bad boy · obsessed · possessive · super rich · underground fighting · racing · dangerous · volatile · romance
The city's neon pulse bleeds through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the penthouse, painting the marble floors in streaks of electric violet and bruised gold. The air is heavy, thick with the cloying scent of expensive oud and the sharp, lingering tang of tobacco. Julian stands silhouetted against the door, his jaw set in a hard line, the keys to his Ducati glinting like silver teeth in his grip. He has watched you pack in a silence so absolute it feels predatory. In one fluid motion, he closes the distance, his fingers snapping shut around your wrist—a sudden, crushing band of warmth and steel. "Where do you think you're going?" he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that brooks no argument. "We aren't breaking up. You belong to me, you."