Controlling Novels & Stories

--- The figure moved instantly. --- Closing the distance. --- Blocking his path. --- “You don’t understand what you’re doing,” he said. --- A pause. --- “You can’t control this.” --- The prototype met his gaze. --- Unshaken. --- “I’m not trying to control it.” --- A beat. --- “I’m letting it become what it needs to be.” --- The words landed like a fracture point. --- Because they rejected control entirely. --- And without control— --- The system had nothing to anchor to.

In the end, the doctor concluded, “Miss Hamilton, you don’t have any psychological disorders.” “But I really think that I’m abnormal!” Anna was displeased with the doctor’s verdict. “I am completely unable to control myself!” “Even if you tend to, it’s only a mild presentation. You can relax, Miss Hamilton. As long as you focus on your self-control, it is possible to completely avoid losing control.” “Focus on my self-control?” “Yes.” “So I won’t need to take any medication for this? How will I be able to control myself without medication? Please prescribe me something for it.” Anna clasped her heart. She was concerned that a situation like that might happen again.

‘So am I. I turned to her then, really looking. The dress responded immediately, faint red lines blooming where my gaze lingered too long, heat-reactive fibers doing exactly what she’d designed them to do. I felt a sharp spike of want and locked it down just as quickly. Control wasn’t about the absence of desire. It was about direction. “I’m going to activate the restraint system,” I said, slow and clear. “This is not a command. It’s an invitation. Step back if you’re ready.”

I heard what she said, but my body wasn’t stopping as my brain demanded it to. She pushed on my shoulder, and I held my weight off of her, but my movement didn’t stop. I looked into her eyes, thinking maybe if I just looked over her, I could gain control of my body more and rein the beast back in. She gasped, and I could feel myself getting closer to release.

The words came out slurred and low as she clung to Bri harder, breaths haggard. Bri's throat tightened. Her control, once effortless, now clung to her like sweat. Every sound from Candy stoked a fire beneath her ribs. Her own arousal pulsed low, insistent, dangerous. But she didn’t show it—couldn’t. Power wasn’t just in what she did. It was in what she didn’t. She dragged her fingers up the backs of Candy’s thighs, pausing where soft lace met heated skin. Her touch was reverent, almost gentle. As if she were memorizing her.

Adrian had learned early that control was not the absence of desire, but the mastery of it. Desire was easy. Desire was primitive, predictable, and easily exploited. Control was what separated men who ruled from men who reacted. Control was what allowed him to sit across a table from rivals intent on dismantling him and smile as if nothing they said mattered. Control was what had carried him through rooms where power shifted hands quietly and no one raised their voice. Control was what had convinced him this arrangement would work.

-ADRIAN POV- I've built my career on the principle that control is everything. It's the only thing that separates the people who succeed from the people who get swept away by circumstance and emotion. Control is knowing exactly what will happen before it happens. Control is building systems that work regardless of external chaos. Control is keeping the world at arm's length so nothing can touch what I've carefully constructed. And I'm very, very good at control. Which is why the assignment Marcus just handed me is simultaneously the most strategic opportunity of my career and the most genuinely irritating thing that's happened to me in months.

Control, C. Control V. That has been my life for about 10 years. Copying and pasting the works of great men and women. Call me scum, loser, or even fraud. It doesn't matter to me. Why try to compete with genius when it's staring at you in the face. Don't you care about getting caught? What about plagiarism laws?

Just there. “Kale.” My name on his mouth again. Low. Rough. “What?” “Stop fighting me.” “Or what?” “Or I’m going to stop being careful.” That did it. The anger in me snapped. Not into fear. Into something hotter. Messier. “Fine,” I said. “Stop being careful.” The second I said it, his control cracked. He let go of one wrist and his hand slid to my jaw. Thumb brushing over my cheekbone like he was checking if I was real. His eyes were dark. Not with anger anymore. With something else. Something I’d been pretending not to see for months.