I felt so scared I could barely keep myself upright.
My fingers were trembling around the strap of my bag, my knees threatening to fold.
What game was he playing now?
A psychopath like him… someone who could kill a person with the same ease as flicking ash from a cigarette… someone who kidnapped me like it was a casual errand…
Such a man claiming he fell in love felt more terrifying than any knife he had ever held.
People like him could fall in love—
but their love was the kind that destroyed, consumed, suffocated.
If I tried to run now, he might drag me off the street and no one would ever find me.
If he had truly wanted to kill me, he could've done it the day I stabbed him and blacked out. But he didn't. He carried me to the dorm and left without a mark.
Maybe that mercy was worse.
It meant he wasn't done with me.
For now…
For now I couldn't afford to make him angry.
Not here.
Not with students around who he might hurt if I panicked.
So I did the only thing I could—I nodded.
His eyes sharpened with satisfaction, like he had been waiting for that tiny movement.
Like my fear was proof of his victory.
But before he could step closer, before he could touch me, before he could take the nod as consent for whatever he wanted, I raised my hand slightly—just enough to stop him.
"One condition," I whispered, my voice barely holding together. "You… you're not going to touch me. Not until I say so."
Instantly, his expression changed.
The soft, gentle front he had been showing cracked.
The corner of his jaw tightened.
His eyes darkened, not with hurt… but with irritation slowly turning to anger.
A long silence cut the space between us.
His fingers tightened around the bouquet so hard a petal fell to the ground.
"You're giving me conditions now?"
His voice was calm, but that calmness felt like a knife resting on my throat.
I swallowed.
"Yes."
His anger simmered just under his skin—visible, alive, dangerous.
He took a step back, like he needed physical distance to stop himself from breaking his promise before agreeing to it.
Then—
unexpectedly—
He exhaled slowly, forcing his temper down.
"Fine," he said. The word sounded like it had been dragged out of him forcefully. "If that's what it takes… I'll wait."
His eyes lifted to mine again, steady, fixed, possessive.
"But don't make me wait too long," he added, his voice lowering.
"It won't be good for either of us."
He placed the bouquet in my hands gently, almost reverently, and stepped away like the scene was over, like I belonged to him now and he could come back whenever he wished.
And I stood there trembling, drowning in terror, clutching black roses that felt like a warning disguised as affection.
____
The next day—
We sat across from each other in the quiet corner of the restaurant, the clinking of cutlery around us sounding far too normal for the storm brewing in his eyes.
He hadn't touched his food.
He just stared at me.
That same controlled, quiet fury that made my stomach twist.
Finally, he spoke.
"So," he said softly, almost too softly, "you have a boyfriend."
My throat dried instantly.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping once against the table.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Each tap felt like a countdown to something terrible.
"I don't," I whispered. "He's just—"
"I saw him holding your wrist," he cut in. "And I saw you smiling."
My heart raced. I clasped my hands under the table so he wouldn't see them shaking.
"He's my boyfriend," I forced out.
His jaw tightened. The anger in his eyes sharpened like glass.
"I think," he said slowly, "it's best if you don't talk to him again."
I felt something snap inside me. Maybe courage. Maybe desperation. Maybe fear finally turning into words.
"You're forcing me," I said. "My heart belongs to him. You can't just— just order me to love you."
His eyes narrowed.
"And you can't hope for love," I continued, breath shaking, "if you treat me like you treated that girl in the basement. Stitching people with threads— what did you expect? That I'll forget that?"
People at nearby tables glanced at us, sensing tension, but he didn't care.
He didn't even blink.
Then, unexpectedly, his anger shifted—slowly cooling into something darker.
"As long as you don't betray me," he said quietly, "it's fine."
I stared at him.
"That's your condition?" I whispered. "Not betray you?"
He nodded once.
A single, terrifyingly calm nod.
"If you stay," he said, "if you don't lie, if you don't run… then I have no reason to hurt you."
His hand reached across the table, stopping just before touching mine—
because of the promise he made.
Because I told him no touching.
"But," he added, voice lowering to a threat disguised as softness,
"if he touches you again… if you choose him over me… then don't ask me to be gentle."
The room felt colder.
My chest tightened painfully.
I realized in that moment—
it wasn't love he wanted.
It was possession.
Ownership.
A cage he could lock me inside forever.
And he believed I belonged to him already.
________
Summer break arrives after the exam—
The Summer break should have felt peaceful.
It didn't.
I was back in my hometown, but even here, Aiden's presence clung to me like a second shadow. He had insisted we meet at a resort nearby—public, bright, full of people. I agreed only because his home, or any quiet place, felt like walking into a wolf's mouth.
We sat in the open lounge area, breeze carrying the scent of mango orchards. I kept my water glass between us like it could shield me.
I looked at him.
Really looked.
The sunlight hit his face just right… the sharp jaw, the calm eyes, lips that always looked slightly amused.
If he weren't a psychopath…
If he hadn't almost ruined me…
I would've liked him.
Maybe even more than liked him.
My gaze lingered too long on his mouth.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His lips curved, slow and wicked, and he leaned forward just a little, elbows resting on his knees.
"Finally," he murmured, voice deep with teasing heat. "You're looking at me like you want something."
My heart jumped into my throat.
I immediately looked away, but it was too late—he had seen everything.
I swallowed hard.
"I was just thinking…"
He raised a brow, waiting.
"…if you weren't a psychopath," I muttered, "you would've attracted a lot of girls."
Aiden stared at me for a second… then laughed quietly.
Not loudly.
Not kindly.
A low, confident sound—like I had just confirmed something he already knew.
"I'm already doing that," he said.
He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms, looking impossibly self-assured.
"Girls love me," he continued casually. "They always have."
I stiffened.
He looked at me again, eyes half-lidded, a tiny smirk pulling at one corner of his lips.
"But," he added, voice dipping softer, "I don't care about any of them."
His gaze slid down my face, lingering on my lips, the same way mine had lingered on his.
"It's you," he said.
"Only you."
The words should have been sweet.
Instead, they felt like a door locking behind me.