𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥

𝟏𝟑|| Chains Of Control

"she didn't believe in fate—until it brought him into her life, and everything changed "
𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧
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𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐒 the bike, I don't realize until it's too late that my hands are still pressed against his torso. The moment I pull away, it feels like the air between us has shifted—thick with something unsaid. The bike stops, and Kingston swings his leg off the bike effortlessly, stepping onto the pavement with a same maddening confidence. I sit frozen for a beat, my heart hammering, until his sharp glance flicks over his shoulder. The silent, deadly command is enough to spur me into action. I slide off awkwardly, my legs unsteady as I find myself standing in the middle of a deserted street. The lingering warmth of his body clinging to my palms, no matter how much I want to forget it.

Kingston rounds the bike slowly, his gaze locking onto me with a dangerous ease. That damn smirk back in place, curling his lips like he knows exactly how much he's rattled me. "Hungry, diablito?" he drawls, his voice rich with arrogance, but there's something else beneath it—a sharpness, like a trap waiting to spring.

Before I can respond, my stomach betrays me with a loud, undeniable growl. Heat rushes to my face, embarrassment clawing its way up my neck. I grit my teeth, silently cursing my body for giving him another reason to gloat.

"Looks like you are," he says, his voice infuriatingly steady, carrying a gruff edge of amusement. The knowing glint in his eyes sharpens, like he's just won some unspoken game I wasn't even aware we were playing.

He jerks his head toward the glowing neon sign across the street—a greasy-looking food spot that sticks out like a sore thumb against the quiet surroundings. It's not the kind of place I'd ever imagine someone like Kingston stepping into, with its flickering lights and chipped paint, but he's already heading toward it without a word.

The shadows stretch long on the pavement as he walks, his strides unhurried, exuding that same air of control that makes following him feel inevitable. I hesitate for a moment, glancing around, but there's nowhere else to go. My feet move before I can think better of it, falling into step behind him.

We step inside the dimly lit restaurant, the low hum of conversation muffled by the thick air between us. The ambiance is a stark contrast to the chaos outside, but I feel like I'm still trapped in the same relentless cycle. He leads me to a secluded booth at the back, away from prying eyes, and I slide in across from him, unsure if I should be angry or just hungry.

I haven't eaten in hours, and my stomach makes its displeasure known again, but I keep my gaze firmly on Kingston, refusing to let him know how much I need food. How much I just need something to steady me.

He studies me for a moment, his gaze steady and unreadable, before reaching for the menu. Without so much as a glance my way, he orders for both of us—sopes, a southern Mexican dish that feels oddly out of place here. His voice is smooth, confident, and maddeningly assured, as if he's done this a hundred times before. The control he exudes is suffocating, and yet I sit there, motionless, like a puppet tangled in his strings, unable—or unwilling—to cut myself free.