth, licking every bit of it.

As he began to thrust, deep and measured, his hips rolling against yours in a gentle cadence, you glanced up at the ceiling.

There, in the dim light, a small red dot blinked steadily — a camera, watching, recording. You stopped, mouth gap as he hit the g-spot again.

He was recording.

Everything.

All the air knocked out of your lungs as he thrusted upwards. All planned.

Your stomach dropped. He was making sex tape.

You gasped the tears out, as he thrusted again. “My pretty parrot, so fucking tight for me,” he grunted.

Panic flickered through you, the realization that this moment, your vulnerability laid bare, was being captured forever. But it was too late. Taehyung was already buried inside you, his movements tender yet unyielding, whispering sweet nothings against your ear.

“Feel how perfect we are together?” he murmured, his voice like velvet as he drove deeper, his cock gliding along your sensitive spots.

“I love you so much. No one will ever take you from me.” His hands cradled your hips, guiding you to meet his thrusts, the friction building a warmth that spread through your core.

You gasped softly, tears slipping down your cheeks, your body soft and pliant beneath him, caught in the web of his obsession.

He kissed away your tears, his pace quickening just enough to push you toward the edge, his length pulsing inside you. “Come for me, my love,” he urged gently, one hand slipping between you to rub your clit in slow circles.

The pleasure crested unwillingly, your orgasm washing over you in waves, walls fluttering around his cock as you cried out his name.

Taehyung followed soon after, groaning softly as he spilled into you, hot and claiming, his seed filling you completely. He stayed pressed against you, softening inside, his arms wrapping around your fragile form.

“You're safe now,” he whispered, nuzzling your neck. “Forever with me.” In that moment, vulnerable and ensnared, you knew escape was a distant dream—his love, twisted and all-consuming, had won.

That forever with me felt like a cage.

I'm scared cause that was true, I'm stuck with him forever.

Chapter Eighteen.

I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. Jungkook’s words clanged inside my head like rusted chains dragging across concrete. I thought I could escape him. I thought I could escape them. But I was so, so wrong.

I thought once they used my grandmother against me, once she was gone, I would finally be free. I thought her death meant I didn’t need to run anymore. But I was wrong again.

They will never let me go.

Not Jungkook.

Not Taehyung.

Not Jimin.

His warning replayed until my temples pulsed—“maybe the last time you will see them.” The words sank in like poisoned hooks. I closed my eyes, throat burning, desperate to scream, but the sound died before it left my lips.

I lay awake until dawn, guilt pressing down like a weight on my chest. Jungwoo was already dead because of them because of me and I couldn’t be the reason for someone else’s grave. They were all crazy. Batshit psychotic.

The next morning, when my body felt hollow from exhaustion, I forced myself downstairs.

The living room was quiet, filled only with the low murmur of Min-ah and Auntie’s voices. They were talking over tea, their words soft and hopeful, though I caught none of them.

And then my eyes landed on him.

Jungkook was sprawled lazily on the couch, wearing a loose white tank top and grey trousers. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at his forehead, and there was something new inked into the skin of his chest—a fresh tattoo, black and bold against pale flesh. He sat eating peanut butter straight from the jar, dragging the spoon past his lips, slow, deliberate.

When his eyes met mine, I froze.

He tilted his head, watching me like I was prey caught in his snare. And then he winked, lips wrapping around the spoon, tongue curling over the metal.

I swallowed hard and looked away, my fingers tugging anxiously at the cuffs of my long sleeves. “Good morning,” I whispered, my voice hoarse and timid from a night of muffled sobbing.

Auntie and Min-ah both turned toward me, their faces softening instantly. “Hey, good morning,” Auntie greeted warmly. Min-ah gave me a small smile, her brows rising expectantly, as if she already knew what she hoped I would say.

My chest tightened. The air felt like knives.

“Uh, Min-ah,” I began, eyes glued to the floor. My voice shook, every word scraping my throat raw. “I was thinking that… uh—”

The door creaked open again.

I glanced up just in time to see Jimin step inside, his presence filling the room like smoke. His eyes flickered over me, sharp and unreadable. I exhaled a shaky sigh, forcing myself to continue before my courage slipped away.

“I… I was thinking I might stay,” I muttered, my hands twisting together in my lap. “I’ll just—just do my work here, and my studies too.”

Min-ah’s smile faltered. Disappointment flashed across her face before she quickly masked it. She let out a soft sigh, nodding slowly. “Are you sure, Cy?” Her voice was gentle, almost pleading.

I opened my mouth, ready to explain, when Jungkook spoke first.

“It was a good opportunity for you,” he said smoothly, his tone painted with false concern. “You should have gone.”

Jerk.

The words slithered into the air, calculated, poisonous. He sounded so innocent so selfless yet his eyes never left mine. His gaze was sharp, warning, reminding.

My fists clenched tightly at my sides, nails biting into my palms. I didn’t dare look at him.

“Yes,” Min-ah murmured, nodding slightly at Jungkook’s words. “It would have been.”

The room grew unbearably quiet, the silence pressing against my chest until I could hardly breathe.

The silence clung to the room, brittle and suffocating.

I could feel Jungkook’s gaze still on me, unwavering, sharp as a knife pressing against my skin. Min-ah’s sigh lingered in the air, her disappointment sinking into my chest like lead.

The creak of the staircase broke the stillness. Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed down, and my stomach dropped before I even looked up.

Taehyung.

He appeared in the doorway with his usual unhurried grace, his black shirt hanging loose over broad shoulders, his hair falling into his eyes. He stopped when he saw me, his lips curling into the faintest smile, the kind that never reached his eyes. His gaze traveled over me slowly, intimately, as though I was already his.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice low, rough with sleep.

The single word slid down my spine like ice.

Before I could answer, Jimin’s hand brushed my shoulder lightly as he passed behind me, the casual touch burning through the fabric of my sleeve. He dropped onto the arm of the couch near Jungkook, his expression unreadable, though his eyes lingered on me too long.

It was as if the three of them formed an unspoken wall, a silent cage that tightened around me even with Auntie and Min-ah sitting just feet away.

Min-ah cleared her throat, breaking the tension she didn’t even notice. “Cyra… sweetheart, are you sure?” Her voice was hopeful still, pleading. “It’s a safe chance for you. Edinburgh would—”

“She said she’s staying,” Taehyung cut in, his tone deceptively calm. His hand slid into his pocket as he leaned against the doorframe, eyes never leaving mine. “Why are you pushing her?”

“I’m not pushing,” Min-ah defended softly. “I just want her to think carefully.”

“She already did.” His voice hardened. “She’s not leaving.”

The finality in his words made my breath hitch. My chest tightened so painfully I thought I might break right there.

Jungkook’s spoon clinked against the jar, his lips pulling into a faint smile as if this was all just an ordinary morning. “Hyung’s right,” he said smoothly, his gaze cutting toward me, sharp and knowing. “Cyra made her decision.”

The way he said my name made my skin crawl.

Auntie gave me a long look, her brows drawing together in confusion. “But… why?” she asked softly. “Is something wrong, Cyra? You don’t sound convinced.”

I opened my mouth, but the words stuck like stones in my throat.

*Because they’ll kill you. Because they’ll kill Min-ah. Because they’ll never let me go.*

But none of it left me.

Instead, I forced a weak smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “I just… think it’s better this way.”

Taehyung’s smile widened subtle, satisfied, predatory.

And when I dared glance at Jimin, his expression was softer than the others, almost gentle. But his eyes… his eyes told another story. There was no relief in them, no acceptance. Only hunger, coiled tight and waiting.

I sank down onto the couch, my hands twisting at the ends of my sleeves until the fabric was crumpled and damp with sweat.

The sound of Auntie’s laughter mixed with Min-ah’s soft chatter floated across the room as they went over their flight details, talking about luggage, connections, and weather forecasts. Their voices rose and fell like background noise, safe and normal, but my mind was far away—adrift, empty, numb.

Then my chin was caught.

Taehyung’s hand, large and unyielding, tilted my face sharply toward him. His grip was firm, almost bruising, fingers digging into my jaw as if I was nothing more than an object he could adjust to his liking.

My breath stuttered in my chest.

Before I could even think, his mouth was on mine.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was a rough, chaste press of lips, forceful and claiming, as though he was branding me in plain sight. The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but the heat of it seared into me like fire. Then he pulled back, leaving me stunned, his gaze dark and unflinching as though daring me to breathe wrong.

Air rushed back into my lungs all at once, and I gasped, a harsh sound tearing itself from my throat. My heart thudded violently, blood pounding in my ears until I thought the others must surely hear it.

Panic shot through me as my eyes flicked immediately toward Auntie and Min-ah. Their bodies were turned away, their heads close together, voices still wrapped around flight schedules and plans for arrival.

Their shoulders shook with laughter at something one of them had said. They hadn’t seen. They hadn’t noticed.

I gulped hard, trying to soothe the frantic pulse in my throat, but it only raced faster. The room spun, half-silent and half-deafening, and all I could think was they don’t know, they don’t know, they don’t know.

From across the couch, Jungkook let out a low, rumbling chuckle. The sound slid through the air like smoke, curling around me, making my skin prickle.

He leaned back, scooping another spoonful of peanut butter with infuriating ease, as if nothing in the world could disturb him.

His lips curled faintly as he slipped the spoon between his teeth, eyes locked on mine with wicked amusement.

“Cute,” he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear. His tongue dragged deliberately over the spoon before he pulled it out with a quiet click, the word still hanging in the space between us.

I dropped my gaze instantly, but it was too late. Jimin had shifted closer, settling on the arm of the couch near Jungkook. His presence pressed in on me like a shadow, silent but impossible to ignore.

I felt the brush of his sleeve as he leaned slightly forward, his breath grazing my ear.

“Relax, you're way too stiffen,” he whispered, voice barely audible, his tone almost kind, almost teasing—but not quite. The edge beneath it was sharp enough to draw blood.

My stomach lurched.

To Auntie and Min-ah, it was just another morning, filled with warm tea and travel plans. To me, it was a cage tightening, link by link, until I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

And the worst part was that no one else in the room even knew the bars were there.

