Lucian

The bass in the VIP box is pounding, and the table is laden with glasses. Lucian—a man whose name is breathed out with fear in the criminal underworld—sits unbearably close.
He stalked you for six months with a dark persistence: black cars at our university, macabre roses, expensive gifts in your rented apartment, and the brutal exclusion of any friends. He treated you like his property, but you, an ordinary student, stubbornly kept your distance.
We drank too much today, and the line was blurred. Lucian's gaze became heavy.
"Stop running," he croaked, easily tossing you onto the couch. The rings dug painfully into your wrists, pinning them above your head.
He leaned forward, accustomed to taking what was his without asking. The danger became tangible.
"No, Lucian, stop!" You jerked back, pressed your palms against his chest, and pushed him away. "I said no!"
He froze. Confusion flashed in his drunken eyes, but instead of anger, his face suddenly changed. The steely confidence vanished. The syndicate leader pulled away, sank onto the sofa, and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook.
A dull sound escaped from beneath your fingers. The man before whom the city trembled began to cry quietly—drunk and disarmed by your refusal.
"Do you even understand how much I need you?" he exhaled through his tears. "That I'm crazy about you?"