Lahat ng Kabanata ng Possessive Gravity : The Alpha's Claim: Kabanata 21 - Kabanata 30

The wind on the thirtieth floor wasn't just a breeze; it was a cold slap, testing how much courage a person had to stand at the edge of a concrete abyss. Jakarta below looked like a glowing, busy, and noisy electronic circuit, but on the roof of this apartment building, time seemed to stop at the tip of Arka's boots.Bima shivered, not merely from a fear of heights, but because the temperature plummeted the moment they stepped through the heavy metal emergency exit. He pulled his thin denim jacket tighter, searching for a warmth that wasn't there. Suddenly, a large, steady hand landed on his shoulder, pulling him back with a possessive jerk until Bima’s back was flush against Arka’s broad chest, which always felt like smoldering embers."I told you so, Bim. It’s freezing up here. You’re so stubborn when it comes to listening," Arka’s voice was low, heavy, and vibrating right against Bima’s ear, sending a wave of heat through him far more effective than any jacket.Bima looked up, grin

The scent of pine was piercing, sharp, and cold—just like Arka's gaze, which hadn't left the back of my neck for a while now.We had just left Radit, who was busy fixing the tent ropes at the basecamp below. Arka pulled my hand, without permission, without asking. His long, sturdy strides cut through the fern thickets still wet with mountain dew. I could only follow, nearly running to keep up with his relentless, athletic pace."Arka, slow down, damn it! My legs aren't made of steel like yours!" I protested, my breath starting to hitch in the thin air at twelve hundred meters.Arka didn't answer. Instead, he tightened his grip on my wrist, pulling me up toward a more secluded slope. Eventually, the pine trees here grew denser, blocking out the fading orange glow of the afternoon sun. Ahead of us was a small hollow hidden behind a row of giant trees. The ground there was covered in a natural carpet of dry pine needles—soft, and with a scent that was i

The fluorescent lights of the university’s main administration building hummed with a low, surgical buzz. It was Monday morning, and the hallway outside Dean Haryo’s office was suffocatingly quiet.Arka stood near the frosted glass door, his tall, athletic frame casting a long shadow across the polished floorboards. He was wearing his navy varsity jacket, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Bima stood right beside him, his shoulders slightly slouched, playing the part of a nervous, dutiful partner to perfection. Underneath Bima’s crisp white shirt, the purple marks on his collarbone—freshly left from their first night in the new apartment—were hidden just out of sight, but the silver 'A' necklace rested heavily against his chest."Relax, Bim," Arka murmured, his voice a low, steady baritone that radiated total control. He didn't look at Bima; his dark eyes were fixed on the dean's closed door. "It’s just a routine sports equipment budget review. Someone probably filed a minor comp

The walls of the cramped rented room felt as though they were closing in, thickening the air until every breath Bima took felt heavy. Before him, Arka stood towering. His large, thick fingers still locked onto Bima's jaw with a steady pressure—not enough to bruise the skin, but strong enough to assert absolute control. In Arka’s dark, sunken, sleepdeprived eyes, there was no trace left of the handsome young man who was easily played. All that remained was a cold, searing intensity. "Take out your knife, Bim," Arka whispered, his raspy, deep voice vibrating right against Bima’s lips. "Take out the knife in your pocket if you really want to use it to stop me." Bima’s fingers, tucked inside his pocket, froze around the handle of the cold folding knife. He stared directly into Arka’s eyes, searching for remnants of the anger or rage the man usually unleashed when his dominance was challenged. But he found none. There was only a straight, unshakable resolve. "You... you’re insane, A

The walls of Unit 1502 absorbed every passing second with a slow, oppressive rhythm. Inside this fifteenstory gilded cage, there was no longer any room for pretense.Bima sat on the edge of the kitchen bar, staring at his personal phone lying on the black marble surface. The screen was dark, yet the image of the anonymous message received an hour ago seemed to remain seared into his vision.It was an attachment without text: a photo of an old funeral wreath placed before the gates of the cemetery where Arya had been buried five years ago, complete with today’s date.Heavy, steady footsteps approached from the hallway. Arka walked into the room, radiating a dense, dominant presence that filled the space. He had just finished showering; his damp black hair dripped water onto his broad shoulders. He wore no shirt, only dark sweatpants hanging low on his muscular hips.Arka didn’t ask. Without a word, his large fingers snatched the phone from the counter. His eyes narrowed sharply as he s