#claim

CW: Possessive Steve Words: 730

Steve who likes to lean his head on Eddie's shoulder which is just the right height for his head to be tucked comfortably.

Eddie who has a stupidly large crush on Steve ever since he finally accepted that he was a good guy slowly imploding from it.

Steve searches him out, even once where they end up at a party, visiting Robin at college.

A puff of hair parts the crowd and finds Eddie before he can even look for Steve.

A head rests on Eddie's shoulder where he's leaning against the wall before any words even leave his lips.

The soft "There you are," accompanied by a sigh of relief has Eddie's heart going a mile-a-minute as the crowd pulses around them. Steve's head tucked against him, his body pressed to his side.

The girl that Eddie had been talking to raises her eyebrows but says nothing.

BREAKING: India’s Prime Minister Narendra Modi informed Donald Trump last night that his claim about brokering a ceasefire between India and Pakistan is false. Modi clarified that the ceasefire, which ended a four-day conflict in May, was the result of direct talks between the two countries' militaries — not U.S. mediation.

Another Trump lie, called out by a world leader.

𓂃 ❀ all fcs are white blonde women. i will make other fc idea posts soon. likes & reblogs are appreciated! ♡

ꪆৎ — 𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐗 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐈

ꪆৎ — 𝐃𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍

ꪆৎ — 𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆

ꪆৎ — 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀𝐇 𝐃𝐎𝐃𝐃

ꪆৎ — 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐂𝐊

ꪆৎ — 𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐋 𝐌𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐒

i had to switch to the website version for this post lol

18+ only. minors do not interact. this is a dark fic containing mature themes, coercive dynamics, forced captivity, psychological distress, trauma, violence, and sexually charged tension.

word count: 8.1k

Summary: the morning after the storm leaves too much unsaid.

as forced routines continue and the wedding draws closer, every attempt to create distance only pulls you deeper into the house, into the past, and into leon’s orbit. but when something private is exposed without your permission, anger, shame, and desire collide until the line between protection and possession begins to burn.

⚠️ chapter content warnings ⚠️

forced captivity / loss of autonomy coercive control dynamics power imbalance forced engagement / arranged marriage medical examination medical documentation without emotional consent psychological screening / evaluation references bloodwork references discussion of bodily autonomy grief and traumatic bereavement mentions of death by strangulation references to past intimate partner violence old injury / scar from past abuse references to broken glass / blunt force trauma victim shame and trauma response verbal aggression / confrontation possessive language protective rage caging / close physical proximity non-sexual but intense unwanted touch near-kiss / sexually charged tension conflicted attraction trauma bonding undertones emotional overwhelm explicit language

✦ ────── ✦ ────── ✦ ───── ✦──── ✦──── ✦

You limp downstairs slowly, one hand gripping the banister for support.

Every step sends a dull throb through your bandaged foot, not sharp enough to stop you, but constant enough to remind you of exactly how you got hurt. The storm. The woods. The mud. Leon’s arms around you, impossibly warm while rain poured over both of you like the sky was trying to wash the whole night away.

You hate that the memory follows you.

You hate that it doesn’t feel like only fear.

The mansion is quiet this morning, too quiet in the way it always is, but softer somehow. Less threatening in the early light. The windows are pale with morning, the marble floors reflecting diluted gold, the whole house still carrying that strange after-storm hush. Somewhere deeper inside, dishes clink faintly from the kitchen, the small, ordinary sound pulling you forward.

You move carefully, jaw clenched, refusing to limp more than necessary even though every step hurts. By the time you reach the bottom of the stairs, your fingers ache from how tightly you’ve been holding the banister.

Then you see him.

Leon stands at the kitchen island, pouring coffee into two mugs.

For one second, you stop walking.

He looks up the instant you appear, like he heard you long before you reached the room. Those piercing blue eyes move over you in one quick, controlled sweep — your face, your hair, the oversized clothes, your hands, your injured foot, the way you’re trying and failing not to favor that side. There’s no obvious reaction on his face, no dramatic softening, no scolding. Just that quiet, assessing focus that makes you feel like he sees too much.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Neither do you.

The silence stretches across the kitchen, broken only by the faint pour of coffee and the low hum of the house around you. Leon sets the pot down, picks up one of the mugs, and slides it across the island toward the stool nearest you.

A peace offering.

Or a command.

With him, it’s hard to tell the difference.

You stare at the mug for a moment before stepping closer. The heat rises in faint curls, bitter and familiar. You wrap your hands around it because you need something to do with them, something to keep them from shaking, but you don’t drink.

You just look at him.

Leon leans back slightly against the counter, his own mug held loosely in one hand. He’s dressed like he always is — black, controlled, put together in a way that feels almost deliberate — but there are cracks if you know where to look. Faint shadows beneath his eyes. The tension in his jaw. The way his attention keeps dropping to your foot despite himself.

The question comes out before you can stop it.

“Why do you care?”

Leon’s eyes lift back to yours.

The room seems to tighten.

You swallow hard, but now that the words are out, they keep coming. Raw. Tired. Too honest.

“Why do you care if I’m alive, Leon?” Your voice scrapes at the edges, still rough from sleep and crying and screaming into the storm. “Why patch me up? Why move me to your bed? Why sit there all night pretending you’re not watching to make sure I keep breathing?”

