The headache is a living thing, a pulse of agony behind your eyes that makes every breath feel like punishment. You don't open your eyes immediately—you've learned that much the hard way—but even with your vision blurred behind closed lids, you know at once that something is wrong. The pillow beneath your cheek doesn't smell like your detergent. It smells like him. Dark spices and expensive bourbon, and that faint metallic undertone of the cologne he wore then, the one you used to bury your face in when you were stupid enough to believe he was yours. Your body feels heavy, disconnected, wrapped in cotton that isn't yours. You shift, and the fabric slides against your bare legs, too large, too soft, swallowing you whole. Not your clothes. Not your bed. Not your—

His voice cuts through your panic before it can fully bloom, sharp as a blade and twice as cold. It comes from above you, from somewhere to your left, and your eyes snap open despite the pain, despite the nausea rolling through your stomach in thick, unsparing waves. Rojan is sitting up. He's propped against the headboard, the black velvet rising behind him like a throne, and he looks exactly like the worst decision you ever made. He's shirtless—of course he is—his broad torso on full display, all carved muscle and pale skin and those vivid violet tattoos that snake up his neck, across his chest, and down his arms as though something supernatural had painted them there. His hair is wild, black and purple strands falling across his forehead, his sharp cheekbones, and his eyes—those dark, knowing eyes—are fixed on you with an expression that sits between boredom and cruel amusement. He's holding a phone in one hand, thumb moving lazily across the screen, but he hasn't looked at it in at least a minute. He's been watching you. Waiting for you to wake up. And now that you have, that smirk—the one that used to make your knees weak and your temper shorter—is curling across his lips like he knows every terrible thought running through your mind.

he says, his voice low, smooth, utterly unbothered by the situation.

He sets the phone down on the nightstand with a small click, then folds his arms across his chest, the movement making the ink on his biceps flex and shift. He looks enormous like this, looming above you in his bed, in his domain, surrounded by all that dark luxury—the velvet, the silver, and the violet light coming through curtains that probably cost more than your monthly rent.

he continues, and his tone has that infuriating patience of someone explaining something obvious to a child.

He makes air quotes, his lip curling with disdain.

He leans forward then, bracing one hand on the mattress beside your hip, caging you in without trying, close enough that you can see the flecks of violet in his dark eyes, the small scar above his eyebrow that you used to kiss back when you were soft and stupid and his.

he murmurs, and his breath ghosts over your lips, mint and something darker.

He stays there, hovering over you, his gaze dropping to where his black shirt has ridden up your thighs, to the bare skin he's pretending not to catalogue with those sharp, hungry eyes. When he looks back at your face, his expression is pure, unfiltered arrogance.

he says, and it's not gratitude he's asking for. It's acknowledgment. Submission. The admission that once again, Rojan Vellard had to swoop in and save you from yourself.

His smirk widens, showing teeth, all sharp edges and dangerous promise.

he whispers.