I close my eyes briefly. Fuck. Wooil’s going to kill me if I survive this.
Suha switches to my notes app and I watch with growing dread as he finds the file I created. The one where I documented everything about him. His business addresses, his schedule, his known associates, the times he left his office, the routes he took, the clubs he visited. Weeks of stalking laid out in meticulous detail.
He reads through it silently, scrolling with his thumb, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. His face gives away nothing. Finally, he sets the phone down on the arm of the chair and reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a cigarette case. Silver, engraved with something I can’t make out from this distance.
One of the guards immediately steps forward with a lighter. Suha doesn’t even look at him, just leans in slightly as the flame appears. He takes a long drag, exhales smoke toward the ceiling, and then his eyes lock onto mine.
“So,” he says, his tone still utterly calm. “How long have you been stalking me?”
The question hangs in the air between us. I should probably be scared. I should definitely be apologetic, maybe beg for mercy, explain myself. Instead, I find myself smirking back at him.
“Stalking is such a strong word,” I say. My voice is steady now, the last effects of the paralytic gone. “Maybe I just happened to be in the same places at the same times. You know, coincidence.”
Suha takes another drag of his cigarette, watching me. “Coincidence.”
“Yeah. Seoul’s a small city when you think about it. Bound to run into the same people now and then.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Not anger exactly, more like dark amusement mixed with something dangerous. He stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray on the side table and stands, motioning to one of his guards.
The guard steps forward and hands him something. A rolled leather packet, the kind I’ve seen in movies when they show old-timey doctors making house calls. Suha takes it and moves closer to the bed, his footsteps silent on the carpet.
My bravado falters. Just a little, just enough that I feel my heart rate pick up.
Suha sets the leather packet on the bedside table and slowly unrolls it. The contents gleam in the afternoon light streaming through the windows. Scalpels of various sizes, their blades catching the sun. Forceps, both straight and curved. Needles, some thin as hair, others thick enough to make me wince just looking at them. Everything arranged in neat rows, organized by size and function.
They’re surgical tools. Medical instruments. The kind of things you’d find in an operating room, except these are laid out on my bedside table while I’m chained to a bed.
Well, fuck.
I watch Suha’s hand move to the leather packet. His fingers, long and elegant, trace over the instruments with the kind of familiarity that makes my throat tight. He selects a scalpel—one of the smaller ones, the blade catching the light as he lifts it from its slot.
He tests the edge against his thumb, pressing just hard enough that I can see the skin indent but not break. His eyes stay onme the whole time, watching my reaction with that same blank expression that gives away absolutely nothing.
“Strip him,” he says to his guards without looking away from my face.
The two brick walls move immediately. One of them produces a pair of heavy-duty scissors from somewhere, the kind with serrated edges meant for cutting through tough material. They don’t bother with finesse or care—one grabs the collar of my shirt and the other starts cutting, the blades slicing through fabric with quick snips that make me flinch.
My shirt falls away in pieces. The cool air hits my chest and I realize I’m breathing harder than I should be. They move to my jeans next, cutting up the seams from ankle to waist, peeling the denim away like they’re unwrapping a package. My boxers go the same way, shredded and tossed aside until I’m completely naked and exposed on these expensive silk sheets.
The guards step back and I’m suddenly very aware of how vulnerable I am. Spread out, chained, unable to cover myself or hide anything. Every mark from our first encounter is on full display—the bite marks on my shoulders and thighs, still healing into purple-yellow bruises. The deeper one at the junction of my neck and shoulder where he bonded me, scabbed over but visible. Fingerprint bruises on my hips. The fading marks around my throat from when he choked me.
Evidence of what we did. What I made him do.
Suha’s eyes track over my body slowly, noting each mark. His expression doesn’t change but something shifts in the air between us. Recognition, maybe. Or possession. Hard to tell with him.
“Who sent you?” he asks. His voice is conversational, like we’re discussing the weather or what to have for dinner. He moves closer to the bed, the scalpel still held loosely in his hand.
“Nobody sent me,” I say. My voice comes out steadier than I expected. “It’s nothing like that.”
“Which syndicate are you working for?” He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “The Crimson Serpents? The Black Dragons? One of the smaller families trying to make a move?”
“I’m not working for anyone. I’m a fucking street fighter who lives in shitty apartments and runs from loan sharks. What the hell would a syndicate want with me?”
Suha tilts his head slightly, studying me. “Then why the borderline obsessive interest with me?” He gestures vaguely with the scalpel toward where my phone sits on the chair. “Why go through the trouble of tracking my rut cycle and breaking into my hotel room?”
I open my mouth and then close it again. How do I explain this in a way that doesn’t sound completely insane?Oh, I just really wanted to get fucked by the strongest alpha I’ve ever met, so I stalked you and tricked you into knotting me. No ulterior motive, just good old-fashioned sexual desperation.
Not likely.