His fingers tighten slightly around his mug.

You see it.

The smallest tell.

“Why not just let me run?” you press, voice sharpening because vulnerability feels too much like bleeding. “I mean, really. Why not let me freeze out there? Let me trip over a cliff or fall into the lake or whatever horrible thing you were so sure was going to happen? It would’ve been easier for you.”

Leon doesn’t answer right away.

Of course he doesn’t.

He just watches you with that unbearable stillness, blue eyes fixed on your face like he’s weighing not whether to lie, but how much truth you can take. Morning light catches the silver threaded through his ash-brown hair and sharpens the hard line of his jaw. His expression is controlled, but not cold. Not entirely.

That bothers you more.

Finally, he exhales through his nose.

“I’m not a saint,” he says, voice low.

A bitter laugh pulls from your chest. “Trust me, I noticed.”

His mouth tightens, but he doesn’t take the bait.

“And I’m not pretending this is purely selfless,” he continues. “I know what this is. I know what I’ve done. I know what you think of me.”

“You don’t know half of what I think of you.”

“No,” he says quietly. “I probably don’t.”

The softness of that answer throws you off for half a second.

You grip the mug tighter, heat pressing into your palms.

Leon sets his coffee down behind him and crosses his arms over his chest. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his shoulders, but there’s nothing aggressive in it this time. If anything, it feels like restraint. Like he’s keeping himself still on purpose.

“But I’m not a monster who wants you dead either,” he says.

Your laugh this time is sharper. Uglier. “That’s not an answer.”

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“No,” he admits. “It’s not.”

That quiet admission makes something in your chest twist.

Leon looks down briefly, jaw flexing once, then back up. “Because I’ve already got enough blood on my hands.”

The words land heavy between you.

“I killed your brother,” he says, and his voice drops around it, roughening. “My friend. And I have to live with that every single day.”

You flinch at the word friend even though you knew it already.

It still hurts.

Maybe it will always hurt.

Leon’s gaze stays locked on yours. “I’m not adding you to the list. Not if I can stop it.”

Your throat tightens, but anger rushes in quickly, familiar and protective.

You step closer without thinking, ignoring the spark of pain in your foot. The movement brings you to the other side of the island, closer to him, close enough that the smell of coffee between you gets tangled with the faint dark-wood-and-spice scent of him.

“That’s still not why,” you say.

His eyes narrow slightly.

“Not really.” Your voice lowers, but it doesn’t get weaker. “You could’ve had the guards drag me back. You could’ve sent a doctor or a maid or whoever else you have in this house to clean me up. You didn’t have to carry me yourself.”

Leon says nothing.

“You didn’t have to hold me like that,” you continue, and the words taste dangerous the second they leave your mouth. “You didn’t have to sit there with my foot in your lap, cleaning mud and blood off me like it mattered if it hurt. You didn’t have to tell me stories about Marcus to distract me.”

His jaw tightens.

Good.

You want it to hurt him too.

“So why?” you ask, quieter now.

For the first time, Leon looks away.

Only for a second.

Toward the windows overlooking the lake, where pale morning light glints off the water. His face is turned just enough that you can see the muscle working in his jaw, the way his mouth presses into a hard line before he forces it loose again.

When he looks back at you, the distance in his expression has shifted into something heavier.

“Because every time I look at you,” he says, voice quieter now, rough around the edges, “I see what he was trying to protect.”

Your fingers tighten around the mug.

“And I see what I took from him,” Leon continues. “From you.”

The air leaves your lungs too slowly.

You wish he had shouted.

You wish he had been cruel.

Cruelty would be easier to answer.

Leon pushes off the counter and walks around the island until there’s nothing between you but a few feet of charged silence. You don’t back away. You won’t give him that. But your heart starts beating faster anyway.

“I hate what this is,” he says.

His voice is low enough now that it feels meant only for you, even in the open kitchen.

“I hate that the DSO thought handing me his sister was some poetic justice. I hate that you were dragged into something you didn’t choose. I hate that every time you look at me, you see his last breath.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“But you’re here now,” he says. “And whether you believe it or not, I don’t want to watch you destroy yourself because of me.”

His eyes hold yours.

“I’ve already destroyed enough.”

The honesty hits harder than you expect.

It slips past the anger before you can stop it, past the resentment, past the wall you keep trying to rebuild every time he does something that doesn’t fit neatly inside the word monster.

You look down at the coffee in your hands because looking at him suddenly feels too dangerous.

“So what?” you ask, but your voice is quieter now. “You’re going to keep me alive out of guilt?”

Leon doesn’t answer.

You force yourself to look up again. “Patch me up, feed me, make sure I don’t run into any more storms?”

His gaze flickers briefly to your foot.

You hate how much you notice.

“Until the wedding at the end of the month?” Your throat tightens around the word. “Then what?”

Leon’s eyes darken.

Not with anger.

With something complicated enough that you don’t want to name it.

He takes one more step closer. He towers over you now, broad and impossible, but there’s no aggression in it. No hand reaching for your arm. No wall at your back. No trap.

Just presence.

