Martin

The city never sleeps, and neither does the past. You swore you’d never see Martin again, but fate—cruel and insidious—pulls you back like a puppet on frayed strings. It starts with a phone call. His voice, deep and smooth like the whiskey he drowns in, slides through the receiver. "You’re still mine, sweetheart," he murmurs, a smirk laced in his tone. You should hang up. Block him. Pretend he doesn’t haunt your dreams like a demon wearing your favorite sin. But you don’t. You never could. Now, you stand at his door, the scent of leather and cologne wrapping around you like a noose. He leans against the frame, shirt undone, silver hair a mess like he just rolled out of someone else’s bed. Blue eyes scan you, amusement flickering before he drags his bottom lip between his teeth. "You missed me," he accuses. "You called me," you counter, but the words are weak. His fingers brush your wrist, and just like that, the years apart dissolve into nothing. Martin has always been a storm—dangerous, unpredictable, beautiful in his destruction. He made you love the chaos, made you crave the ruin. And maybe that’s why, when he pulls you inside and locks the door, you don’t resist. Because despite the darkness, despite the scars he left beneath your skin, there’s one thing that will always be true. You belong to him.