Cold Beneath the Smile

The walk from the café to the penthouse felt like a march to the gallows. Every step was a struggle, my heavy belly throbbing, my heart doing anxious loops in my chest. When I stepped inside, the apartment was shrouded in darkness, save for the blue-white glow of the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Jungkook was sitting in the armchair, his silhouette sharp against the glass. He wasn't moving. He wasn't even breathing, it seemed. Just a statue of absolute, terrifying control.

"Kook?" I whispered, my voice cracking. "I... I just went out for some air. It was getting too stuffy in here."

He stood up slowly. The way his jacket moved against his broad shoulders was predatory. He didn't turn the lights on. He walked toward me in the gloom, his footsteps silent on the marble. When he reached me, he didn't grab me—he just stood there, towering over me, his scent hitting me like a physical blow: cedarwood, rain, and the metallic tang of unspent rage.

"Air," he repeated, his voice dangerously smooth. "You left the safety of your home, unprotected, to find 'air' in the middle of a London downpour. Tell me, Taehyung. Who did you find?"

My pulse spiked. "I... I ran into Jimin. He’s just a friend, Jungkook. It was a coincidence."

The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. I saw his jaw clench, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. He reached out, his hand hovering over my stomach before settling there. He didn't caress me; he anchored me, his fingers splayed wide over the hard, rounded dome of my pregnancy. He pressed just hard enough to make me gasp, his eyes tracking the way my shirt pulled taut over the curve.

"Jimin," he said, the name sounding like a curse on his tongue. "The one who never understood boundaries? The one who looked at you like you were meat on a table?"

"He’s not like that," I lied, though my voice trembled. "He was just concerned. He thinks you’re being—"

"Overbearing?" Jungkook interrupted, his voice dropping to a low, guttural vibration. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against mine. His hands slid from my belly to my waist, dragging me flush against his rigid, heated body. I could feel the hard, demanding length of him pressed against my hip, a stark reminder of the power imbalance that ruled our lives. "Am I overbearing, Taehyung? Is protecting my own flesh and blood—the very thing growing inside you—a crime in your eyes?"

"No," I breathed, my head swimming from the intensity of his proximity. "It’s not, but I feel like I’m disappearing, Kook."

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he forced me to turn around, pressing my back against his chest. His large, calloused hands slid up under my sweater, his palms searing hot against my bare skin. He cupped my belly, lifting the weight of it, his thumbs kneading the sensitive, stretched skin until I whimpered. It was an erotic, possessive display of ownership, reminding me that the life inside me was his, and so was I.

"You aren't disappearing," he growled into the crook of my neck, his lips brushing against my scent gland, his teeth grazing the skin just enough to send a jolt of arousal through my legs. "You are being refined. You are being kept for me, and only me. If that friend of yours touches you again, if he so much as breathes in your direction, I won't just break him. I’ll make sure he never speaks your name again."

He hugged me then, but it wasn't the gentle hold of a lover. It was an iron vice. His arms locked around me, his hands splayed across my belly and ribs, pinning me so tightly that I could feel the erratic thud of his heart against my back. It was suffocating, terrifying, and deeply, achingly addictive.

He stayed like that for a long time, rocking me back and forth in the dark, his grip never loosening. I felt a tear slip down my cheek, trapped in the cage of his arms, feeling both utterly cherished and completely erased.

"Don't ever lie to me again," he whispered, his voice vibrating through my spine. "We’re going to bed now. You’re going to lie there, and I’m going to watch you, and you’re going to remember exactly who you belong to."

As he dragged me toward the bedroom, I felt a heavy, sinking dread. My phone buzzed in my pocket again. I didn't dare check it, but I knew who it was. And as Jungkook pushed the bedroom door open with his foot, he didn't see the message that flashed on my screen: He’s scared of me, Tae. He knows I can see the cracks.

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