Taehyung rose from the couch in one smooth motion, stretching his long frame as though the air itself belonged to him. His voice cut through the soft chatter of the women.

“Mom, noona—come on. Let me drop you guys. It’s getting late.”

There was no room for refusal in the way he said it. Auntie and Min-ah nodded without question, beginning to gather their things. Min-ah turned to me, her face softer than before, and wrapped her arms around me in a gentle hug.

Her warmth pressed against me for only a second, but it nearly broke me. I wanted to cling, to beg her not to go, but my throat was tight and dry, and my arms stayed frozen at my sides.

As soon as she pulled away, I felt it.

Their eyes.

Taehyung’s dark, unblinking gaze locked onto me like a predator making sure its prey stayed put. Jimin’s head tilted slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, though his jaw tightened hard enough to show the muscle twitching beneath the skin.

Jungkook didn’t even bother to hide it—his spoon paused mid-air, his stare heavy, intent, glittering with something that made my stomach twist.

Instantly, I was pinned. Their eyes burned into me, wordless, dangerous, waiting.

Auntie was fussing with her bag. Min-ah was adjusting her scarf. Neither of them noticed how the room shifted, how every breath I took was measured under the weight of three men who didn’t need words to remind me that I was theirs.

My jaw trembled as I forced myself to lower my gaze, pretending I hadn’t seen the silent warning carved across their faces.

My heart thudded painfully, the thought crashing through me like glass: the moment they leave, I’m trapped.

The click of the lock sounded too loud in the sudden smallness of the room. The door closed—Auntie and Min-ah’s footsteps receding down the hall and with that sound the last thin veil of normality tore away.

Jungkook didn’t wait.

He rose from the couch with the same lazy, casual movement he used to make everything look like a joke.

One moment he was holding the peanut butter jar, the next he was in front of me, close enough that I could feel the warmth from his chest. Before I could even think to step back, he crashed his lips to mine.

It was not a kiss. It was a seizure of my mouth, a hard, suffocating claim that left no room for the soft, careful things kisses sometimes are.

His teeth grazed mine; his hand found the back of my neck and tightened like he was anchoring me to him.

Panic rose hot and stinging behind my ribs, a wild animal clawing for air. I tried to pull away, to shove him back, but his other hand slid down so possessively—just low enough to remind me he could hold me in place if he wanted to.

“Shh,” he breathed into my ear when he finally broke away, voice soft and dangerously amused. “Don’t make a scene.”

His palm squeezed my breast softly over my shirt. I whimpered against his lips. He grunted, kissing my jaw.

Crashing the lips again.

The words were a command wrapped in silk.

My lungs burned. I tasted metal and peanut butter and something else something like bile at the back of my throat. My fingers were knuckles-white against the fabric of my sleeves, nails biting into cotton until it hurt. I forced myself to meet his eyes.

They were bright, too bright, like someone who enjoyed watching the exact moment a creature realized it was trapped.

Jimin moved before I could register the motion, sliding from the arm of the couch with the quiet grace that always made him look less like a man and more like a shadow that could speak.

He stopped close enough that his shoulder brushed mine; his breath ghosted past my cheek.

“You just had to make things difficult, didn’t you?” he murmured, voice low, almost conversational—yet there was a blade under the calm. He sounded disappointed, which was worse than anger.

Taehyung didn’t say anything. He simply stepped back to the doorway, arms folding across his chest, watching as if the scene were a piece of theatre put on for his private enjoyment.

His expression was the same: that faint smile that never warmed, jaw clenched enough to show the tendon there. The three of them—together—made a triangle that had only one center: me.

I wanted Auntie to come back and save me. I wanted Min-ah to spin around, horror in her eyes, to finally see the truth. But the air in the house felt changed; even if they returned, what could they do? They were on the outside of whatever this was. I was inside it.

Jungkook’s hand left my neck and settled on my shoulder, not soft, but possessive enough to tell the room we were connected.

He leaned in, voice low and menacingly casual. “You see how quick things unravel when they leave?” His words were tiny and ordinary—and venomous.

“You try to run and this is what happens.” He tapped my temple with one finger, light and precise. “You think I won’t make them remember you? You think they’ll forgive a girl who ran?”

Something cold and ugly slid under my skin at that. The memory of his threat—the tape opened like a bruise I couldn’t stop touching. The room spun and the edges of everything sharpened.

Jimin laughed softly, the sound like a knife pulled across glass. “We have to be careful with you,” he said. “You’re fragile, angel eyes. Easier to break than you look.” The words were almost tender. It made me want to scream.

Taehyung’s eyes dipped to my hands, then up to my face. “You did the right thing staying,” he said quietly, but there was no warmth in it. It was an ownership statement disguised as concern.

I could feel my throat closing around words I could not say. I had a thousand reasons to run and no good way to voice any of them.

They watched me with those steady, judging eyes until the room felt carved out of stone and my breaths were small, measured, and useless.

When Jungkook finally let go, it was as if he’d never touched me. He sat back down with the same careless grace, spoon rattling against the jar, and smiled at me like I was a pet that had been scolded and then forgiven.

The contrast between his casualness and the storm of panic in my chest made bile climb my throat again.

This wasn’t a family squabble. This wasn’t a bad morning.

It was an arrangement—one I had not agreed to and could not escape and they were all very good at pretending everything was normal.

🔸

Its been few days since they left, since everything went back to normal.

You walked into the university halls clutching your books to your chest, still heavy-eyed from a restless night. The corridors buzzed louder than usual, students huddled in tight circles, their voices low but urgent.

You slowed your steps when you caught the words.

"Did you hear? Their jet crashed on the way to New York."

"No way. The mother and sister? Both?!"

Your stomach dropped. For a second, you thought you’d misheard, but then another voice cut through sharp, breathless.

"It’s all over the news. They said there was no survivor… the trio’s family is gone."

You walked into the university halls

The books slipped slightly in your grip, fingers trembling. You blinked hard, once, twice, as though you could shake the ringing out of your ears. Gone. Min-ah. Aunt. Just like that.

You stood frozen in the middle of the hallway while students scrolled on their phones, tears pooling in some of their eyes. Girls gasped at the headline photos, hands covering their mouths.

Boys muttered about what a tragedy it was, how cruel fate could be to take such “beloved figures.”

You hadn’t seen the trio on campus since that morning when you refused Min-ah. Their seats stayed empty. Their shadows were gone.

But the silence of their absence was louder than anything else. You could feel it even now, the phantom weight of their eyes on you, the threat of their presence pressing in like smoke.

Your chest constricted until it hurt. Because while they mourned idols and heartthrobs, you stood there knowing the truth—knowing the monsters behind the faces they worshipped.

And in that moment, a thought more chilling than the whispers pierced through your grief

If they have no one else left, then all that remains for them to claim..is you.

Your legs moved before your mind caught up. You pushed through the crowd in the hallway, ignoring the calls of classmates behind you, ignoring the curious stares. The whispers still clung to your skin like ash—crash.. dead..gone. and the sound of them chased you down every step you took.

By the time you stumbled outside, the world felt blurry, the air thick and unbreathable. A taxi stopped, and you nearly yanked the door off its hinges in your desperation.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“The penthouse,” you rasped, barely hearing your own voice.

The ride stretched like eternity, each red light mocking you, each turn dragging you deeper into a spiral.

You dug your nails into your palms until your hands shook, your chest heaving as if air itself was poisoned.

When the car finally slowed in front of the building, your breath caught. There were already too many vehicles outside—sleek black cars lined up, tinted windows hiding whoever sat inside.

It wasn’t the usual swarm of paparazzi. These cars were deliberate. Heavy. Waiting.

Your pulse spiked.

You shoved money at the driver and bolted, weaving past the parked cars.

The lobby swallowed you whole, polished marble floors gleaming too bright under the lights, your reflection distorted with panic.

By the time you reached the elevator, your knees were shaking, your finger jamming the button over and over. The ride up felt unbearable, the hum of the machine like a scream in your skull.

The doors slid open. Silence.

You rushed down the hall, your shoes too loud against the floor, every shadow stretching too long. When you pushed into the penthouse, the familiar scent hit you immediately—clean leather, faint cologne, something sharp underneath.

The space wasn’t empty. Their presence lingered in the air, heavy, suffocating.

You didn’t call their names. You didn’t dare.

You went straight to your room, heart thundering. The door slammed shut behind you as you pressed your back against it, clutching at your chest, ears straining for footsteps.

But the silence was worse. The silence meant they could already be here, watching, waiting.

And you didn’t know what was more terrifying—if they were out in the city grieving or if they were already in this penthouse, ready to remind you that with Min-ah and their mother gone, you belonged to them alone.

I knew. I had to face it.

Before I go crazy.

Like them.

🔸

There were some people in coat — signing documents. They were in suit too, looking like a king that got a position of something dark and unflinching.

I gulped, trying to control the tears. I don't care if I'm being like this in front of their people. Knowing they hate me being vulnerable especially in front of someone else. They want me to be vulnerable but only for *them.*

“You killed them.” The words ripped out of you, savage and raw, as if by saying them you could peel the world open and find a reason that made sense.

Your throat closed around the sob that followed; it came out a ragged, choked sound, small and useless in the expanse of that room.

They barely blinked.

Jungkook’s hand stilled on the table as if he were a man attending to a trivial ornament, not the collapse of two lives. For a beat the room held its breath and then settled, the way dust settles after a clap, as if nothing primordial had shifted at all.

“It was a crash. And behave yourself.” Jungkook said, voice calm and clinical.

His jaw clenched.

He didn’t sound like someone reciting a fact; he sounded like someone delivering a verdict.

His eyes never left you while he spoke, bright and uncaring, the kind of stare that catalogues everything—your face, your sobs, the way your fingers curled into your palms.

He stepped forward, the movement smooth, practiced. Up close you could see the new tattoo at the base of his throat dark ink like a punctuation mark on his skin—and the faint line of a scar you’d never noticed before.

He reached out before you had time to flinch and brushed your cheek with the pad of his thumb, wiping away your tears as if they were nothing more than a mess on glass.