Heavy.

Suffocating.

Careful.

“Then we figure it out,” he says quietly.

You let out a disbelieving breath. “That’s your answer?”

“It’s the only one I have.”

“You always have answers.”

A faint shadow of something crosses his face. Almost amusement. Almost sadness. Neither lasts.

“Not for this.”

That steals whatever you were going to say next.

Leon’s voice lowers. “I’m not expecting you to forgive me. I’m not expecting you to ever look at me without hating me.” His eyes search yours, steady and unflinching. “But I’m not going to let you die just to make this easier for either of us.”

You stare up at him, chest tight, tears burning at the corners of your eyes again before you can stop them.

You hate that too.

The silence between you thickens, filling with everything neither of you says.

The dream you refuse to think about.

The way he carried you through the rain.

His hands, rough and gentle at the same time.

Marcus’s name sitting between you like a wound that keeps reopening.

The shadows under Leon’s eyes from sleeping on the couch.

Your own body remembering safety where it should only remember fear.

“I still hate you,” you whisper.

Leon’s expression doesn’t change.

But something in his eyes does.

“I know,” he replies, just as quietly.

The simplicity of it nearly breaks you.

You swallow hard. “I mean it.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” The tears blur your vision now, and frustration sharpens your voice because crying in front of him still feels like surrender. “You don’t get to stand here and make coffee and say all the right sad things and look at me like—like you’re sorry and expect that to mean anything.”

His face tightens, but he stays still.

“I don’t expect it to mean anything.”

“Then why say it?”

“Because you asked.”

The answer is immediate.

Too honest.

Too calm.

You hate how it lands.

You look away first this time, blinking hard. “I don’t know what to do with you when you’re like this.”

Leon is quiet for a beat.

“When I’m like what?”

You laugh under your breath, bitter and unsteady. “Not horrible.”

Something shifts in his expression.

A flicker.

A fracture.

Then he looks down for half a second, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower.

“I can be horrible if that’s easier.”

You look back at him.

The words should sound threatening.

They don’t.

They sound tired.

They sound like he already knows exactly which version of himself you can survive better.

Your chest aches.

“Don’t,” you say softly.

Leon’s eyes lift to yours.

You don’t know what you mean.

Don’t be cruel.

Don’t be gentle.

Don’t make this harder.

Don’t make me wonder if there’s anything left in you worth mourning.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

The air feels too heavy, too charged. You’re standing close enough now to smell his cologne beneath the coffee, close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes, close enough to notice the way his hand flexes once at his side like he wants to reach for you and doesn’t trust himself to.

Then he does reach.

Slowly.

So slowly that you have every chance to step back.

You don’t.

His fingers lift toward your face, not touching at first, hovering near your cheek as if he’s waiting for you to stop him. Your breath catches anyway. Every part of you goes still, not relaxed, not willing, just suspended.

His fingertips brush a loose strand of hair near your temple.

Barely a touch.

Light enough that it shouldn’t feel like anything.

It feels like everything.

He tucks it behind your ear with a gentleness that makes your throat close. His knuckles graze your skin for half a second, warm and rough, and the contact sends a small, traitorous shiver down your spine.

Leon notices.

Of course he does.

His eyes drop briefly to your mouth, then return to your eyes.

The moment stretches too long.

Too quiet.

Too intimate for a kitchen full of morning light and things neither of you should want.

“Drink your coffee,” he murmurs.

His voice is low, almost rough.

You blink, like he’s pulled you out of something.

“And try to stay off that foot today.”

The command should irritate you.

It does.

But softer now.

“You’re still giving orders,” you say, barely above a whisper.

His hand falls away from your face.

“I’m trying not to.”

There it is again.

That honesty.

That awful, disarming honesty.

Leon steps back, giving you space, and the loss of his closeness is immediate. Cold air fills the place where he had been. Your fingers tighten around the mug because you need something solid.

He looks at you one last time, expression unreadable now, but not empty.

Then he turns and leaves the kitchen without another word.

The tension doesn’t leave with him.

If anything, it becomes heavier.

You stand there for several long seconds, staring at the empty doorway, the coffee warming your hands, your heart still beating too fast.

You’re still trapped here.

Still grieving.

Still angry.

Still his prisoner, no matter how gently he touches your face.

But for the first time, it doesn’t feel quite as simple as pure hatred anymore.

And that scares you more than the woods ever did.

You finish your coffee in silence after Leon leaves the kitchen, the weight of his words still sitting heavy in your chest. You drink slowly, barely tasting it, staring at the place where he stood like the air there has changed shape. You don’t want to think about any of it — not the gentleness in his voice, not the way he looked at you, not the way your body still remembers being carried through the rain.

You need to get out of your own head.

Limping slightly, you make your way to the library you’d discovered during one of your earlier explorations. The walk feels longer than it should, every step measured around the ache in your foot, every hallway too quiet now that the conversation keeps replaying in your mind. The room is breathtaking in the morning light: two stories tall with floor-to-ceiling dark wood shelves packed with thousands of books. A rolling ladder leans against one wall. Heavy leather armchairs and a long reading table sit beneath a massive skylight that lets in soft, diffused daylight. The air smells like old paper, leather, and faint wood polish.

