The room was dim, the air thick with tension. Liza sat restrained, her wrists bound—not painfully, but firmly enough to remind her she wasn't in control.
For the first time in days, she felt the absence of Julian like something physical.
And then—
The door opened.
Not cautiously. Not quietly.
Decisively.
Julian stepped inside.
The shift in the room was immediate. The men turned, but it was already too late. There was something in Julian's presence—cold, precise, absolute—that made resistance feel meaningless.
"Let her go," he said.
Not loud. Not aggressive.
Certain.
What followed was swift, controlled chaos. Not reckless violence, but calculated action—every movement deliberate, every step measured.
And then… silence.
Julian crossed the room toward her, his gaze locking onto hers. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then his hands were on her—freeing her wrists, brushing over her skin as if confirming she was real, unharmed.
"You shouldn't have come alone," she whispered, her voice trembling despite herself.
"I wasn't alone," he replied quietly. "I just didn't bring anyone else inside."
His hand lingered at her wrist, thumb brushing lightly over the faint marks left behind. The touch was subtle, but it sent a shiver through her.
"You came for me," she said, softer now.
Julian's eyes darkened.
"I always will," he murmured.
The weight of those words settled deep in her chest. Not as a promise.
As a fact.
And for the first time, Liza understood the full depth of what it meant to belong to him—not as possession, but as something far more dangerous. Something chosen.