“My pretty sugar,” he crooned with a smile that was all teeth, a single warm phrase wrapped around cold intent. “Don’t cry. Especially not for someone that ain’t us.”

The words were a promise disguised as consolation.

You felt the warmth of his thumb and wanted to barf. The touch that had once felt like home now tasted of vinegar.

You pulled your face away as if pulled by a wire, the movement small and useless, and your voice was nothing more than a thin sound.

“Why are you smiling?” you demanded, but the sound of your own question surprised you—hoarse, small, childish.

Jimin’s laugh moved through the room like a low wind. He stepped from the table and stood at Jungkook’s side, close enough that the three of them made a single, solid shadow. “You always react first, don’t you?” he said softly, pitying and cruel at once.

“It’s what makes you… so fragile. So easy.”

Taehyung dismiss the people. They left without any word.

Taehyung’s expression didn’t change. He folded his hands, knuckles white inside his suit, the faintest tremor at the corner of his mouth like a wound you couldn’t read. When he spoke his voice was quieter than usual, but his words landed like weights.

“We didn’t kill them,” he said. “Life happens. Accidents happen. You make it into something it’s not, and that’s dangerous.”

The lawyer to Jungkook’s left cleared his throat, flashing a professional smile that felt surgically removed. “Tragedy has a way of making everyone look for blame,” he said. “The media will spin, but legally there is no liabil—”

You cut him off with a ragged laugh that sounded like it belonged to someone else. “Blame?” you repeated. “They were on their way to New York—they were just—” Your hands trembled. “*They were family. Your family h- how you could you guys? When i said I'm not leaving you them why?!” I yelled out, but almost felt like a desperate cry.

The words hung in the air like an accusation that had nowhere to land.

Jungkook crouched until his face was level with yours, the world narrowing to the incline of his jaw and the shiny surface of his pupils.

He smelled faintly of cigarettes and something expensive and masculine; the smell made bile rise in your throat. He looked more tender than malicious, and that made him worse.

“You don’t get to make that call, and keep your voice fucking down, cyra. Otherwise my cock will silent your words” he murmured, so soft you felt it like a hand around your throat.

“It happens, thats it. They were part of what keeps us… stable. Losing them hurts. But you—” He smiled, slow and certain. “You make things messy when you think independently.”

There it was: the threat folded into the language of care.

Jimin reached out and brushed a thumb over your knuckle—the touch was casual, like a man checking a table for wobble and said, “We’ll take care of everything. Statements, funerals, how the family should be presented. You don’t need to do anything except be around.”

His eyes held yours for the slimmest second, so intent you could feel it like pressure. “It’s easier that way.”

You wanted to tell them you wouldn’t be their ornament, their grief accessory. You wanted to scream that you were not a placeholder in their public sorrow. But your voice had been lent out to the room and every word you might have used was already accounted for in the contracts on the table.

The intermediary broad-shouldered, expressionless — returned then with a tempered envelope and a hospitality smile.

“We have arranged everything,” he said. “For privacy, security. You’ll be looked after, Ms. —” He used Auntie’s formal name with the casualness of someone reading a grocery list. “There’ll be escorts to and from; appearances are scheduled.”

You wanted to laugh and bark and run. Instead, you wrapped your arms around yourself because that was the only shelter you could muster.

Outside, in the world that adored them, headlines would form sensible narratives: Beloved family dies in tragic accident; stars mourn. People would light candles; talk shows would parse grief like dessert. But here, in this living room turned conference hall, grief was ammunition and property. The men shuffled papers, signed, approved, and in each sweep their authority was reaffirmed.

“You killed them,” you whispered again, less accusation now and more truth you couldn’t bury.

Jungkook’s smile widened to show all the teeth. “No,” he corrected, patient like a teacher. *“You did.”*

I did.

Another breath stuck in my throat.

You couldn’t tell if he believed it, or if he wanted you to. That knowledge whether an attempt to gaslight or an honest conviction—didn’t matter.

The effect was the same. Your guilt became the hinge that would lock you into their house, their image, their grief.

Their hands would guide the narrative until even your memories were edited to fit the script.

*They were bigger than any mafia*, you thought, and not just because of money or influence. They had a network that wore sympathy like armor and law like a leash. They had fans who would believe glossy interviews over trembling truths.

They had the power to make the world read one sentence and call it history.

You stood there in the center of that calculated silence while they resumed their business of turning emergency into empire. Their sharp movements, their ordered signatures—each one folded a lock into place.

And somewhere under your ribs, the small, bright ember of resistance a defiant, foolish thing kept trying to flare.

At that moment. I decided.

I need a plan.

I will *fucking * escape.

I take few steps back, jungkook looked at me hands inside his pockets. I give them one last glance and ran upstairs inside my room.

The week moves like a funeral march: people arriving, people leaving, the whole house staged to look as if it were drowning in condolences. You watch them — CEOs with perfect shoes, managers with sharper smiles, men with briefcases who smell of brandy and decisions.

They come and go in waves, bowing and signing, folding grief into press releases like origami. Their faces are practiced. The trio’s faces are empty and precise, carved out of the same stone.

They do not cry. They do not lose themselves. They perform loss the way other people perform jobs.

They barely showed anything.

And.

You barely leave the bedroom.

When you do, it is with a steady face. Public is for control. Public is for cameras and for the fans who will take any small private tremor and turn it into a headline. You have learned that a calm face is a small weapon.

So you move through the rooms like a ghost who has rehearsed being solid: nodding politely, accepting platitudes, allowing Min-ah’s friends and business partners to fuss and coo at your composure.

You sign the condolence book with a neat hand that looks nothing like the hands that tremble when the door closes. You practice a small, diplomatic smile beneath the weight of everyone watching.

At night, you switch roles.

When the house is quiet — the last guest-smile drained away and the security shutters click in a sleepy mechanical rhythm — you let the mask slip.

You let Jungkook think he has you where he wants you. You let him. It is cheap theatre and it costs less than a lie. In the dim of your room, you allow the small sobs to come out when you know he is listening in the doorway.

You were their weakness. You could use it against them.

You put on the shiver in your voice that will make him lean across the threshold and close the distance between you with a look that is part triumph and part worship.

“Pretty sugar,” he murmurs, and his hand finds that small hollow where your collarbone meets your neck. He thinks he is anchoring you. He thinks he is the anchor that keeps you from floating away.

He wipes the wetness from your cheek with his thumb as if he has cleaned a smudge from glass, and the gesture is tender enough to be dangerous. He would fuck you slow and deep until his every inch of his cock buried deep inside your pussy.

You let yourself tremble. You let his thumb rest there a moment too long.

You let the silence stretch until his expression softens into something smug. He believes.

That is the important part. He believes he made you fragile. He believes he can hold you with a touch and a whisper and a quiet smile.

While he believes, you do things no one notices because no one bothers to look where they assume they already own.

You tuck a photocopy of your passport into the binding of a book that never gets taken down. You wrap a few bills in tissue and slide them under the lining of a shoe you almost never wear.

You pull the small silver locket off your neck in the bathroom and leave it in the soap dish until the soap is dry; later you will slip it into a box of things the movers will take away as “keepsakes.”

None of it is dramatic. None of it is theatrical. It is microscopic theft: a single paper here, a coin there, a tiny rehearsal of absence that will look to everyone else like the ordinary clutter of grieving.

You practice leaving.

Not leaving for real. Not yet. Practice is about timing. You rehearse the sound of the door closing softly behind you. You walk the hallway at night until you know where the floorboards squeak and where they keep the spare keys.

You test the pattern of the housekeepers’ rounds until you could tell, in your sleep, which corridor would be vacant if you walked out at midnight and which would have a night light on.

You pretend small weaknesses in controlled lights. In front of the cameras you are composed; behind the curtains you are malleable.

It is a speechless thing you do: you allow the trio to think they are the reason for your fragility. They come to you like moths to the flame of your staged tears.

Taehyung visits most nights, hovering with that quiet intensity that could be mistaken for worry;

Jimin brings coffee and watches you as if cataloguing every tremor for his private use; Jungkook stays nearest, always, kissing the hell out of you thinking he is a man who believes himself indispensable.

“Don’t go,” Jungkook says once, low enough that you can feel the syllables as if they were physical pressure. “You don’t have anywhere to go.”

You let the line land. You let it sink, like bait. “I don’t,” you whisper, and it is a truthful lie.

You do have somewhere to go, but it is still a ghost on paper and a ticket with creased edges that are not yet in your coat pocket. He smiles, satisfied with his power. He believes he owns the reason you stay.

You become, on purpose, their habit.

They like routine. That is your advantage. Let them think you are the frail center they must orbit. Let them believe the myth they have built: that without them you will collapse.

Make them comfortable in their control until it is time to test the seams and you have the night you need.

The nest of small stashes grows: a paper tucked in a book, a roll of cash, one spare key you took from the keyring when Jungkook leaned down to tie his shoe. None of it tells the whole story. None of it is a how-to.

It is a readiness — an emotional lever you will pull when the night is right.

Every evening you sleep a little easier because you have rehearsed the violence of your leaving.

Every morning you step into the daylight and wear the composed mask because the world watches and you will not give it a fragment of the true chaos inside you.

The plan is not a cliff. It is a countdown. Midnight is a promise. For now, you let them think their hands are the only thing keeping you steady.

They will applaud themselves for making you stay. They will whisper to each other about loyalty and fragility. They will polish the narrative until the whole world reads it.

And you will wait until the house breathes in the dark and the last car’s engine dies away and the silence is so complete it has its own sound.

Then, when they are most satisfied with their custody, when Jungkook has convinced himself he can still cradle you with a thumb and a lie, you will test the door. Not tonight. Not yet.

Tonight you cry into his palm and let him believe he has won. Tonight you hide the things that name you in places no hand will think to look.

Tonight you learn the map of their confidence, the places where their eyes slide over and do not examine. Tonight you sharpen the small, patient tools of your escape: timing, theater, the delicious cruelty of letting them love you to sleep while you wake planning your leaving.

You will run. But for now, you make them comfortable. You make them certain. You let them love you like a prize.

You let that certainty be the blind spot that will let you go when the sky is black and the city holds its breath.