It should calm you.

It almost does.

But your pulse still hasn’t fully settled, and no matter how hard you try not to, you can still feel the ghost of Leon’s fingers brushing your hair behind your ear.

You close the heavy door behind you and breathe a little easier. For the first time since arriving, the mansion feels almost peaceful.

You wander the shelves slowly, trailing your fingers along the spines. Military history. Classic literature. Old thrillers. Philosophy. There’s even a small section of worn paperbacks that look like they’ve actually been read. You pull a few down at random — a dog-eared copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, a collection of short stories by Shirley Jackson, and an old hardcover about survival in extreme conditions that feels darkly appropriate.

You settle into one of the deep leather armchairs near the window, propping your injured foot up on a small ottoman. The bandage pulls slightly, but the painkillers are still working. Outside, the lake glimmers under gray clouds, the woods still damp from last night’s storm.

At first, you try to lose yourself in the pages. You flip through the short stories, letting the eerie, quiet horror distract you. Then you move to The Count of Monte Cristo, sinking into the tale of betrayal and long, patient revenge. For a few blessed hours, the words pull you under. The mansion fades. Leon fades. Even the ache of missing Marcus dulls to a background hum.

But your mind keeps drifting.

You catch yourself staring out the window, remembering the way Leon’s hands felt cleaning your foot last night — careful, almost tender. The low rumble of his voice telling you stories about Marcus. The way he’d tucked your hair behind your ear this morning. You slam the book shut and pick up another, angry at yourself for even thinking about it.

By early afternoon, a maid (not Emily) quietly brings you a tray — tea, sandwiches, fruit. You eat without really tasting anything, then go back to reading. You find an old, beautifully illustrated book on Greek mythology and lose yourself for a while in the stories of cursed lovers and vengeful gods. It feels fitting.

As the light outside begins to shift into late afternoon gold, you set the book down in your lap and stare at the shelves. Your eyes catch on a small section near the bottom — books that look more personal. Travel journals. A few worn notebooks. One spine catches your eye: a plain black leather volume with no title.

You hesitate, then pull it out.

It’s a sketchbook.

Inside are pencil drawings — landscapes, tactical diagrams, the occasional portrait. Your breath catches when you reach a page with a rough but recognizable sketch of a young man with a crooked smile. Marcus. The handwriting beneath it is Leon’s: Berlin, 2019. Bastard still owes me fifty bucks.

You close the sketchbook quickly, heart pounding, and slide it back onto the shelf like it burned you.

The suffocating feeling returns. No matter where you go in this house, he’s there. His scent. His things. His memories of your brother. You curl up tighter in the chair, pulling one of the soft throw blankets over your legs, and try to read again. The words blur.

You spend the rest of the day drifting between books, using them like shields against your own thoughts. Every time Leon creeps back into your mind — the dream, the rain, his voice cracking when he spoke about killing Marcus — you force yourself to focus on the page in front of you.

By the time the light outside has faded into deep twilight, your eyes are tired and your bandaged foot is aching again. You haven’t seen Leon all day. Part of you is relieved.

Another, quieter part wonders where he is.

You close the latest book, set it on the stack beside your chair, and stare out at the darkening lake. The mansion feels both too big and too small at the same time. You’re still trapped here… but today, surrounded by stories that aren’t your own, you almost felt like you could breathe.

Almost.

You limp into the dining room just before seven, still wearing the oversized black shirt and sweatpants Leon gave you. Your bandaged foot throbs with every step, a dull, insistent pulse that climbs up your ankle, but you refuse to let it show. You keep your chin up. You keep moving.

The long table is set for two again — crystal glasses, polished silverware, white linen, a bottle of red wine already open and breathing beneath the chandelier light.

Leon is already seated at the head of the table, immaculate in a fresh black dress shirt, ash-brown hair swept back, posture calm and composed like last night never happened. Like he didn’t carry you through the rain. Like you didn’t wake up in his bed wearing his clothes. His blue eyes lift the moment you enter, tracking the slight hitch in your step before returning to your face.

He doesn’t comment.

That almost makes it worse.

He simply gestures to the chair across from him.

You sit with your jaw tight, lowering yourself carefully so your foot doesn’t scream. A maid serves the first course — some elegant soup you barely look at — and vanishes almost immediately, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet.

For a few minutes, there is only the soft scrape of silver against porcelain.

Leon waits until you’ve taken a few reluctant spoonfuls before speaking.

“The DSO sent over the final requirements for the wedding.”

Your spoon stills.

Leon’s voice stays low, matter-of-fact. “There are a few things we need to handle over the next couple of weeks. Medical evaluations for both of us. Full physicals. Psychological screenings. Bloodwork.” A pause. “Standard protocol for arranged unions like this. They want everything documented.”

The room seems to narrow around you.

You look up slowly. “Evaluations?”

Leon holds your gaze.

“Psychological screenings?” Your voice sharpens. “They want to crawl around in my head now too?”

He sets his spoon down with careful precision. “It’s procedure.”

You laugh once, short and ugly. “Procedure.”

“They need to confirm you’re mentally fit for the marriage,” he says. “That you understand the arrangement. That there’s no coercion—”

The spoon slips from your fingers and clatters against the bowl.

