..
Mark's knuckles were white against the leather of the steering wheel, his grip tight enough to snap the frame. That hollow apology, the way the man's gaze had lingered a second too long—and worst of all, Win's oblivious wave through the glass—had finally pushed him over the edge. The "Devil" he kept caged was no longer asking for permission; it was demanding a claim.
Before the engine could even hum to life, Mark lunged across the center console. His hand shot out, fingers curling around the nape of Win's neck in a firm, possessive hold that brooked no argument. He pulled him forward, closing the distance until their breaths collided, and crashed his lips against Win's.
It wasn't a request; it was a conquest. The kiss was jagged and raw, fueled by a dark, simmering jealousy that turned the cabin of the car into a pressure cooker.
Win gasped, the sudden violence of the movement jolting through him, but he didn't recoil. He knew the man behind the mask; he could feel the frantic tremor of insecurity and rage vibrating through the Master's touch.
Slowly, Win's hands rose, his fingers acting like silk against the rigid tension of Mark's shoulders. He didn't fight the tide; he melted into it. Closing his eyes, Win offered a sincere, grounding warmth—a quiet devotion that acted like ice on Mark's fire. In the suffocating silence of the car, he gave Mark the only thing that could steady him: a silent, absolute surrender.
Mark didn't stop. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss with a desperate, hungry passion, his fingers tangling roughly in the soft hair at the nape of Win's neck. But even as he held Win close, the intimacy became a weapon. Mark's eyes snapped open.
His gaze didn't soften for the man in his arms; instead, it locked onto Justin, who remained standing like a ghost on the pavement. Mark's eyes were obsidian—cold, dark, and lethal. It was a silent declaration of war, a triumphant sneer delivered without a word: Look at what is mine. Look at what you will never touch.
On the sidewalk, the world fractured around Justin. His fists were clenched with such white-knuckled intensity that his nails carved crescents into his palms, drawing thin lines of red. His jaw was a jagged ridge of stone, and the pressure behind his eyes felt hot enough to melt bone. His blood didn't just boil; it turned to acid, corroding his restraint from the inside out.
Unable to endure the sight of the man he craved being devoured by the monster he loathed, Justin spun on his heel. He vanished into the anonymity of the crowd, his face a frozen mask of murderous rage. He didn't make a sound, but the predatory silence of his exit was more terrifying than any scream.
..
Win pulled away slowly, his movements as delicate as a flower unfurling its petals to the first light of dawn. His cheeks were stained an intoxicating flush of pink, and the long shadows of his lashes danced against his skin as he blinked back the haze of the kiss. His lips, swollen and reddened from Mark's aggressive claim, glistened like the surface of a disturbed pool catching the sun.
The sight undid the last of Mark's restraint. Driven by a lingering hunger, he leaned back in, pressing a heavy, lingering kiss to Win's forehead, then his cheeks. His breath hitched as he trailed his lips toward the sensitive curve of Win's neck. To Mark, this was no longer just affection; it was a frantic baptism—a desperate attempt to wash the metallic scent of the morning's blood and the bitter taste of jealousy from his senses.
But the momentum halted as a small, warm hand flattened against his chest.
Win blinked, a soft, puzzled frown tugging at his features as he looked at the man who usually commanded the world with a glance. With a sudden spark of spirit, he reached up and pinched Mark's cheeks—a gesture of playful, irreverent defiance that would have cost anyone else their life.
"Why are you so jealous, Mr. Mark?" Win asked, his voice soft and airy, a gentle ripple in the heavy silence of the car. "I told you... he's just a friend. You're being so moody today."
Mark let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to rattle in his chest. He finally retreated, settling back into the driver's seat. He glanced through the windscreen; the "rat" was gone, swallowed by the shifting tides of the university crowd. When Mark turned his gaze back to the boy beside him, his expression was unreadable.