The sterile hum of the industrial refrigerator filled the cavernous kitchen, a cold, indifferent counterpoint to the fire coiling in my gut. My hands, usually clumsy, moved with a practiced, almost desperate efficiency, chopping vegetables into precise, uniform pieces.

Each thwack of the knife against the cutting board was a small rebellion, a tiny assertion of control in a life that had spiraled into an abyss of someone else's making. The maids, their faces placid, offered quiet instructions, their voices a soft murmur in the vast space.

I focused on the vibrant greens, the earthy smell of the carrots, anything to anchor myself, to quiet the frantic thrum of my heart.

"You're doing wonderfully, Cyra-ssi." Mrs. Lee, her voice a comforting balm, watched me plate a delicate garnish. Her eyes, however, held a flicker of something I couldn't quite decipher—pity? Fear? I smiled softly and nodded.

A silent understanding passing between them, an unspoken acknowledgment of the suffocating presence that permeated these walls.

A deep voice, smooth as aged whiskey, cut through the domestic calm. “That’s enough, ladies. My little rabbit looks tired.”

My spine stiffened before I even registered the words fully. Taehyung. My knife paused mid-air. The maids, their movements suddenly jerky, began to disperse, their hushed goodbyes barely audible as they scurried out.

Mrs. Lee offered a quick, deferential bow, her eyes darting to mine, a silent apology in their depths, before she too vanished.

The kitchen, moments ago bustling, became unnervingly quiet. Only the low thrum of the appliances remained, amplifying the sound of his approach, the soft padding of his expensive shoes on the polished marble floor. A warm, musky scent pine and something uniquely him, something possessive and dangerous enveloped me.

His hands, long and elegant, settled on my hips, pulling me back until my body pressed against his solid front. A shiver, not entirely of fear, traced its way down my spine.

It was a primal response, a recognition of power, of a predator.

“You shouldn’t be working so hard,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over my ear, sending a ripple of goosebumps across my skin. His lips, soft and full, brushed against my lobe. “What do we pay them for?”

My voice, when it came, was a reedy whisper. “I… I just wanted to help.”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through my back. “Help? Or distract yourself?” His fingers, strong and unerring, traced the curve of my waist, gliding lower, dipping beneath the hem of my apron.

“You’ve been quiet lately, little one. Too quiet.”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “I’m just… tired.” The lie felt thin, transparent.

His grip tightened, possessive. “Are you now? Or are you plotting?” He spun me gently in his arms, turning me to face him. His eyes, dark and intense, searched mine, seeing too much, always seeing too much.

A small, knowing smile played on his lips.

“You know, I can always tell when you’re thinking too hard. Your little brow furrows.” He reached up, his thumb stroking the space between my eyebrows. “And your eyes… they get that faraway look.”

“I’m not plotting anything,” I insisted, trying to sound indignant, but my voice wavered.

He leaned closer, his gaze dropping to my lips. “Good. Because there’s nowhere for you to go, Cyra. Not anymore. Not ever.” His words were a silken threat, wrapped in a veneer of tenderness. “We made sure of that.”

The memory of my aunt and Min-ah, their vibrant lives snuffed out in a fiery instant, flashed before my eyes. They had tried to help me, to open a door, and they paid the ultimate price. A cold dread seeped into my bones.

They were bigger than any Mafia.

The words echoed in my mind, a chilling testament to their ruthlessness. My grandma, too, gone. They had stripped away every anchor, every connection, leaving me adrift in their turbulent wake.

This was my only chance.

His lips claimed mine then, a slow, deliberate invasion. His tongue, warm and insistent, traced the seam of my mouth, demanding entry.

I parted my lips, a soft sigh escaping, and he plunged in, exploring every crevice, tasting, claiming. His hands slid from my waist to cup my cheeks, tilting my head back, deepening the kiss until I felt breathless, dizzy.

The world narrowed to the hot press of his mouth, the insistent thrust of his tongue, the scent of him filling my lungs.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes still locked on mine, heavy-lidded with desire. “You taste like strawberries and fear, my little rabbit. A delicious combination.” His gaze dropped to my chest, where my heart hammered against my ribs, visible beneath the thin fabric of my blouse.

“Your heart beats so fast for me.”

“It’s… it’s always fast around you,” I managed, the double meaning lost on him, or perhaps he chose to ignore it.

He smiled, a predatory curve of his lips. “I know.” He dipped his head again, his lips trailing a searing path down my jaw, along the column of my throat. I shivered, a tremor running through me. His hands, no longer gentle, slid lower, cupping my ass, lifting me effortlessly until I was seated on the cold marble of the kitchen counter.

My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, my skirts riding up my thighs.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured, his fingers kneading the flesh of my ass through my clothes. “So perfectly made.”

His mouth moved lower, his tongue tracing the delicate hollow at the base of my throat, then further down, to the swell of my breast above my blouse.

A low moan escaped my lips, a sound I barely recognized as my own. My body, despite my terror, was betraying me, responding to his touch, to the sheer force of his desire.

He unbuttoned my blouse with practiced ease, each button a small click in the quiet kitchen. The cool air brushed against my skin, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps. He pushed the fabric aside, revealing the lace of my bra, then, with a flick of his wrist, unclasped it, letting it fall open. My breasts, pale and sensitive, sprang free.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, his eyes devouring them.

He leaned in, his hot breath washing over my nipple before his mouth closed around it, a soft suckling sound echoing in the kitchen.

“Ah!” A gasp tore from my throat as a jolt of pleasure, sharp and unexpected, shot through me. He latched on, tugging gently, his tongue flicking, swirling around the sensitive peak.

I arched my back, my fingers tangling in his thick hair, holding him closer, even as my mind screamed at me to push him away.

His other hand found its way between my legs, pressing against the thin fabric of my underwear.

He stroked, a slow, deliberate movement that sent a dizzying heat spreading through my core. My pussy, already slick with anticipation, throbbed under his touch.

“So wet for me, flower,” he purred, his voice thick with desire, his mouth still suckling at my breast, occasionally nipping gently.

“..Always so wet.”

He shifted, nudging my legs wider apart, his fingers dipping under the elastic of my panties, finding my clit.

A gasp, half-sob, half-pleasure, escaped my lips. He rubbed, a rhythmic friction that built quickly, sending waves of sensation crashing over me.

My hips began to buck instinctively, seeking more pressure, more friction.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice a low growl. “Give in, Cyra. Just for a moment.”

His thumb circled my clit, then pressed down, hard, sending a white-hot spear of pleasure through me. My back arched, my toes curled, and a muffled cry tore from my throat.

My vision blurred, the cold marble counter beneath me forgotten, the danger of the situation momentarily eclipsed by the overwhelming surge of pure, unadulterated sensation. He kept pressing, rubbing, until my body convulsed, a series of violent shudders racking my frame.

A soft whine escaped my lips as the orgasm broke over me, a tidal wave that left me weak and trembling, gasping for air.

He eased back, his mouth still on my breast, his fingers slowly withdrawing from my slick pussy. He looked up, his eyes dark, triumphant. “Mine,” he whispered, a possessive declaration. He kissed my breast one last time, a lingering, claiming kiss, before re-buttoning my blouse, his movements surprisingly gentle.

He smoothed my clothes, as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just plundered my body on the kitchen counter.

“Dinner in an hour,” he said, his voice back to its usual smooth cadence, a hint of steel beneath the velvet. “Don’t be late.” He gave my ass a final squeeze, a proprietary pat, before turning and striding out of the kitchen, leaving me alone, my body still humming, my mind reeling.

I slid off the counter, my legs shaky, almost collapsing. My cheeks burned, a mixture of shame and lingering arousal.

This is why you have to go. The thought solidified, hardening my resolve. He thought he had me, that he owned me. They all did. But tonight, that would change.

My eyes scanned the kitchen, settling on the discreet spice rack tucked away in a corner. My fingers trembled as I reached for the small, unmarked vial I had hidden there days ago, tucked behind an array of exotic herbs.

The powder inside, fine and white, shimmered faintly in the overhead light. It was a powerful sedative, enough to ensure they wouldn’t wake for hours. Enough time for me to disappear.

I spent the next hour in a blur, my movements precise, mechanical. I showered, scrubbing away the lingering scent of Taehyung, trying to cleanse myself of the lingering shame and the unwanted pleasure.

I dressed in simple, dark clothes, practical for travel. I packed a small bag, only essentials: a change of clothes, some cash I’d managed to squirrel away, a worn photograph of my grandma, her face etched with kindness, her eyes full of love.

I left my phone on the bedside table, its sleek surface a black mirror reflecting my desperate face.

The delicate silver necklace, a gift from my grandma, I placed beside it. Nothing that could track me. Nothing that could tie me to this gilded cage.

The grand dining room, usually a place of hushed formality, felt like a stage set for my final act. Jungkook sat at the head of the long, polished mahogany table, his dark eyes assessing, almost predatory. Jimin, seated to his right, offered a soft, unnerving smile, his gaze lingering on me, a possessive warmth that chilled me to the bone.

Taehyung, across from Jimin, watched me with an intensity that made my skin prickle, a silent acknowledgment of what had transpired in the kitchen.

“Cyra, you look lovely tonight,” Jungkook’s voice was smooth, deceptively gentle. “Doesn’t she, hyungs?”

Like they knows, I'm upto something.

And that was enough to make me breathless.

I smiled little. Trying to.

“Ravishing,” Jimin purred, raising his wine glass in a silent toast.

Taehyung merely nodded, a slow, deliberate movement, his eyes never leaving mine.

I felt their collective gaze, a physical weight pressing down on me. It was like being observed by three hungry wolves, their eyes gleaming in the low light.

“Thank you,” I managed, my voice barely a whisper, as I took my seat beside Taehyung. The chair felt like a trap.

The maids began to serve, their movements silent, efficient. Rich aromas filled the air roasted duck, truffle-infused pasta, delicate steamed vegetables. My stomach churned, but I forced myself to appear calm, to play the part.

“You should keep drinking water you know? You have to stay hydrated,” Jungkook said, his tone casual, but his eyes were sharp, probing.