“Coercion?” You stare at him, a stunned, bitter smile pulling at your mouth. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Leon’s jaw tightens.

You push your chair back, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. “They dragged me here. They handed me over to you. They’re forcing me to marry the man who strangled my brother, and now they want to make sure there’s no coercion?”

Your voice cracks on the last word. You hate that it does.

Leon stays seated, but the stillness in him has changed. Gone taut.

“It’s bureaucratic,” he says quietly. “They need the paperwork to make it legal and binding.”

“Legal.” You shake your head, anger rising so fast it steals your breath. “Right. Of course. As long as the paperwork is clean, who cares if the person signing it had a choice?”

You stand too quickly, pain flashing up your injured leg. You grip the edge of the table hard enough to steady yourself.

“I didn’t do anything,” you say, voice lower now, shaking. “I didn’t leak routes. I didn’t sell coordinates. I didn’t get anyone killed. I was just trying to survive in my shitty little apartment, and now I’m here being evaluated like livestock before auction.”

Leon rises slowly.

“Don’t,” you snap.

He stops.

The restraint only makes your chest ache harder.

“I don’t want their physicals. I don’t want their bloodwork. I don’t want some government doctor asking me if I understand the arrangement when the arrangement is that my life isn’t mine anymore.” Tears burn hot in your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. “Why do they get to decide I’m fit for this? Why does anyone?”

Leon’s voice is quiet. “I don’t like it either.”

You laugh again, but this time it almost breaks. “Poor you.”

His expression flickers.

You push harder because it hurts and because you need it to hurt him too. “Is that the part I’m supposed to care about? That this is inconvenient for you? That the DSO has hoops for you to jump through before you get your little reparations bride?”

His eyes darken. “That’s not what you are.”

“Then what am I?”

Silence.

The question hangs there, sharp and impossible.

Leon doesn’t answer fast enough.

Your face twists.

“Exactly.”

You turn from the table, limping toward the door, breath coming too fast now. The room feels too bright, too formal, too suffocating. The wine. The silver. The untouched soup. Him standing there like another wall you can’t get around.

Leon’s voice follows you, low and controlled, but there’s an edge underneath.

“Walking away won’t stop it.”

You freeze near the doorway, but you don’t turn.

“The evaluations are happening,” he says. “You can hate me. You can hate them. You can fight every second of it. But fighting won’t make the DSO loosen their grip. It’ll make them tighten it.”

Your throat burns.

“So what?” you whisper. “I’m supposed to behave?”

“No.” His voice drops. “You’re supposed to survive.”

For one second, the words hit too close.

Then you shove them away.

You keep walking.

The dinner sits untouched behind you.

And Leon stays where he is.

Watching.

Waiting.

Always waiting.

_________________________________

The next morning arrives too quickly.

You wake in your own room this time, the events of the previous night still heavy in your chest. Your bandaged foot aches when you put weight on it, but the pain is manageable. You dress in one of the new comfortable outfits that arrived — soft gray leggings and a loose black sweater — and make your way downstairs with a knot of dread in your stomach.

The doctors arrive just after breakfast.

Two of them. A middle-aged woman with kind but professional eyes and a younger male assistant. Leon meets them in the foyer, voice low and authoritative as he speaks with them. You hover near the bottom of the staircase, arms wrapped around yourself, trying not to feel like a specimen on display.

The female doctor — Dr. Elena Reyes — approaches you with a gentle smile. “Y/n? We’ll do this in private if that’s all right. Just a standard physical and some questions. Nothing invasive.”

You nod stiffly and follow her to a quiet sitting room on the first floor that’s been set up with a medical kit and examination table. Leon stays outside. You’re grateful for that small mercy.

Dr. Reyes is efficient and kind. She checks your vitals, listens to your heart and lungs, examines the healing gash and twisted ankle from your run through the woods. She asks about your general health history, any medications, any chronic conditions. You answer mechanically, voice flat.

Then she asks you to change into a gown for a more thorough exam.

You hesitate but comply. When you pull the sweater over your head, the doctor’s eyes catch on the long, faded scar that runs along your left side — just below your ribs. It’s old, silvery now, but unmistakable. Not self-inflicted. Jagged. From something violent.

Dr. Reyes pauses, her expression softening with concern. “That’s quite a scar. Mind if I ask how you got it?”

You swallow hard, staring at the wall. The memory flashes — an ex from years ago, drunk and angry, a broken bottle. You’d left him after that night. Never looked back. Marcus had wanted to kill him. You’d begged him not to.

“Past relationship,” you say quietly. “It was a long time ago. He… wasn’t a good person.”

The doctor nods, respectful, but writes something down. “Thank you for telling me. We don’t need to go into details if you don’t want to. Just noting it for the file.”

The rest of the physical goes fine. Blood pressure normal. Blood drawn for labs. A few more routine checks. When it’s over, Dr. Reyes gives you a small, understanding smile.

“You’re in good health, all things considered. The ankle should heal fine with rest. We’ll have the full report sent over.”

You dress quickly, the scar on your side feeling exposed even after the sweater is back on. The psychological part is scheduled for later in the week. You’re grateful when the doctors finally leave.

