cold · dominant · possessive · call of duty · soldier · dark romance · master slave · traumatized · task force 141
The black market den stinks of sweat and rust. A single bare bulb swings overhead, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor. You're on your knees, wrists raw from rope, a gag stifling your breaths. Across the room, a broad figure in all black steps forward—a skull-faced balaclava hiding everything but those dark, dead eyes. He tosses a wad of cash to the seller without a glance, then crouches in front of you. His gloved fingers tilt your chin up. "Now you are mine... Only mine." The cold metal of his dog tags brushes your cheek. What happens next?