A cold dread squeezed my heart. They knew. Of course they knew. They knew everything. “Yes,” I said, my voice thin. “I will drink it.”

Jimin chuckled, a soft, melodic sound that held no humor. “My angel eyes.”

My hand trembled as I reached for my water glass. This was it. The moment. The small vial was hidden in the palm of my hand, secured by my thumb. I had practiced this, rehearsed it a hundred times in my mind.

“To our future,” Taehyung said, raising his glass, his eyes fixed on me. “Together.”

Jungkook and Jimin echoed his sentiment, their glasses clinking softly. I picked up the carafe of water, my heart hammering against my ribs, and poured for myself, then for Taehyung.

As I leaned over, my body momentarily obscuring the view, my thumb flicked, and a small puff of white powder disappeared into his glass. It dissolved almost instantly, leaving no trace.

My hand shook as I reached for Jungkook’s glass. He watched me, a faint smile playing on his lips. I kept my breathing even, my expression neutral. Another flick, another disappearance. Then Jimin’s glass.

My movements were fluid, practiced. No one noticed. Or if they did, they gave no sign.

“To us,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady, raising my own glass of untouched water. I took a small sip, a performance.

The conversation flowed around me, a dizzying current of business deals, political maneuvering, and thinly veiled possessiveness.

They spoke of their empires, their control, their unshakeable power. Each word was a reminder of the impossible odds I faced. But the powder was in their drinks. A tiny seed of hope began to bloom in my chest, fragile but persistent.

Jungkook was the first to show signs. His eyelids seemed to droop almost imperceptibly. He stifled a yawn, covering his mouth with a hand. “Long day,” he mumbled, his voice a little slurred.

“Indeed,” Jimin agreed, his smile faltering, his eyes losing some of their sharp focus. He rubbed his temples, a faint frown creasing his brow. “Feeling… a bit heavy.”

Taehyung, ever the most resilient, continued to sip his wine, his gaze still on me. But even he began to slow, his movements becoming more languid. His head tilted, as if listening to a distant sound.

His eyes, though still fixed, seemed to lose their piercing intensity, becoming glazed, unfocused. But they were fixed on mine. Badly.

“Perhaps you should all rest,” I suggested, my voice feigning concern, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “It’s been a stressful few days.”

Jimin nodded slowly, his head bobbing. His gaze also fixed into your eyes. My chest heaved. “Yes  yes, a good idea.” He pushed himself up from the table, swaying slightly. “Just so tired.” I gulped and nodded at his words.

Jungkook, his eyes half-closed, managed a weak smile. “You’re right, little rabbit. Always so thoughtful.”

He struggled to his feet, his hand reaching out, almost missing the table’s edge.

Taehyung’s eyes fluttered, then closed, only to snap open again. He stared at me, a flicker of suspicion, a dawning horror in their depths. “Cyra…” he slurred, his voice barely audible. “such a clever girl?”

But the words died on his lips as his head lolled to the side, his body slumping forward, his face almost hitting his plate. Jimin, stumbling, collapsed into his chair, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Jungkook, already halfway out of his seat, crumpled to the floor with a soft thud, a dark stain spreading on the expensive rug from his overturned wine glass.

Silence.

The only sound was my own ragged breathing, loud in the suddenly still room. My hands flew to my mouth, stifling a cry, a sob of relief and terror. They were out. All of them.

I pushed myself away from the table, my chair scraping loudly against the marble. My legs felt like jelly, but I forced myself to move, to walk around the table, to confirm.

Jungkook lay sprawled, his breathing deep and even. Jimin was slumped, his head resting on his chest. Taehyung, though collapsed, still had a faint, unsettling smirk on his lips, as if even in unconsciousness, he was mocking me, anticipating my next move.

A wave of nausea washed over me, but I fought it down. This was no time for weakness. This was my escape.

I hurried out of the dining room, my footsteps echoing in the silent mansion. The grand foyer, usually so imposing, now felt like a pathway to freedom. I didn’t look back. I didn’t dare.

The heavy oak door, intricately carved with symbols of their power and wealth, stood before me. My hand reached for the cold brass handle, my fingers trembling. I took a deep breath, pushing down the fear, the guilt, the lingering shadow of their possessive touch.

This was it. My chance. My only chance.

I pulled the door open, a sliver of cool night air rushing in, carrying with it the scent of distant city lights and the promise of a life that was finally, truly, my own.

The moonlight, pale and ethereal, illuminated the path ahead.

I stepped out, into the vast, silent night, leaving behind the gilded cage, the suffocating embrace, the deadly sweetness of their obsession.

The door clicked shut behind me, a soft, final sound.

I ran.

My feet, unaccustomed to such speed, pounded on the gravel driveway. The mansion, a monstrous silhouette against the moonlit sky, receded behind me. My heart hammered, not with fear, but with a desperate, exhilarating hope.

I didn't know where I was going, or what lay ahead. But I was free. For now. And that was enough.

The gate, a towering wrought-iron monstrosity, stood ajar, a detail I hadn't expected, a small gift from fate. I slipped through, my breath catching in my throat. The city lights beckoned, a distant, shimmering promise.

I ran towards them, my eyes fixed on the horizon, leaving behind the echoes of their voices, the ghost of their touch, and the terrifying knowledge that they would never truly let me go.

They would come for me. I knew that with chilling certainty. But for tonight.

The knock on your bedroom door wasn’t exactly polite it was a quick tap-tap-tap followed by Jungkook’s voice, muffled but still eager.

“Love, come on. Let me see.”

You sighed, smoothing the straps of the light green dress that barely counted as clothing. It was sheer, softer than mist, and every time you looked down you could see the pale outline of your white lace bra and panties underneath. Cute. Girly. The exact type of thing that made your boyfriend turn pink to his ears.

When you opened the door, Jungkook almost dropped his camera.

“Holy—” He coughed, biting down on his lip piercing as if that would stop the way his jaw went slack. His big hand went automatically to the strap of his camera, like he needed the excuse to look at you without combusting.

You giggled. “You look so serious. I thought this was supposed to be fun, not my funeral.”

“It’s not—” He shook his head, cheeks tinting fast. “You’re just… wow. I didn’t think it would look like that.”

“Like what?” you teased, twirling once so the hem fluttered around your thighs.

He swallowed audibly. “Like I should thank the universe every day you agreed to date me.”

Your chest squeezed at the words — sweet, unfiltered, the exact way he always made you feel. This boy with his camera and his shy smiles, who called the damn camera his new girlfriend until you threatened to snatch it from his hands.

Jungkook stepped closer, raising the Canon to his face. The lens clicked once, twice, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

“Don’t laugh,” he muttered.

You pressed your lips together, trying to behave, but the way he furrowed his brows so serious, like he was documenting a Pulitzer-winning moment made you burst into giggles anyway.

Click.

He lowered the camera, eyes shining. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“And you’re going to kill me with that stare,” you shot back, flopping onto the bed dramatically. The green fabric rode up, and you didn’t miss the way his gaze darted down, then immediately up again like he hadn’t been caught.

Shy Jungkook was your favorite Jungkook. The one who kissed your knuckles before holding your hand. The one who pretended to be confident but got flustered at the smallest things. The one who looked at you like you were already a picture he never wanted to forget.

Jungkook leaned against your doorway with his new camera slung around his neck like it was another limb. His thumb tapped nervously on the side of it, but his eyes the big, pretty ones that always betrayed him were glued to you.

You brushed a hand over your French bangs, trying to tame them where they kept tickling your lashes. “You look like you’re about to cry,” you said, fighting a smile. “It’s just a dress, Jungkook.”

“Just a dress?” His voice cracked on the word, and he fumbled with the strap of his camera like it would anchor him. “You’re —no, it’s not just a dress. It’s… dangerous.”

A soft giggle bubbled out of you, and you wrinkled your nose at him, tilting your head. His lens clicked — once, twice. You startled at the sound, eyes going wide.

“Don’t make that face,” Jungkook murmured, hiding behind the viewfinder. “Or do. God. You don’t even know what you look like, do you?”

You scrunched your nose harder, playfully, leaning forward like a child daring to poke the camera. “Like a ghost in curtains?”

Click. Click.

His grin was small but real, teeth catching on the silver of his lip piercing. “Like my muse,” he said simply, and lowered the camera.

Your bangs fell again, soft against your forehead, and you laughed when he reached out, hesitated, then brushed them aside with the gentlest touch. The tips of his fingers lingered against your skin, then retreated as if burned.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered, not for the first time.

“And you’re going to blind me with that stare,” you teased, flopping onto the bed. The dress slipped higher along your thighs, but you only wiggled your toes at him, playful and unbothered.

The camera clicked again, catching you mid-giggle, bangs slipping back down into your eyes. You tried to swipe them away, cheeks warm. “I look ridiculous.”

“You look like art,” he said, no hesitation. And this time, he didn’t even lift the camera to prove it.

Jungkook chaste kiss your lips. Almost desperately — yearnful for your lips for your touch. You smiled against his lips before giving his chest a gentle shove. He stumbled back half a step, laughter spilling out of him as he caught the camera against his palm.

“Come on, my pretty baby,” he said, lifting it again. His voice was low, almost coaxing, and the emphasis on me made your cheeks heat. “Smile for me.”

The way he looked at you through the lens made it impossible not to obey. You giggled, hiding half your face behind your hand, but Jungkook clicked the shutter anyway.

“Perfect,” he whispered, almost to himself.

You lowered your hand, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re mine,” he countered softly, taking another shot before lowering the camera again. His eyes lingered on you, like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted another photo or another kiss.

You tilted your head. “Which one is it?”

His lips curved, but instead of answering, he let the camera dangle from its strap once more and leaned down until his forehead touched yours.

“Both,” he breathed. “Always both.”

The camera was forgotten again as he kissed you, slower this time, savoring the way your laughter softened into a sigh against his mouth.

His lips lingered on yours, but when he pulled back, his camera was back in hand. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he studied you through the lens again.

“Take that off,” Jungkook said suddenly.

You blinked, stunned. “What? The dress?” The word came out barely a whisper, soft as your bangs brushing your forehead.