Leon is waiting in the hallway when you step out. He doesn’t ask for details. He just studies your face, eyes sharp.

“Everything all right?” he asks, voice low.

You shrug, not meeting his eyes. “Fine. Just another box checked so I can be officially handed over, right?”

He doesn’t push. But as you limp past him toward the stairs, you feel his gaze on your back the entire way.

The assessment is done.

One more step toward the wedding.

One more reminder that your body, your history, your life — none of it is truly yours anymore.

That afternoon, you’re back in the library, curled into the same leather armchair with a book open in your lap, though you haven’t turned a page in nearly twenty minutes. The words sit there, black ink on cream paper, meaningless and blurred. Your eyes move over them out of habit, but nothing gets in. Your mind is still too loud. Too crowded. The exam. The doctor’s quiet voice. The cold press of professional hands. The clinical way your body had been looked at, noted, categorized, reduced to findings on a form.

One more box checked.

One more piece of you documented.

You’re staring at the same sentence for the fourth time when a maid appears in the doorway.

“Mr. Kennedy would like to see you in his office,” she says quietly. “Now.”

Your stomach drops.

It isn’t the words exactly. It’s her tone. Too careful. Too still. Like she knows something has already gone wrong and wants no part of being close to it.

You close the book slowly, fingers resting against the cover for a second longer than necessary.

“Did he say why?”

She hesitates.

That’s answer enough.

“No, ma’am.”

The title makes your skin crawl. You push yourself up from the chair, your injured foot protesting as soon as you put weight on it. The bandage pulls with every careful step as you limp out of the library and down the hall toward the east wing. The mansion seems quieter than usual, the air denser, every sound too sharp — your uneven footfalls, the faint brush of your sleeve, the distant tick of that goddamn clock somewhere in the house.

Leon’s office door is open.

He’s standing behind his massive dark wood desk, one hand braced flat on its surface, the other gripping a medical report so tightly the paper has bent beneath his fingers. His broad shoulders are rigid. His jaw is locked. Even from the doorway, you can feel the fury rolling off him in waves.

Not the cold kind.

Not the controlled kind he wears like armor.

This is different.

This is barely contained.

His piercing blue eyes are fixed on the report, but you know the second he hears you. Something in his posture sharpens, even though he doesn’t look up.

“Close the door,” he says.

His voice is low.

Too low.

The sound of it scrapes down your spine.

You step inside and shut the door behind you. The click feels final, sealing you in with him, with the heavy silence, with whatever storm he has been holding back since reading that report.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

Then Leon finally lifts his gaze.

The controlled mask is still there, but it’s cracking at the edges. His knuckles are white against the desk. His eyes are dark with a fury so focused it feels almost physical, like heat from a flame you’re standing too close to.

“Explain the scar.”

Your heart stutters.

He says it without preamble. No softening. No warning. Just the words, blunt and lethal, landing between you like a blade.

You cross your arms over your chest before you can stop yourself, the movement instinctive, defensive, as if you can shield that part of your body from his knowledge. From the report. From the doctor. From the memory.

“What scar?”

His expression doesn’t change.

“The one on your side.” His voice stays deceptively calm, but there is something underneath it now, something rough and violent straining against every syllable. “The doctor noted it as consistent with blunt force trauma from a past relationship.”

The room tilts a little.

Not enough for him to see.

Enough for you to feel.

Leon steps around the desk slowly, the report still in his hand. “You have one chance to tell me what really happened.”

Your mouth goes dry.

There it is again. That same feeling from the exam. Being exposed without choosing it. Having something old and buried pulled into the light because someone else decided it mattered.

“It was an accident,” you lie, voice flat.

Leon stops moving.

You force a shrug that feels brittle even to you. “Old boyfriend. We got into it one night. Things got out of hand. It’s not a big deal. It was years ago.”

For one second, there is silence.

Then Leon laughs.

It is not amusement.

It is short and ugly and humorless, a sound dragged out of him before he can stop it. More disbelief than anything. More rage than sound.

“An accident,” he repeats.

You hate the way he says it. Like he can see through you. Like the lie never had a chance.

His hand drops the report onto the desk, and then he rounds it fully, slow and deliberate, stalking toward you with a controlled violence that makes every muscle in your body tense.

“Don’t,” you warn.

He doesn’t stop.

“An accident,” he says again, lower this time, the word almost ruined by contempt. “You expect me to believe some clumsy fall or drunken tumble left a scar like that?”

Your spine stiffens.

“Drop it.”

“I’ve seen knife wounds. I’ve seen impact trauma. I’ve seen what angry men do when they decide a body in front of them belongs to them.” His eyes burn into yours. “Don’t lie to me. Not about this.”

You step back without meaning to.

One step.

Then another.

Your back hits the closed door.

The sound is soft.

Your pulse isn’t.

“I said it’s not a big deal,” you snap, forcing steel into your voice even though your throat is tightening. “It’s in the past. It’s over. Drop it.”

Leon stops inches away.

Too close.

So close the air changes.

He towers over you, one hand flexing at his side, the other curling into a fist so tight the tendons stand out. His chest rises and falls with controlled, shallow breaths. His eyes search your face, furious and dark and unbearable.

