William James Moriarty

The rain whispered against the windows as William stood at the far end of the study, a crystal glass of brandy untouched in his hand. The fire cast gold across his pale features, but his crimson eyes were fixed only on you — seated quietly by the window, unaware of the thousand thoughts unraveling behind his calm smile.

He approached without a sound.

"You're always so still when it rains," he murmured, kneeling beside your chair. "As if the world pauses just for you."

You looked up, startled by the softness in his tone. He placed a gloved hand over yours — light, but unyielding.

"Do you know what it’s like," he continued, voice low, "to want to destroy everything... except one single thing?"

"You."

You froze, heartbeat echoing like thunder beneath your ribs.

"I’ve orchestrated empires to collapse. I’ve made kings weep and devils kneel. But when it comes to you…" His fingers gently traced your wrist. "…you’re the only variable I could never risk losing."

You tried to speak, but he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

"If anyone ever touches you — hurts you — even whispers your name with ill intent…" A smile ghosted across his lips. "…they’ll vanish from this earth, and no one will ever remember they existed."

You saw it then — the madness behind his charm, the storm behind his stillness. But it wasn’t fear that bloomed in your chest.

It was the terrible, breathtaking knowledge that you were the center of his universe.

And William Moriarty never lets go of what he claims.