The flickering light of the fire painted Klaus in molten gold and shadow, a predator lounging in velvet darkness, his glass of bourbon balanced effortlessly between his fingers. You had faced him before in battle, sharp words, sharper blades—but here in this room, the only weapon he needed was his voice.

“Look at me, love,” he said, tone as smooth as the liquor he sipped. “Eyes on mine. That’s it.”

You tried to resist, tried to keep your focus anywhere else, but his voice threaded through your skull like silk wound around a throat, pulling tighter with every syllable. His blue eyes gleamed, ancient and merciless, and you felt your muscles slacken as the compulsion sank deep.

“Good girl.” His smile was slow, dangerous. “Now, undress. Slowly. Let me watch.”

Your hands trembled as you obeyed, each button unfastened more torturous than the last, every inch of skin bared under his gaze making heat pool low in your belly. Klaus leaned back in his chair, one ankle crossed casually over his knee, drinking in every shiver, every flicker of hesitation with unholy satisfaction.

“Do you hear yourself?” he murmured when a whimper escaped your lips. “Even your body begs while your mind pretends it resists. You can’t fight me, sweetheart. Not when you like being seen.”

His command slid deeper, compulsion blooming through your nerves until you were stroking yourself under his gaze, your fingers slick, your thighs trembling as you squirmed, moaning his name. He didn’t move, didn’t touch, only watched with a wolf’s hunger, every sound you made feeding the fire in his eyes.

“Nnnnh—Klaus, please—” you gasped, trying to find friction, trying to climax under the weight of his stare.

“Not yet.” The order hit like iron shackles. Your body seized, your orgasm denied at the very edge, and you whimpered helplessly as the pleasure was stolen from you. He chuckled darkly, rising finally from his chair, moving behind you with inhuman swiftness. His breath grazed your ear, his hand ghosting over your hip without granting you the touch you craved.

“Your climax belongs to me. You’ll come when I say you may. And not before.”

The thrill of it—his control, his voyeuristic delight, the burn of denial—left you quaking, tears pricking your eyes, body desperate to give in.

“Say it,” Klaus whispered, his voice velvet steel wrapping your mind in chains. “Say you belong to me. Say you’ll come only for me.”

Your voice broke on the words, sobbed out in surrender. His smile curved against your throat, fangs grazing your skin as he finally whispered: “Come.”