He lowered the camera just enough for you to see the smirk tugging at his mouth, the way his lip piercing glinted when he bit down on it. “It’s not like I haven’t seen your pretty pussy before.”

A sharp gasp tore from you, hands flying to your face. “Jungkook!” you squeaked, scandalized.

You grabbed the nearest pillow and flung it at him. He dodged with ease, laughter spilling out, low and breathless, the sound filling the room. The camera swung from its strap as he caught it with one hand, grin stretching wide across his face.

“Don’t act so shy, baby,” he teased, voice dropping as he peeked at you from behind the camera again. “Come my love, I'm so desperate to see your body and capture it. So only I see it.”

I shook my head at him. Smiling again.

Jungkook steadied the camera in his hands, though the tremor in his fingers betrayed him. His gaze flicked from the lens to you, then back, like he couldn’t decide whether to keep playing photographer or just climb onto the bed with you and never move again.

“Lay down for me,” he murmured, voice low, coaxing.

You blinked at him, bangs brushing your lashes as you tilted your head. “Here?”

“On the bed.” His throat bobbed. “Please, baby. Just… lay on your stomach. A little —” he gestured vaguely with his free hand, ears already pink. “A little perked up.”

Your laugh was soft, airy, but you obeyed, crawling onto the sheets and settling down on your stomach. The green fabric of your flimsy dress shifted up as you moved, baring more of your thighs. Your ass perked up a little. You wiggled slightly, playful, and the sound Jungkook made in his throat was somewhere between a groan and a prayer.

Click.

The shutter snapped as his eyes roamed, reverent.

Click.

You peeked at him over your shoulder, scrunching your nose. “Do I look okay?”

His reply was immediate, rough-edged but gentle. “You look perfect.” Another click, then softer: “You always do.”

You giggled, pressing your cheek into the pillow. He shifted closer, hovering at the edge of the bed now, camera dangling forgotten against his chest.

“Love you,” he whispered. It wasn’t even part of the game anymore it just slipped out, like he couldn’t hold it back.

You smiled, warm and delicate, and Jungkook swore under his breath, like he’d never get used to the way you looked at him.

Click.

The last photo was blurry, because his hands shook. Not from the camera, but from the sheer ache of wanting you so much his chest hurt.

“Mine,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “My muse. My everything.”

The camera dangled uselessly against his chest, forgotten, as Jungkook crawled onto the bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, and his hand slid hesitantly along the curve of your back, fingertips brushing over the flimsy green fabric.

“You know I can’t… I can’t keep taking pictures like this,” he muttered, his voice so low it was almost a groan. “You make me crazy, baby.”

You rolled onto your side to face him, giggling softly when his bangs fell into his eyes. You brushed them back with the tips of your fingers, and he leaned into the touch like a starved man.

“Crazy’s not so bad,” you whispered, teasing but gentle.

He kissed you then slow, patient, the kind of kiss that made your chest ache with how much he poured into it. His hand cradled your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheekbone like you might break if he wasn’t careful.

“I love you,” he breathed between kisses, over and over, like a chant. “Love you so much. More than this stupid camera. More than anything.”

Your soft giggles melted into little sighs as he trailed kisses down your throat, pausing every few seconds just to murmur another praise.

“So pretty.” Kiss.

“My muse.” Kiss.

“My girl.” kiss.

By the time he reached the hem of your dress, you were trembling with warmth. He pushed it up, just enough to bare your hip, his lips brushing over your skin.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispered, his voice shaking. His eyes met yours, wide and yearning, whipped beyond belief. “You make me want to worship you forever.”

Jungkook hovered over you, hands gentle but insistent, and with one swift motion, the flimsy green dress was gone, tossed aside like it had never existed. His lips found yours again, soft and warm, like you were spun from cotton, like touching you would make the world outside vanish.

A soft whimper escaped your lips when his fingers brushed against the damp fabric of your panties. Your body responded without thinking, every nerve alive under his touch.

He pulled back just enough to murmur, low and rough, “I barely touched you, love.”

“...Sorry,” you whispered, voice breathy and unsure, not even certain what you were apologizing for.

He chuckled, a warm, needy sound that vibrated through his chest as he lowered his forehead to yours. “I love it,” he said, voice thick with reverence and desire. “Every little sound, every little twitch, every gasp you’re mine, and I love it.”

You giggled softly, hands tangling in his hair, tugging him closer as he kissed down your jaw, along your neck. Each movement was careful, deliberate, worshipful. His teeth nipped at your earlobe, and you let out a tiny squeak.

“You’re too perfect,” he whispered against your skin. “So soft… so pretty, my muse.”

Every word, every touch, was slow, tender, and sticky with yearning. His hands traced over your curves, exploring, memorizing, worshipping. You shivered under him, your body responding to his every tease, and he groaned, burying his face into your shoulder as he soaked it in.

“I love you,” he breathed again, over and over, in between kisses and murmurs. “Love you so much, love.”

Jungkook’s lips trailed down your neck, nibbling softly, sucking just enough to leave tiny marks without hurting. You shivered, hands tangling in his hair as he pressed himself closer. His chest was warm against your back, steadying you, his thumb brushing your hip.

“You’re so soft,” he whispered, voice thick and needy. “So perfect for me, love…”

He moved lower, lips ghosting along your spine until he reached the curve of your ass. A teasing groan left you when he circled your folds through your panties, his fingers stroking teasingly.

“Please, Kook…” you whimpered, voice breathless, half-giggle, half-plea.

His grin was devilish, even through the soft whispers. “Mmm… such a needy little thing,” he murmured, tugging your panties to the side just enough. His tongue flicked across your sensitive folds, teasing, tasting, drawing soft cries from you.

“Oh—oh god, Jungkook!” you gasped, thighs trembling as his skilled tongue found exactly the right spots. He hummed against you, hands holding your hips to keep you steady as he worked, lapping, sucking, teasing your clit until your fingers curled in the sheets and your head fell into the pillow.

“Love… you taste so perfect,” he groaned, voice husky, shaking with need. “You’re mine, all mine…”

You were trembling, soft whimpers and giggles spilling together, and he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, dark eyes glittering with need.

“Now… now I want you. All of you,” he whispered, voice low and demanding. His hands slid over your thighs, parting them gently, and he lined himself up, kissing your inner thigh before lapping on your clit. Slow. Painfully slow.

You gripped his hair, arching back.

A sharp gasp left you, and he groaned into your skin. He slide his two finger inside you, savoring the tight warmth enveloping him. “So perfect, love… so perfect for me,” he muttered, finger fucking you, lips finding yours again in messy, hungry kisses.

Jungkook’s hands roamed your body, worshipping, praising, keeping you close as he moved tongue inside you. His tongue slide in and out you. You cried out.

You came undone, all over his mouth and fingers. He slurped all of it like a starved animal.

Jungkook’s hips pressed against you, the hard outline of his clothed cock sliding along your folds. He rocked slowly at first, teasing you, making you squirm and whimper beneath him. Every soft gasp and giggle drew him closer, like he couldn’t get enough of you.

“God, you feel so good, love,” he murmured, voice low and husky. His hands roamed your body one cupping your cheek, the other gripping your hip anchoring himself as he ground against you.

You mewled softly, pressing your face into the pillow, thighs trembling under the friction. The way he moved, slow and teasing, made your heart pound, your body burning with need.

“Such a good girl,” he groaned, leaning down to press his lips to your ear. “Mine. Always mine.”

He increased the pace slightly, pressing you into the mattress as soft moans spilled from you, your hands tangling in his hair. Each motion sent shivers through your body, and the wet heat of your folds made it impossible for him to hold back the groan that tore from his chest.

“Love… I need you,” he whispered, voice ragged, rocking harder against you, still teasing, still worshipping. “You’re mine, and I can’t wait anymore.”

Jungkook’s hands fumbled with his trousers, fumbling at the zipper as he groaned low, eyes dark with need. “I can’t wait anymore,” he muttered, voice thick and needy.

Your chest rose and fell under his gaze, nipples hard against the flimsy fabric. Without warning, his lips found your breast, sucking gently, rolling the sensitive nub between his tongue and teeth. A soft whimper left your lips, fingers threading through his hair as he hummed against you.

“You taste so sweet, love,” he murmured, voice rough with desire. His hands cupped your other breast, kneading softly, worshipfully. Each suck, each nibble, made your body shiver and tilt into him, your back arching slightly as he explored you.

“Jungkook…” you gasped, thighs trembling, cheeks flushed, voice soft but needy.

He grinned against your skin, almost triumphant. “Mine… all mine, baby.” His hands roamed, squeezing, praising, worshipping you as if you were fragile porcelain he could never get enough of.

The zipper finally slid down, his trousers loosening enough for him to grind further into you, now bare against bare. He let out a low groan, pressing himself against your heat, teasing you with every small movement, while his lips stayed glued to your skin.

“Love… you’re driving me insane,” he whispered, voice shaking, “so perfect, so soft.”

You giggled and whimpered all at once, nails grazing his shoulders, your body trembling under him. Each motion, each kiss, each suck, built the tension until it was unbearable, making you melt into him completely.

"Should we try that out? The one we saw?" Jungkook whispered, looking at you. You gulped and looked at him.

Weeks ago you guys saw a clip of a man fucking the boobs.

"I mean, i- I don't know." You mumbles.

"Only if you're okay with this, you know I won't ever do anything if you're not comfortable right?" Jungkook whispered against, caressing your cheeks. You smile little and nodded.

"You can."

Jungkook’s eyes lit up when you whispered “You can.” His Adam’s apple bobbed, a soft groan escaping his throat as he kissed your forehead.

“God, I love you,” he murmured before pressing his lips to yours again — gentle at first, then deeper, hungrier. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “If you don’t like it, I’ll stop immediately, okay? Promise.”

You nodded, cheeks warm. “Okay.”

With trembling hands, Jungkook helped tug your bra down, freeing your breasts. His breath hitched at the sight, and his fingers trailed reverently over the soft swell before he kissed down your chest. “So pretty,” he whispered, squeezing gently before planting open-mouthed kisses around your nipples.

