Crossing The Line

Elena does not sleep.

She lies rigid, eyes boring into the ceiling where shadows pulse like bruises. The night drags, cruel and slow, every second etching Dominic’s earlier words deeper into her mind.

If I touch you, I don’t stop.

Her skin still remembers the heat radiating off him, the way his restraint looked like violence held on a fraying thread.

She’s already sitting up when the door opens.

She always knows when it’s him.

Dominic doesn’t knock.

The door seals shut with a soft, predatory click. He stands framed in the dim light, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair disheveled, every line of him radiating barely-leashed fury. No jacket. No pretense. Just a man who’s done pretending he can stay away.

“This stops tonight,” he says, voice low and lethal. “No more games.”

Elena swings her legs off the bed. Bare feet meet cold floor. She doesn’t flinch.

“What games?” she asks, calm, daring him.

He steps forward. Closes the distance without hurry, like he already owns the space between them.

“This thing you keep tempting.” His gaze rakes her. “You think you can push me and walk away untouched.”

She rises. Crosses to him until their breaths mingle.

“If you want it to end, leave. Door’s right there.”

His jaw ticks. Eyes darken to black.

“You don’t get to decide when this ends, Elena. You stopped having that choice the moment I decided no one else touches what’s mine.”

Her pulse jumps, but she holds his stare.

“I’m not yours.”

He laughs once, low, dangerous, devoid of humor.

“Keep telling yourself that.” He leans in, voice dropping to a rasp against her ear. “Every time you breathe near another man, every time you step outside my sight, I feel it like a blade in my gut. You think that’s nothing? That’s me already owning you.”

She lifts her chin. “You’re afraid. Not of losing control. Of admitting you already have.”

His hand snaps up fingers wrapping her wrist like a manacle. Not bruising. Yet. Thumb presses over her racing pulse, claiming the proof.

“I’m not afraid,” he murmurs. “I’m done pretending I won’t burn the world down to keep you. You walk out that door tomorrow, someone looks at you wrong, and I’ll paint the streets with them. Slowly. While you watch. Because you’re mine to protect. Mine to ruin. Mine.”

Her breath hitches.

“That’s not protection. That’s obsession.”

“Call it what you want.” His other arm braces the wall beside her head, caging her. “It’s the only truth left. You’re in my blood now. Under my skin. And I don’t let go of what’s mine, not for mercy, not for sanity, not for you asking nicely.”

She searches his face, sees the fracture there, the hunger warring with something almost like dread.

“Then stop fighting it,” she whispers.

His forehead drops to hers. The contact is electric. Devastating.

“You have no idea what you’re unleashing.”

“I already feel it,” she says. “Every time you kill for me. Every time you stand outside my door like a shadow I can’t shake. I’m already drowning in you.”

A shudder runs through him, violent, barely contained.

His grip tightens on her wrist. “Say it again. Tell me you want this knowing I won’t stop. Knowing once I start, I’ll take everything your nights, your thoughts, your fucking freedom if that’s what it costs to keep you breathing.”

She meets his eyes. Unblinking.

“I want it.”

The words detonate something in him.

His mouth crashes down not a kiss, a claiming. Slow at first, deliberate, tasting her like ownership papers being signed in blood. Then deeper. Hungrier. Teeth graze. His free hand fists in her hair, tilting her head back to take more.

He breaks away just enough to growl against her lips: “You don’t walk away from this. Not tomorrow. Not ever. You try, and I’ll drag you back. Chain you to me if I have to. Because you’re not leaving. Not while I’m still drawing breath.”

She kisses him back fiercely, matching his fire, and that’s the breaking point.

He hauls her against him, mouth devouring, hands roaming with brutal possession. He walks her backward until the bed hits her knees. Lowers her with controlled violence, pinning her wrists above her head in one hand while the other traces her throat, light enough to tease, heavy enough to remind.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasps, voice shredded. “Tell me now, or I swear to God, Elena, I’ll make sure no one else ever gets close enough to even dream of you.”

She arches into him.

“Don’t stop.”

His eyes flash triumph, madness, something darker.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, the words dripping possession. “Because from this second, you’re mine in every way that matters. And if anyone tries to change that,” His thumb presses her pulse again, feeling it thunder. “I’ll remind the world why they don’t touch what belongs to me.”

What follows is raw. Deliberate. Every touch a brand hands mapping skin like territory lines, mouths bruising, bodies colliding with the force of inevitability. He never fully releases her wrists. Never lets her forget who holds the reins. Every thrust, every gasp, every whispered curse is laced with mine, mine, mine.

When it ends, silence crashes in thick, heavy with consequence.

Later, Elena lies tangled in sheets, body marked, heart slamming. Dominic sits on the edge of the bed, back to her, shoulders rigid like he’s already rebuilding walls.

“This doesn’t erase the danger outside,” he says quietly. “It multiplies it.”

She watches the fresh scratches on his back hers. “It multiplies everything.”

He turns just enough for her to see the storm still raging in his eyes.

“You’re not free anymore, Elena. Not from them. Not from me.” His voice drops. “And I won’t apologize for that.”

He stands. Dresses in silence, each movement deliberate, like rearming himself.

At the door, he pauses. Hand braced on the frame. Knuckles white.

“Sleep,” he orders. “Because tomorrow, every guard, every shadow, every breath you take, they answer to me. And so do you.”

The door closes. The lock clicks.

Elena stares after him, skin still burning where he touched, claimed, owned.

She doesn’t feel trapped.

She feels marked.

And the terrifying truth coils in her chest:

She’s starting to crave the cage.