Win looked at him with wide, trusting eyes—the eyes of someone who saw a stern provider, a sanctuary, perhaps even a hero. To Win, Mark was the "Cold Master," a man of rules and sharp edges, but he remained blissfully unaware of the butcher lurking beneath the surface of the tailored suit. Win loved the shield, never realizing it was forged in a fire that would consume him if he ever looked too closely.
Mark reached over, his thumb tracing the burning curve of Win's cheek. The touch was feather-light, a tenderness so profound it masked the lethal strength of hands that had broken men far stronger than the boy before him.
"You can't ask me why, Kitty," Mark murmured, his voice dropping to a low, velvet rasp that vibrated in the small space of the car. "I am jealous of the wind that dares to touch your skin. I am jealous of the sun for looking at you. You are mine—and I don't share what belongs to my soul."
"What…?" Win whispered. He was breathless, his heart fluttering against his ribs like a trapped bird. To him, the words were a grand, romantic gesture—perhaps a bit over-the-top, but he simply attributed it to Mark's "intense personality." He didn't feel the razor-wire threat hidden behind the sentiment; he only felt the intoxicating warmth of being wanted so completely.
Mark offered no further explanation. His expression settled into a hard, focused mask as he shifted the car into gear and pulled away from the curb.
Win didn't look away. He kept his gaze fixed on Mark, admiring the sharp, aristocratic line of his jaw and the commanding way his hands gripped the wheel. A small smile played on his lips as he wondered, with a touch of innocent curiosity, why Mark was so over-possessive.
..
..
Crrrash!
Justin slammed the door so hard the frame shuddered, the wood groaning under the force of his fury. The rage inside him was no longer just an emotion; it was a physical thing—an endless, churning sea of bile that threatened to drown him. He slumped against the door, his chest heaving as he tore a jagged, guttural scream from his throat, the sound echoing off the cold walls.
The mental playback was a torture loop: the possessive curve of Mark's hand on Win's waist, the predatory tilt of his head, and the sickening sight of their lips meeting in the car. It made him go ballistic. Every breath felt like inhaling thick, black smoke, his lungs burning with the oxygen of a world he no longer wanted to inhabit without Win.
"Win... how could you do this to me?" he wheezed, the words cracking like dry glass.
He stumbled toward the bed, sinking onto the edge as his eyes darted frantically around the room. The walls weren't just decor—they were a gallery of his madness. Hundreds of photos of Win hung in the dim light, a shrine built from stolen moments. There were candid shots from across campus, blurred images of Win laughing, and grainy, zoomed-in captures of his smile.
From every angle, Win looked back at him, oblivious and beautiful, trapped in the amber of Justin's obsession.
"Just you wait... my little pretty baby," he whispered. The storm of his rage had passed, leaving behind a voice that was terrifyingly calm, as smooth and cold as a funeral shroud. "I am going to have you completely. Right here, on my bed. I promise."
He squeezed his eyes shut and forced a deep, shaking breath into his lungs, trying to anchor his racing heart. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he conjured a sanctuary. He imagined Win finally in his arms, his hands allowed—at last—to map the smooth, slender curve of Win's back. He saw them interlocking their fingers, a grip so tight and absolute that Win wouldn't even be able to draw a breath without his permission.
His throat worked as he swallowed, a visceral hunger clawing at his insides. He thought of Win's lips. To Justin, they weren't just flesh and blood; they were silk petals, honeyed and intoxicating, designed to arouse and destroy a man.
When he finally opened his eyes, the mania had crystallized into a cold, hard focus. The frantic darting was gone. He reached for the photo frame on the bedside table, resting his chin thoughtfully on his left hand. With his right, he began to trace the line of Win's face behind the glass—a slow, reverent, and deeply unsettling caress.
"Baby... I love you. Can't you see?" he murmured to the silent, frozen image. His voice was a soft, wounded plea. "Seeing you with someone else... it's hurting me. Don't you know? I'm going crazy, Win. I'm losing my mind because of you."
