The Lieutenant's Vengeful Desire

The keycard gleamed between Meira’s fingers. A soft electronic chime sounded as the door unlocked, and at once the warm scent of cinnamon mingled with the faint aroma of new carpet rushed in to greet her. A golden lamp in the corner cast gentle shadows across the walls, its glow reflecting against the crisp white sheets neatly folded on the king-sized bed.

She stepped inside, setting her suitcase at the edge of the bed before turning to thank Hastan.

Even from a distance, his very presence commanded posture. Lieutenant Colonel Hastan Maheswara—in his early thirties—bore a physique that seemed carved for military authority: tall, broad-shouldered, a frame that filled out the sharp lines of his green uniform, and a spine that had never known defeat. His stride was steady, precise, as though every click of his boots followed an unseen command.

His face was clean yet severe—an angular jaw, a straight, uncompromising nose, and thick brows that framed a pair of dark, cold eyes. There was something in that gaze no one could ignore: sharp, penetrating, as if he could read far beyond what anyone dared to speak aloud. His hair, cropped short in a precise military fade, carried just the faintest wave at the crown—enough to soften, but never diminish, the discipline etched into him.

His baritone voice was low, never needing to rise to be obeyed. It carried an effortless authority that made heads turn, compelling attention without demand. A trace of fresh aftershave lingered, mingling with the leather of the holstered weapon at his side. His hands—large, veined, undeniably strong—were the kind of hands that knew the balance of a weapon as well as the rapid keystrokes of his cyber division.

And beneath all that discipline lay something far more dangerous: a fleeting glance—lasting less than a second—that could leave fire smoldering on the skin.

Now Hastan stood at the doorway. His uniform had been replaced with a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The fabric strained over the muscles of his forearms, tightening each time his fingers clenched around the doorknob. A faint tension flickered along his jaw, and in his eyes… a storm lingered, weighing whether to step forward or not.

“Thank you for recommending this hotel,” Meira said, forcing a calm tone she did not feel. She lowered her gaze, busying herself with unpacking. Her fingers smoothed out folded clothes, each movement deliberate—anything to ignore the weight of those eyes that never left her.

When the suitcase was empty, she shut it. And there he was—still rooted in place, but his shoulders now squared, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.

“Why are you still here?” she asked, brows knitting.

No answer. Only footsteps, deliberate and soundless, drawing closer—until the dark gleam in his eyes became impossible to escape.

“Hastan, don’t—”

Too late. A strong arm circled her waist, pulling her hard against the solid wall of his chest. Meira gasped, her hands instinctively pushing back, but his grip was like living iron, unyielding.

“What are you doing?!”

Her voice fractured in the air. And then his reply—deep, cold, merciless—brushed against her ear.

“Finishing what you did to me… back in school.”

Her breath faltered. “W-what? That was years ago… just childish love.” She struggled against the steel of his embrace. “I already apologized, didn’t I?”

A smirk curved at his lips, but his eyes burned with an unquenched fire. “It’s not that simple, my dear senior.”

His hand rose, fingertips brushing against her cheek. Her skin quivered beneath the touch, her breath stuttering against her will. The hand traced lower, skimming the delicate line of her throat, sparking a reaction she wished she could bury before it betrayed her.

“Even if your lips say no,” his voice dropped, almost a whisper, “I know exactly where your weakness lies.”

“Hastan… stop.” Her words broke—half warning, half plea, a sound she despised the moment it left her lips. In her mind, Octavian’s face flickered, tightening the ache in her chest.

But before thought could form, his mouth crashed against hers—hard, demanding, claiming what he believed was his. His grip at her waist tightened, imprisoning her as if she would vanish if he let go.

Meira froze. Her mind screamed to resist, but her body… betrayed her.

And in the ragged breaths between them, she understood one thing:

Hastan would not leave until he had taken what he wanted.