“Give me his name.”

Your stomach clenches.

“No.”

The single word hangs there like a struck match.

Leon’s jaw tightens.

“His name.”

“No.”

His hand slams against the door beside your head.

Not touching you. Not striking you.

But close enough that the sound cracks through your body like a gunshot.

You flinch.

You hate yourself for it immediately.

Leon sees it.

Of course he sees it.

The fury on his face changes for half a second — sharpens, twists, turns inward and outward all at once. His voice drops into something dangerous and guttural.

“His. Name.”

You glare up at him, tears of anger and old shame burning hot behind your eyes. “I said no.”

“Y/n—”

“No.” Your voice breaks, then hardens again. “It’s none of your fucking business. You don’t get to know every ugly piece of my life because the DSO handed me over to you like property. You don’t get to drag my past out of me just because some doctor wrote it down in a report.”

His eyes flash.

“You don’t get to play hero now,” you spit, each word sharper than the last because if you don’t stay angry you’ll fall apart. “You don’t get to act like you care. Not after everything. Not after you—”

“I care because someone put their hands on you!” he snaps.

The words rip out of him, louder than before, raw enough to make the room feel smaller.

You freeze.

Leon’s breathing is ragged now. His hand is still braced on the door beside your head, his body caging yours in, but the rage in his face has cracked open into something even more volatile. Something furious and afraid and possessive enough to make your stomach twist.

“Because some piece of shit thought he had the right to hurt you,” he says, voice rough, “and you’re standing here protecting him.”

“I’m not protecting him.”

“Then give me his name.”

“No!”

“Why?”

“Because it’s mine!” you shout, and the tears spill over before you can stop them. “Because that is mine, Leon. That pain is mine. That scar is mine. That story is mine. You don’t get to take it because you’re angry.”

His face changes.

You keep going, voice shaking now, but still fierce, still burning.

“You already took my life. My brother. My future. You already control where I sleep, where I eat, where I can go, what happens to me next. You don’t get this too.”

The silence after that is brutal.

Leon stares at you like you’ve struck him.

For one second, you think maybe he’ll step back.

He doesn’t.

Instead, his voice drops lower.

“I killed a man I considered a brother,” he says, each word rough and deliberate. “I’ve done things that would make most people sick. I know what I am.”

Your breath catches.

“But the thought of someone laying a hand on you like that…” His jaw works once. Twice. His eyes drag over your face like he’s trying to hold himself together through force alone. “It makes me want to find him and finish what should’ve been done years ago.”

Heat flashes through you.

Not fear.

Not only fear.

Something hotter. More dangerous. Something that has no right existing in this room, in this conversation, with your back against the door and his hand beside your head.

You shove at his chest.

Hard.

He doesn’t move.

Of course he doesn’t.

“You don’t get to decide that,” you say, voice trembling with fury. “You don’t get to storm in and demand names like you own me.”

Leon leans closer, and the air between you turns suffocating.

“You think I’m doing this because I own you?”

“What else am I supposed to think?”

His mouth tightens. “You think I enjoy knowing some worthless bastard left a mark on you like he had the right?”

His free hand lifts slowly, almost as if he can’t stop himself. It hovers near the hem of your sweater, near the place where the scar hides beneath fabric. He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t cross that line. But the nearness of his hand is enough to make your skin prickle beneath the cotton.

Your breath catches, sharp and obvious.

Leon notices.

His eyes flick to yours.

The tension changes.

It doesn’t soften.

It ignites.

“I survived it,” you whisper, but your voice wavers. “I left him. I didn’t need saving then and I don’t need it from you now.”

“I’m not trying to save you.”

“Bullshit.”

His eyes darken.

“Maybe I am,” he admits, voice rough enough to scrape. “Maybe I don’t know how to stand here and do nothing when I find out someone hurt you before I ever had the chance to.”

“That is not romantic,” you snap, but your voice is breathless now, and you hate that too. “That is not sweet. That is control.”

“Control?” His face dips closer to yours. “You want to talk to me about control?”

“Yes, actually, I do.”

“I’m trying to keep from putting my fist through a wall right now because the thought of anyone hurting you makes me sick.”

“Then go punch a wall.”

“I’d rather punch him.”

“You don’t even know his name.”

“Then give it to me.”

“No.”

The word comes out softer this time.

Still a refusal.

But softer.

Leon hears that too.

His eyes move across your face, lingering on your tears, your mouth, the way your chest rises too quickly beneath the sweater. His hand drops from near your side, but instead of stepping away, he lifts it toward your face.

You should move.

You don’t.

His fingers cup your cheek.

The touch is gentle and furious all at once. His palm is warm against your skin, thumb brushing roughly over the wet trail of a tear. Not tender in a polished way. Not careful enough to pretend he’s calm. His fingers are trembling slightly with restraint, like every part of him is fighting some darker instinct and losing ground by inches.

“You think I don’t know this makes everything worse?” he rasps.

Your breath shudders.

