The rain had been falling all day, a steady hiss against the windows of the old estate. The air inside was thick with the faint scent of jasmine—Taehyung's doing, always making sure the atmosphere felt like some twisted fairytale.
You sat curled in the armchair by the fire, legs tucked under you, watching the flames flicker and spit embers. Across the room, Taehyung leaned lazily against the wall, his head tilted slightly, eyes locked on you with that unnerving intensity that made your heartbeat stutter.
"Why do you look at me like that?" you finally asked, your voice breaking the silence.
He smiled slowly, almost dreamily. "Because I like to remember every detail… so I can never forget."
It sounded romantic. It should have been romantic. But there was a glint in his gaze that didn't feel like love—it felt like possession.
He crossed the room in two slow steps, crouching in front of you. His hand reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering against your cheek. "You've been quiet," he murmured. "Are you scared of me again?"
"Sometimes," you whispered before you could stop yourself.
He chuckled—soft, warm, almost gentle. "Good. Fear keeps people loyal." Then, without warning, he pressed his lips against yours. The kiss was deep, intoxicating, and you almost let yourself melt into it—until you felt his other hand wrap firmly around your wrist.
It wasn't painful. Not yet. But the pressure was a reminder. A warning.
When he pulled back, his expression had shifted. His smile was still there, but his eyes had darkened. "You've been thinking about leaving, haven't you?"
Your breath caught. "What—no—"
"Don't lie to me." His voice was soft, but the softness was razor-thin, ready to cut.
You tried to stand, but his grip tightened, pulling you back into the chair. He tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle he had all the pieces to. "You think I don't notice the way you glance at the door when you think I'm not looking? Or how you tense when I leave the room, as if planning when to run?"
"I'm not—"
"I could forgive you," he interrupted, "if you admit it. Right now. Tell me you thought about leaving… and I'll let it go."
You swallowed hard, every instinct screaming that the wrong answer could mean something much worse. "…Yes. I thought about it."
Something shifted in him. His smile grew wider, but it wasn't happiness—it was victory. "Good girl. Honesty looks beautiful on you."
He let go of your wrist and stood up, pacing slowly around you. "Do you know what happens to people who leave me?" he asked conversationally, as if discussing the weather.
You didn't answer.
"They disappear," he said simply. "Not in the poetic sense. Literally. No one finds them."
The fire crackled louder, as if to punctuate his words.
And then, as if flicking a switch, his demeanor changed again. He sat beside you, pulling you into his arms, stroking your hair. "But you're not going to leave me. I know you won't. You love me too much, don't you?"
It was a trap—one of his many—but you nodded anyway. "Yes."
His lips brushed your forehead. "Then we'll be fine."
For the next hour, he was the perfect man again. Making tea for you, telling you stories, even laughing. But underneath it all, that earlier tension hummed like a live wire.
By nightfall, you were in bed, pretending to sleep while he sat in the chair by the window, watching the storm.
You almost drifted off—until you heard him speak in a low voice.
Not to you.
To himself.
"She's lying," he whispered. "She'll try to run. I'll have to make sure she can't."
You froze, every nerve in your body screaming.
And then, you heard the quiet scrape of metal.
You didn't dare open your eyes, but you knew—he was holding a knife.
And he was smiling.
To be continued…