❛You're mine. And If I don't get you, no one can.❜
In which our little psycho protagonist somehow makes the world's 𝙨𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 most dangerous criminals develop an unhealthy obsession for her.
➻ Alternative Universe
➻ Crime Noir Fiction
➻ Action...
A relentless pounding echoed through my skull, each pulse like a hammer driving deep into my bone. The pain was excruciating, raw, an unrelenting force that sent nausea curling in my gut. My body felt heavy, sluggish, as though I had been pulled from the depths of unconsciousness too soon.
I forced my eyelids apart, only to be assaulted by the blinding glow of the chandelier above me. The crystals refracted the dim light into piercing shards, searing through my vision like molten glass. My breath hitched as the world tilted dangerously, my surroundings warping into a surreal haze of gold and red.
I wasn't on the warehouse floor anymore.
The soft fabric beneath me was a stark contrast to the cold, blood-stained concrete I had last felt. A plush velvet chaise—lavish, decadent, yet entirely suffocating. My fingers twitched, seeking the familiar weight of my gun.
Nothing.
Panic coiled in my chest. My holster was empty. I was defenseless.
I pushed through the fog in my mind, forcing my vision to sharpen. The space around me was drowning in wealth—dark wood paneling lined the walls, its carvings intricate, deliberate, whispering of old power.
A deep crimson carpet stretched ahead, winding through the room like a river of spilled wine, leading to the far end where a grand throne-like chair loomed.
Where he sat.
A presence so absolute, so commanding, that it eclipsed everything else.
The man sat in his chair with effortless dominance, his posture exuding a terrifying calmness. It wasn't just the way he held himself—it was the way the air itself seemed to bow to him, bending under his silent authority. He was dressed in a suit, immaculately tailored, black as the void, but it wasn't the fine craftsmanship that sent ice sluicing through my veins.
It was him.
His face was a sculpture of cruel precision—sharp jaw, high cheekbones, a mouth set in an unreadable line. Midnight-dark eyes pinned me in place, dissecting me, peeling me apart layer by layer.
They didn't just look at me; they ensnared me, trapping me in a gaze so suffocating I felt as though a wire had coiled around my throat, tightening with each passing second.
A massive tigress lay sprawled beside his chair, her sleek golden fur shimmering under the dim light. Her head rested against his leg, muscles coiled in a deceptive ease.