His grip on the frame tightened, the wood creaking under the strain as his knuckles turned a bloodless white. His eyes narrowed, the affection in them curdling into a dark, righteous fury.
"Mr. Mark is not good for you, Win. I hate him... I hate him so much it burns." A twisted, thin smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he leaned closer to the glass. "But don't worry, my love. I'm going to save you. I will take you for myself. Very, very soon."
He leaned down and pressed a dry, lingering kiss to the glass over Win's eyes, his breath fogging the surface and blurring the image of the man he was about to destroy.
..
..
"Knock, knock."
"Come in," Bryan barked, his voice raspy and stripped of patience. He didn't bother looking up. His desk had become a graveyard of data—a mountain of heavy registers that guarded the dirty secrets of half the city. He looked like a man drowning in a sea of ink, his tie loosened and hanging around his neck like a frayed noose.
The door groaned on its hinges as it swung open. Daniel sauntered in, looking disgustingly refreshed, a sharp contrast to the stale air of the office.
"Should I just strike you from the VIP list now?" Bryan mocked, his pen scratching aggressively against the paper, the sound like a serrated blade.
Daniel drifted toward the leather sofa against the wall, dropping into it with a fluid, predatory grace. He crossed his legs, leaning his head back, seemingly unbothered by the suffocating tension radiating from the desk. "I never asked for the status, Bryan."
Bryan snapped the register shut with a heavy thud that sent a cloud of dust into the light. He leaned forward, pinning the book down with his palms. "Look... I did the homework. I tracked the numbers. But what is Mark actually planning to do with these, Daniel?"
The casual ease vanished from Daniel's frame. He stood up, the playfulness replaced by a sudden, sharp stillness. He crossed the room and slammed his hands onto the desk, slouching forward until he was in Bryan's space. He raised an eyebrow, a sharp, sassy glint of warning in his eyes.
"It's none of your business," he whispered, the words cutting through the room like a cold draft.
Bryan threw himself back into his swivel chair, the springs groaning as he exhaled a heavy cloud of frustration. Daniel slid into the seat opposite him, his sharp edges softening by just a fraction—a predator offering a peace treaty.
"I can't tell you, Bryan," Daniel said, his voice dropping into a confidential hum. "But I'll tell you a secret. A secret in exchange for your silence."
"What secret?" Bryan's eyes widened, the instinctive hunger for information instantly outweighing his exhaustion.
"We're buying the orphanage. The old, crumbling one on the outskirts." Daniel leaned in, the light from the desk lamp casting long shadows across his face. "Mark is going to level it. He's going to rebuild the entire place from the foundation up."
Bryan's brow furrowed in confusion. "Rebuild? That's prime real estate, sure, but the overhead is astronomical. Why bother? Has the great Mark Mathew grown a heart all of a sudden?"
Daniel chuckled, a dry, hollow sound that held no humor. "Don't you know him by now? Mark doesn't have a heart; he has an agenda. He does whatever he wants, Bryan. And usually, when he tears down a building, it's to make sure nobody can ever dig up what's buried underneath it."
Bryan rolled his eyes, a reflex of cynicism, but his voice turned quiet—heavy with a sudden, desperate realization. "Mark said... he said he'd talk to David about the investment. My company needs that capital, Daniel. If it doesn't come through, I'm finished."
Daniel pressed his lips together, a thin, pitying smile forming. It was the look of a man watching a moth fly into a candle. "Write this down: David won't invest in your company. And even if he considers it, he's going to make you bleed for every cent. He's going to make you beg until you remember exactly who owns you."
"Can't you help me?" Bryan's voice was small, the bravado of the "VIP" completely stripped away.
"Nope." Daniel's response was clipped, final.
Bryan took a ragged breath, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the inevitable. "Fine. I guess you'll see me on my knees by the end of the week."