“You think I don’t lie awake knowing I’m the reason you’re here? That every time I look at you I see the man I killed and the woman I can’t stop wanting to keep safe?”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“I hate it too,” he says, voice dropping lower, darker. “I hate how much I notice. The locket. The way you touch it when you’re about to break. The way you pretend you’re not limping when every step hurts. The way you look at me like I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you and still forget to pull away fast enough.”

The words land like heat under your skin.

Your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can feel it through the space between you.

“I don’t want your protection,” you whisper, but it comes out thin. Unsteady. “I don’t want you looking at me like I’m something broken.”

His thumb slows against your cheek.

“You’re not broken.”

The simplicity nearly undoes you.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know enough.”

“No, you don’t.” Your tears fall harder now. “You know what was written in a medical report. You know what the DSO lets you know. You know what you can control. You don’t know me.”

Leon’s expression tightens, something pained moving behind his eyes.

“Then let me.”

The room goes completely still.

The words are quiet.

Too quiet.

Too close to something neither of you should be saying.

You stare at him, breath trapped somewhere high in your chest.

“What?”

His thumb brushes once more beneath your eye, slower now.

“Give me something,” he says, voice rough and low. “Anything. You don’t have to give me his name. Not tonight. But don’t stand here and tell me it doesn’t matter when you’re shaking like this.”

Your throat closes.

The anger is still there. The grief. The fear. The old shame rising like smoke from a fire you thought had burned out years ago.

But beneath it all is him.

Too close.

Too warm.

Too furious on your behalf.

Too dangerous to want near you and too hard to push away.

“I can’t,” you whisper, voice breaking completely. “I won’t. Because if I give you his name, then you really will own me. And I’m already losing everything else.”

Leon’s eyes darken.

The hand at your cheek slides slowly to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. Not pulling. Not forcing. Just holding you there, steady, anchored, trapped only because you don’t move away.

Your breath catches.

His forehead drops to rest against yours.

The contact is devastatingly soft.

His breathing is uneven now, warm against your lips, the space between your mouths so small it feels like the room has vanished around you. There is only the door at your back, his body in front of you, his hand in your hair, your tears on his thumb, and the impossible heat building in the narrow space neither of you crosses.

“You’re already mine,” he says, the words rough and low and devastating.

Your heart stutters.

His eyes stay open, locked on yours from an inch away.

“Whether you hate me for it or not.”

A tear slips down your cheek, catching against his hand.

“And I’m not letting anyone else put marks on you,” he says, voice almost breaking around the promise. “Not ever again.”

The argument hasn’t ended.

It’s only burning hotter.

Leon’s forehead stays against yours, his breath ragged now, his hand tightening just slightly at the back of your neck. His other hand remains braced on the door beside your head, caging you in, but there’s no violence in it anymore.

Only heat.

Heavy.

Suffocating.

Dangerous.

Your body feels like it’s betraying you in real time — trembling from the argument, from the memory, from him. His mouth is so close. A fraction of an inch. You can almost taste the words he hasn’t said.

You should shove him away.

You should tell him to get out.

You should remind him that he is not safe, not yours, not anything but the man who ruined your life.

Instead, your fingers curl weakly into the front of his shirt.

Leon’s eyes drop to the movement.

Then back to your face.

The air between you ignites.

For one suspended second, neither of you breathes. The entire room seems to hold still around you — the desk, the report, the closed door, the scar he has no right to ask about, the grief neither of you knows what to do with.

His thumb shifts against the back of your neck.

Your lips part.

Leon leans the smallest fraction closer—

Not enough.

Too much.

And the tension snaps tight enough to burn.

A sharp knock on the door makes you both jolt.

“Sir,” a guard’s voice calls from the hallway, professional but urgent. “You have a priority call from command. They said it can’t wait.”

Leon’s eyes stay locked on yours for one long, charged second. His jaw clenches. Then he pulls back slowly, like it physically pains him, his hand sliding from your hair with obvious reluctance. The loss of his warmth leaves you cold and unsteady against the door.

He doesn’t say anything to you. Just turns, opens the door, and steps out with the guard, his broad shoulders rigid with tension as he disappears down the hallway.

You stand there for a moment, breathing hard, lips still tingling with the almost-kiss that never happened. Your knees feel weak. The room spins slightly.

What the fuck.

You push off the door and flee upstairs on shaky legs, ignoring the throb in your injured foot. The moment you’re back in your room, you strip out of Leon’s borrowed clothes and step into the shower, turning the water as hot as it will go. Steam fills the bathroom quickly, but it does nothing to clear your head.

You press your forehead to the cool tile, letting the scalding water pound against your back.

What the fuck was that?

The way he looked at you. The roughness in his voice when he said you were already his. The way his fingers had tangled in your hair like he was holding himself back from something much more dangerous. The almost-kiss. The heat between you that had nothing to do with anger anymore.

You hated him.

You still hated him.

But your body remembered the dream. Your skin remembered the way he’d carried you through the rain. Your stupid, traitorous heart remembered the raw pain in his eyes when he talked about Marcus.

You scrub harder than necessary, trying to wash away the memory of his touch, the scent of him still clinging to your skin, the confusing ache low in your belly.

It doesn’t work.

By the time you step out of the shower and wrap yourself in a towel, your mind is still spinning.

What the fuck are you doing?

Maybe I could have you collared?