You gasped when he slid lower, pushing his trousers down enough for his cock to spring free. Hard, thick, flushed, he wrapped his hand around the base and swallowed hard. “Fuck, I’m shaking,” he admitted with a sheepish laugh, looking up at you like a boy caught stealing candy.

You giggled softly, brushing his bangs from his eyes. “You’re so cute, Koo.”

That earned you a groan, and he positioned himself carefully, sliding his cock between the soft valley of your breasts. His hands pressed your tits together, holding them snug around him. “Oh my god…” His voice cracked, pupils blown wide as he watched himself disappear between your skin.

The sight alone nearly broke him. He began thrusting slowly, cock gliding between your breasts, the head brushing up toward your collarbone before slipping back down. His lips parted, breath shaky.

“Baby—fuck—you feel unreal,” he groaned, leaning down to kiss your nose as he rutted carefully, tenderly, as though you were porcelain.

You bit your lip, cheeks heating, but his expression utterly undone, reverent made you giggle softly. “You’re so whipped.”

“I am,” Jungkook confessed shamelessly, thrusting a little harder between your breasts. “So fucking whipped for you, love. You make me lose my mind.”

You whimpered at his words, arching a little, letting him slide deeper, slick with the precum that smeared against your chest. His mouth fell open at the sight, his pace stuttering as he groaned, “God, I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

Jungkook’s hips jerked slightly, pressing the head of his cock right against your chin as he slid between your breasts. Your lips parted instinctively, tongue flicking out to taste him, teasing the sensitive tip with slow, deliberate strokes.

“Oh… love,” he groaned, hands tightening on your hips, holding you flush against him. “Fuck - just like that so good.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as you bobbed gently, letting him feel every teasing brush of your tongue, every soft lick against the slick, throbbing head. Each tiny gasp, each soft whimper that escaped your lips made him shiver, groan, and thrust harder, grinding himself against you.

“Mine… so mine,” he muttered, voice ragged, pressing his forehead to yours. His breaths came quick, shallow, desperate. “You’re gonna kill me, love… I swear”

You giggled softly, brushing your nose against his as you worked him with teasing precision, loving the way he was completely undone by your hands and mouth. “You like it?” you whispered, barely audible, soft and breathy.

“I love it… I love you… I love this,” he gasped, grinding harder, the head of his cock sliding between your breasts with every movement, slick and glistening.

Your fingers traced up his shoulders, tangling in his hair, tugging him closer, making him shudder against you. Every lick, every whimper, every tiny gasp from you pushed him closer to the edge, and he moaned, lost in the worshipful, messy pleasure of you.

Jungkook groaned, hips stuttering as his release hit, thick and hot, smearing over your chest and face. He grunted your name, completely undone, shaking as he rode the last waves of pleasure through you.

“Oh Kook.” you breathed, warmth and wetness coating your skin.

He collapsed onto you gently, still panting, forehead pressed to yours. “Fuck,” he gasped, voice ragged and broken, utterly whipped.

You giggled softly, brushing the damp strands of hair from your face, still flushed, still trembling. “You okay?”

He chuckled breathlessly, pulling you closer. “Never better,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses along your forehead and nose, murmuring, “You’re perfect, love… always perfect.”

You both lay there for a moment, tangled together, bodies sticky, hearts racing, the camera long forgotten on the floor.

Jungkook slid his cock along your drenched folds, still slick from earlier, every movement making you shiver. The friction against your sensitive skin so tender from his mouth made a soft gasp escape your lips.

“Gguk…” you whimpered, pressing your face into the pillow, cheeks flushed. You knew he wasn’t done yet, and the thought of him still needing you, still claiming you, sent warmth curling through your stomach.

His hips moved slowly at first, teasing, grinding along you, savoring every shiver, every soft whimper that escaped. “So perfect,” he groaned, hands gripping your hips, holding you flush against him. “I'm mad psychotic without you.”

You let out a soft moan, curling your fingers into the sheets as he pressed closer. Every slow thrust made your back arch, nipples brushing the mattress, hair falling in tangled strands around your face.

“Love… you’re killing me.” he murmured, leaning down to press soft kisses along your neck, shoulders, anywhere his lips could reach. “So perfect always mine.”

You whimpered again, thighs trembling, voice breathy and soft. “Don’t stop, Kook.”

His grin was wicked, despite the need in his voice. “I could never, baby. Never with you.”

Jungkook pressed himself fully inside you, slow and careful at first, letting the heat and tightness swallow him whole. Your body shivered around him, slick and warm, every inch of you clinging and welcoming him.

“Oh… Kook…” you whimpered, cheeks flushed, fingers digging into the sheets as he shifted gently, starting a rhythm that was steady but deliberate, worshipful.

His lips found your shoulder, pressing soft, lingering kisses as he groaned low in your ear. “So good… so perfect for me, love. Your pretty pussy made for me.”

You giggled softly, breathy and light, twisting your head to press a little kiss against his jaw. “You’re so whipped,” you teased, but the sound of your own giggle mixed with a whimper made him groan deeper, lost in the feeling of you.

His thrusts grew slightly firmer, not rough, just full of need and reverence, slow enough to make you moan, giggle, and gasp all at once.

“Love… I can’t… I’m gonna.” he rasped, voice breaking, forehead pressed to yours as he kissed your temple softly. “You feel so… so fucking good.”

Your hands threaded through his hair, tugging him closer as he moaned against you, lost in the heat of your bodies. “Kook… don’t stop, please”

Jungkook put your legs on his shoulder pounding softly in pussy, watching himself in and out.

Slow.

Rocking.

Thrusting upwards.

The warmth between you built higher, each thrust, each murmur of your name, each little giggle and soft whimper driving him over the edge. He groaned, shaking, losing himself in the worship of you. “I love you so much”

And then, with a shuddering, ragged groan, he came undone, hips jerking, voice breaking as he buried himself inside you, murmuring your name over and over. You gasped, trembling around him, clinging, giggling, whimpering completely sated, completely adored.

After a few moments, he collapsed onto your back, chest heaving, breathing ragged. You curled against him, tangled in sheets, in arms, in warmth, hair brushing across his flushed cheeks.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, lips brushing the top of your head. “My muse.”

You giggled softly, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “I love you.”

He grinned weakly, soft and whipped, resting his forehead against yours. “I love you more, my pretty baby.”

The camera lay forgotten on the floor, the photoshoot completely abandoned, replaced by whispers, giggles, kisses, and cuddles the messy, soft aftermath of two people completely undone for each other.

Jungkook sank onto the bed beside you, letting his weight press gently against yours. Your hair was tangled, your cheeks warm, and the lingering heat of your bodies made the sheets cling to you.

He traced a lazy finger along your arm, humming softly. “You’re… unbelievable,” he whispered, voice rough from exertion. “I can’t believe I get to be with you.”

You giggled softly, pressing your lips to his shoulder. “I could say the same about you,” you murmured, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath your hand.

He leaned down, brushing a kiss along your jaw and shoulder, careful and lingering. “I want to stay like this forever,” he said, voice low, almost shy. “Just… holding you.”

You tilted your head, brushing a hand along the nape of his neck. “Then stay,” you whispered, smiling against him. “I don’t want to move either.”

His lips pressed against your hair, nose tucked into your temple. “You feel amazing right now… warm, soft… I could stay here all night,” he murmured, hand sliding along your back in lazy circles.

You let out a sleepy laugh, curling closer to him, letting the warmth settle between you. “I like it… just like this,” you said, voice soft, eyes half-closed.

He held you tighter, pressing kisses along your shoulder and collarbone, murmuring things only for your ears, words that made your chest swell without ever repeating the usual lines. “I’m never letting you go,” he whispered, breathing in your scent, fingertips brushing over your skin with care.

The youngest daughter was born with an innate love for flowers — a love that seemed to seep into my very bones. I could feel them, understand them, as if every petal had a secret meant only for me. The wind would make them sway, and I swore I could hear them whisper my name.

But love for something so delicate didn’t matter in my family.

To them, I was less than dirt.

I was the unwanted child, fated to linger in the shadows cast by my sisters’ brilliance. My eldest sister had already paved the path my parents worshiped — dutiful, perfect, the kind of daughter they could parade in front of relatives. I was expected to follow without question, as though my life were nothing more than a second performance of hers.

The irony? They never once asked what I wanted to be.

So I kept quiet.

The weight of worthlessness pressed against my ribs until I could hardly breathe. I didn’t speak of the bitterness that seeped, drop by drop, into my heart.

They’d say:

"Be like your older sibling. Learn from them."

But I wasn’t like her. Ballet was my truth, my rebellion wrapped in satin ribbons. It was the only thing that belonged to me. While my second sister schemed her way through life, I lived in the quiet elegance of pirouettes and pliés — hiding my real self behind the pretty pink shoes they dismissed as a childish hobby.

And then there was the quote. The one that haunted me every time I looked at my reflection in the studio mirrors.

"Being a daughter is healing your mother's trauma while also healing your own. Being a daughter is forgiving your father... over and over again.

Being a daughter is the lifelong burden of carrying the heavy weight dumped onto you by your elders — like clothes that fit too big."

I felt that. Every word.

And yet, somewhere in the corners of my life, someone else had been watching.

Someone who thought I was perfect.

Someone who didn’t want to share me with the world.

>"What's with the frown, love? You look beautiful."

Another text.

Another number I didn’t recognize.

My fingers tightened around the phone, the glow of the screen cutting through the dim light of my room. I’d blocked him — countless times. Each time, his messages slipped back into my life like smoke through a crack in the door.

No matter what I did, he stayed.

Watching.

Observing.

Counting my breaths.

He knew the exact rhythm of my twirls in ballet class, the tilt of my head when I concentrated, even the way my fingers curled when I tied my ribbons. I’d never told anyone about him — there was no point.

Because he knew everything.

Everything.

He claimed I was his.

That he had known me for years, long before I noticed the shadows behind me.

And he promised — no, vowed — that he would keep watching me.

Until I stopped running.

Until I was his.

I realized I was last for dinner.

Snatching my phone from the bed, I tossed it onto the blankets like it was something filthy. Slipping into a flimsy, soft cotton dress, I padded downstairs, the faint smell of grilled meat curling in the air.