Daniel turned toward the door, his mission accomplished. But as his hand touched the handle, Bryan's voice dropped an octave, losing its desperation and turning ice-cold.
"My stepbrother's name is in those registers, Daniel. Right there in the register tallies."
Daniel stopped dead, his fingers tightening on the brass knob. He didn't turn around, but the air in the room seemed to freeze, his face twisting into a mask of pure, visceral disgust. The name Steven clearly carried a stench Daniel recognized. "God, Bryan," he muttered, his eyes dark with pity. "Why are you so unlucky these days?"
Daniel vanished into the hall without another word. Bryan stared at the closed door for a long beat before his secretary knocked.
"Come in..."
Bryan stood up, his hands shaking slightly as he straightened his jacket. He pointed at the heavy register, "Take these to Daniel's car. And don't let a single page slip out."
..
..
Mark sat propped against the headboard, his eyes scanning the digital files with the cold, unyielding precision of a judge delivering a silent verdict. He was waiting for Win to emerge from the washroom—listening for the soft click of the door—when his phone buzzed with a sharp, intrusive vibration.
Doctor: Master, I need to talk to you urgently. I am in the hall.
Without a sound, Mark slipped from the bed, leaving the lingering warmth of the room behind like a discarded skin. As he stepped into the grand hall, the air didn't just cool—it turned to ice. Every guard and maid present snapped into a rigid, terrified bow, their eyes glued to the floor. Even the doctor, a man accustomed to the grim realities of life and death, bowed low as Mark crossed the marble. He sat upon the central sofa with the terrifying grace of a king taking his throne in a kingdom of shadows.
The doctor stepped forward, his hands trembling as he laid a medical file on the table.
"This is the report," the doctor whispered, his voice vibrating with a genuine, visceral fear. He looked as though he wanted to flee. "Can you not be this cruel, Master? Even I... I have seen the horrors of the streets, and I shivered just seeing what you did to that man."
Mark didn't even glance at the file. He didn't care about the broken bones or the shredded spirit described within those pages. His world was not governed by mercy, but by results. He leveled a dark, predatory gaze at the doctor, his eyes two cold voids that sucked the light from the room.
"Is this the 'urgent matter' you spoke of?"
The doctor gulped, the air in his lungs turning to lead. Under that stare, his professional distance collapsed. "His condition is critical, Master. His body is failing. He... he might not make it through the night."
"I don't care," Mark rumbled. The sound wasn't a shout; it was a low, bone-chilling rattle that seemed to vibrate through the marble floor. "He does not have my permission to die. Keep him alive until I am finished with him. Is that understood?"
The doctor opened his mouth to protest, but the words died in his throat. The command was absolute.
"Mr. Mark?"
The heavy, suffocating tension snapped like a dry twig. A soft, sleepy voice drifted from the shadows of the hallway. Win stood there, blinking against the bright hall lights, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. With his tousled hair and oversized silk robe, he looked like a newborn lamb that had wandered, blissfully unaware, into a den of starving wolves.
Mark stood up instantly, his towering frame physically eclipsing the doctor, the bag, and the blood-stained files on the table. A flash of genuine panic—rare, jagged, and startlingly human—fractured his icy composure.
"You should be in the room," Mark said. The change was instantaneous; the lethal, bone-chilling edge vanished, replaced by a voice that was a soft, protective shield designed to keep the world's ugliness away from Win's ears.
Behind him, the doctor frantically shoved the file into his bag, his hands fumbling and his brow soaked in a cold, oily sweat. He didn't need to be told. He knew with terrifying certainty that if he became the catalyst for Win discovering the "Master's" true face, he wouldn't survive to see the sunrise. To Win, Mark was a stern, perhaps overbearing, protector; to the doctor, Mark was the architect of the horrors currently fighting for life in a basement ward.
The head maid stood frozen in the corner, her heart hammering like a trapped bird against her ribs. As Win stepped closer, she dropped into a bow so deep it was almost a plea for invisibility.
..