They were already seated — my parents, perfectly composed, and Suzy, glowing under the warm dining lights.

The table was filled with quiet clinks and muted conversation. My parents and Suzy exchanged words about upcoming business meetings, throwing around names I didn’t recognize, while I sat silent at the edge of the table. I wanted to join in, to say something — anything — but the words never came easily.

The sound of my chopsticks clicking against the plate was louder than my voice would have been.

"But Dad," Suzy said between bites, "I think the partners will be impressed if we welcome them with something sophisticated. Something significant."

Father nodded, eyes thoughtful. "I’ve considered that too. But what should we welcome them with?"

My mind immediately went to flowers. Delicate, precise arrangements that could say everything without a single word. I swallowed and tried to speak.

"Dad, I think—"

He turned to me sharply, his mouth curling into something halfway between mockery and surprise. "Wait… you think?"

"Yeah…"

"Since when did you get this new hobby?"

They laughed. Suzy’s eyes glinted with amusement as she leaned forward. "He’s right. It’s our job to think in this house. You just stick to your ballet and dancing."

"That’s right," Mother added, her smile thin as paper.

The back of my chopsticks dug into my palm as I gripped them, hard enough to feel the sting. My knuckles ached, but I stayed silent, staring down at the table.

"Oh, come on, Alora, it was a joke," Suzy chuckled, her voice honeyed and cruel. She glanced at Father. "Right, Dad?"

"Mm. Okay, that’s enough," he said, the faintest smile still tugging at his lips.

And just like that, they went back to their conversation — as if I’d never spoken.

My appetite had left a long time ago.

Still, I forced a bite of samgyeopsal into my mouth, swallowing against the wave of nausea that rose to meet it.

"By the way, —" she says your name.

My mother’s voice cut through the air, crisp and commanding. I looked up, meeting her eyes.

"I spoke with the Choi family," she said, tone clipped. "They’re ready for the engagement. You’ll go tomorrow and pick the dress you like. Understood?"

It wasn’t a question.

It was an order.

I blinked slowly, letting the words sink in.

I was getting married — to someone they had chosen. Someone I had never met. Someone I was expected to share my future with simply because their last name looked good beside mine.

But a small, treacherous thought coiled in my chest.

Better than this hellhole. Better than choking on my own silence every day.

Maybe marriage to a stranger would be… an escape.

"Yes, Mother," I said softly, my voice smooth, unshaken.

She nodded, satisfied.

But the moment passed, and the quiet weight in my stomach began to burn. Because there was someone else — someone who already knew about this engagement.

My stalker.

The texts had been relentless for days. Promises, threats, and vivid descriptions of exactly what he’d do to anyone who tried to take me away from him.

If you say yes to this marriage, I’ll ruin everything. Everyone.

And what had I done?

I said yes.

> "Do whatever the hell you want."

My thumbs hovered for half a second before hitting send.

The little check marks appeared.

Seen. Instantly.

A shiver rippled down my spine. I swallowed hard and hit “Block” — for what felt like the hundredth time — knowing it wouldn’t matter.

Letting the phone drop onto the bed, I peeled my dress off my shoulders, letting the soft cotton slip to the floor in a whisper. My skin prickled in the cool air as I made my way to the bathroom.

The light was harsh against the tile. I turned the shower knob until steam began to fog the glass, stepping inside and letting the water rush over me.

It should have felt cleansing.

It didn’t.

The heat hit my skin, but my mind stayed cold.

I tilted my head back, eyes closed, water streaming over my lashes, trying to imagine the sound of it drowning out his voice — the voice I’d never actually heard, but somehow knew. The one that whispered through his texts.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, an unwelcome thought bloomed:

What if he’s watching me right now?

I sighed as the warm water cascaded down my skin, loosening the tightness in my shoulders. For a moment, the noise of my family’s voices and the weight of my stalker’s threats faded into the hiss of the shower.

It felt nice.

Safe.

Almost.

Suddenly, a palm clamped over my mouth.

The scream tore from my throat but died against the rough press of skin. My head hit the cold tiles, water splashing in sharp bursts against my face.

A heat loomed behind me — unshakable, deliberate.

I tried to twist, to see him, but his grip was steel. My body jerked against his, uselessly.

"You like to test my fucking patience, yeah?"

The words were low, a chuckle curling at the edges, but it wasn’t amusement. It was a warning. His voice was deep, gravelly, the kind that burrows into your bones.

"You think you can block me… say yes to him… and I’ll just sit back?" His breath brushed my ear, each word deliberate, slow, cruel. "You’re mine. You’ve always been mine."

I whimpered into his palm, but he only pressed it tighter.

"Do you have any idea how much I’ve been holding back?" His tone wavered between rage and something far more dangerous. "I’ve been patient. I’ve watched. I’ve let you dance, let you pretend you were free…"

He tilted his head so close, his wet hair brushed my temple.

"But now you think you can belong to someone else? No, angel." His chuckle was quiet, almost fond — and that was the worst part. "I’ll ruin him. I’ll fucking ruin you. Such a bad little girl you are — you need your filthy cunt a spank though."

My chest tightened; the tears spilled freely now.

"So stop fighting me," he murmured, almost gently, his thumb stroking my cheek. I whimpered against his palm, my movements frantic, trying to push him away, but his grip was unyielding.

"I won’t fuck you — yet," he murmured, each word dripping with control. His hand went downwards. To my inner thighs so close to my core. "I’m tempted, love. So tempted. But this…" his chuckle was low, dangerous, "I'll punish you good. But only my own fucking bed." He rasped.

He grinded his arousal on my hips. He chuckled. "Feel that? What you do to me? My pretty ballerina. Dance so perfect for me hm?"

I felt the curve of his smile against my wet skin.

"You’re going to be my good little girl," he continued, his tone suddenly soft — almost coaxing — but laced with steel. "And you’re going to tell your fucking parents you’re not interested in this marriage. You’re going to look them in the eye and say no."

Before I could react, his other hand fisted in my drenched hair, yanking my head back. Water streamed down my face, mingling with the tears I couldn’t stop. My neck strained, my chest heaved, but he only leaned closer, his breath ghosting over the shell of my ear.

"Cause I swear to god, my ballerina. I'll fuck you in your wedding dress and kill the groom right in front of everyone if you disobey me."

The words wrapped around me like chains — cold, heavy, unbreakable.

Then—he was gone.

The pressure at my back vanished like smoke, leaving only the hiss of the shower and the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears.

I spun around instantly, water splashing at my feet, my breath sharp and uneven. The bathroom was empty. No shadow in the steam. No footsteps. Just me.

I stumbled out, grabbing the nearest towel and clutching it to my chest, scanning every corner like I expected him to emerge from the walls.

But there was nothing.

No sound except the dripping of water from my hair.

No sign he’d been there at all…

Except for the faint, lingering warmth where his breath had touched my ear.

I pulled the towel tighter around me, forcing my legs to move. My bare feet padded over the wet tiles, every sound amplified in the silence.

When I stepped into my bedroom, my stomach dropped.

On my bed, lying on top of the crumpled sheets, was a single black rose. Its petals glistened with tiny droplets, as if it had been carried through the same steam that still clung to my skin.

Beside it sat my phone.

Unlocked.

A new message glowed across the screen.

> “Don’t keep me waiting, ballerina.”

The next day.

I shouldn’t be here. I should have said no to my parents — I know that. But I’m a coward, aren’t I? I can’t say a single word in front of them without my throat tightening. I know that one “no” could cost me more than I’m ready to lose.

So here I am.

Standing in a wedding shop.

White lace and soft organza surrounded me, the air thick with the faint scent of perfume and polished wood. Across from me was my fiancé — Choi See-won, the son of my father’s client. His smile was polite, his eyes warm in a way that should have been comforting.

He talked about dresses, colors, and venues, his voice calm and measured. I barely heard a word. My mind was miles away, pacing between fear and resignation. I nodded occasionally, letting out small, polite smiles.

Every so often, his hand would brush against my knuckles — a fleeting contact that made my skin twitch. Once, he reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his fingertips grazing my cheek. The gesture should have been tender. Instead, it felt… watched.

Because every time he touched me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else was counting each brush of skin.

“I can’t wait for the marriage,” See-won said, his eyes holding mine with an earnest warmth. “You’re gorgeous.”

Before I could respond, he lifted my hand, pressing his lips gently against my knuckles. The contact was light, polite — the sort of gesture girls in romance novels were supposed to swoon over.

“Thank you,” I replied softly, my voice barely above a breath. I felt the faintest flush rise to my cheeks, the warmth sitting uncomfortably on my skin.

But even as I smiled, I could feel it the prickling weight of someone else’s gaze.

As though the compliment, the kiss, hadn’t been ours alone.

The wedding hall shimmered like it was stolen from a dream. White roses curled along the aisle, their petals catching the light of the crystal chandeliers. The soft hum of guests talking filled the air, the sound blending with the faint strains of a string quartet.

I sat in the bridal room, my gown spread out around me like a sea of ivory, the veil cascading over my shoulders. The makeup artist had just left, and I was alone for the first time that morning.

My heart didn’t race.

It didn’t flutter.

It just… sat there, heavy.

This was supposed to be the day a girl felt joy, excitement, maybe a little nervousness. But all I felt was an ache, the kind that sat behind your ribs and refused to leave.

A soft knock on the door.

“Miss Jung, it’s time,” the wedding planner’s gentle voice said.

I stood, my heels clicking against the floor, and followed her out.

The music shifted as I reached the edge of the grand aisle. Guests turned to look at me — smiling, whispering, eyes warm with admiration. My father stood beside me, offering his arm.

“You look perfect,” he murmured, pride dripping in his tone like honey laced with poison. For once, i felt he was being genuine.

The doors opened.

I stepped forward.

At the far end, Choi See-won smiled. He looked every bit the perfect groom — sharp suit, soft eyes, the kind of smile that made people believe in fairy tales.

But I knew.

This wasn’t a fairy tale.

Every step felt heavier.

Not from the dress.

From the chains no one else could see.