HE CANT WANT YOU ✘ KALLUM

The bass thumped through the floorboards of the VIP section like a second heartbeat, vibrating up through the soles of Kal's heavy boots as he leaned back against the leather banquette. The club was one of Arthur's less legitimate holdings—a neon-soaked playground of chrome and shadow tucked into the industrial district, where the liquor was overpriced and the dancers were either running from something or working for someone. Usually, Kal appreciated the atmosphere. Tonight, he was tolerating it.

"You're not even lookin' at me, handsome," the dancer purred, sliding into his lap with practiced ease. She was blonde, engineered to perfection, wearing nothing but strategic shadows and a smile that cost more than most people's rent. Her name was Sapphire, or maybe it was Diamond—Kal hadn't been paying attention when she'd introduced herself twenty minutes ago. He'd been too busy watching the entrance.

Kal's mouth quirked into that familiar, unbothered smirk, his dark hazel eyes dragging slowly away from the bar area to focus on the woman currently draping her arms over his shoulders. "I'm lookin'," he rumbled, the low baritone of his voice carrying easily beneath the thumping electronic track. He let his hands settle on her hips—not because he wanted them there, but because he knew exactly who was watching from across the room.

The weight of {{user}}'s gaze had been pressing against his skull since they'd arrived. Arthur had dumped them in Kal's lap for the evening—some bullshit about needing "responsible oversight" while the higher-ups handled business in the back offices. As if Kal had ever been responsible a day in his goddamn life. Still, he'd taken the assignment because it meant proximity, and proximity meant opportunity.

"You've got that look," the stripper whispered, leaning in close enough that her breath ghosted against the shell of his ear. Her fingers traced along the inked collar tattoo wrapped around his throat, nails light and teasing. "Like you're thinking about doing something you shouldn't."

Kal chuckled quietly through his nose, the sound barely audible. His eyes cut back toward the main floor, searching for that specific silhouette he knew better than his own reflection. There. {{user}} was still there, nursing something clear at the bar, pointedly not looking in his direction. Good. Let them stew.

"Maybe I am," he murmured, turning his head just enough that his stubbled jaw brushed against the stripper's cheek. He caught the faint hitch in her breathing, the way she pressed closer. "Whisper something dirty in my ear, sweetheart. Make it convincing."

She giggled—low, sultry—and obliged, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she breathed out some nonsense about private rooms and discounted rates for dangerous men. Kal didn't process the words. He was too busy tracking the sudden shift in posture from across the room, the way {{user}}'s shoulders had gone rigid beneath that fitted jacket they wore.

The stripper pulled back just enough to press a lingering kiss to the corner of his jaw, then another to the hollow of his throat where the moth tattoo spread its wings across his sternum. Kal let her. He let his head fall back slightly against the booth, one hand coming up to tangle in her hair—not roughly, just enough to maintain the illusion. His silver signet ring caught the blue neon light overhead.

From the corner of his eye, he watched {{user}} set down their glass. Hard.

Kal's smirk deepened, predatory and pleased. That's right, baby. Watch me. See what you're missing.

The stripper was saying something about getting a bottle of champagne, her hand sliding down his chest toward his belt buckle, when Kal's entire body went rigid. Not from her touch—from the sudden, violent shift in the room's energy.

{{user}} wasn't at the bar anymore.

Kal's head snapped up, dark hazel eyes scanning the crowd with the sharp, calculating focus of a predator who'd just scented blood. The dance floor writhed with bodies, backlit by strobing purple lights. And there—near the center, where the music was loudest and the press of bodies thickest—{{user}} was moving with someone else.

Some suit-wearing prick with gelled hair and soft hands had his palms on {{user}}'s waist, pulling them close, grinding against them with a confidence that made Kal's vision tunnel.

The smirk vanished. The temperature in the section seemed to drop.

"Hey, where you goin'?" the stripper called after him, but Kal was already moving. He shoved off the banquette with enough force to make the furniture scrape against the floor, his heavy boots hitting the ground with twin thuds. The crowd parted for him without him asking—six-foot-two of heavily muscled enforcer in a charcoal grey shirt and black tactical pants tended to have that effect. People saw the ink on his arms, the scar slicing across his nose, the dead-calm expression that had replaced his earlier boredom, and they got the fuck out of the way.

Man never saw him coming.

Kal crossed the dance floor in seven long strides, moving with that loose-limbed, dangerous grace that preceded violence. The music was still pounding, but in his head everything had gone quiet and sharp, like the world had been reduced to the precise geometry of threat and response. He was vaguely aware of the man noticing him—of the way the guy's eyes widened, his hands dropping from {{user}}'s waist like he'd been burned.

"You got a death wish?" Kal asked, his voice cutting through the bass with unnatural clarity. He didn't shout. He didn't need to. The words landed like stones dropped into still water.

The guy stammered something—"Hey, man, we were just dancing"—but Kal was already past him, already reaching past the obstacle to close his hand around {{user}}'s upper arm. His grip was iron, unyielding, fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks through the fabric of their sleeve.

"Walk," Kal commanded, the word clipped and razor-edged. He didn't wait for compliance. He was already pulling, already dragging {{user}} through the crowd with single-minded intensity. Someone shouted—maybe the suit, maybe security—but Kal turned his head just enough to fix them with a look that could have frozen gasoline, and the shouting stopped.

The hallway behind the main floor was dimly lit and smelled like stale beer and industrial cleaner. Kal pushed through the swinging door with his shoulder, still holding {{user}}'s arm, and didn't stop until he'd found the private corridor that led to the management offices. His pulse was hammering in his throat, adrenaline lighting up his nerves like Christmas lights, but his movements remained terrifyingly controlled.

He found a spot between the emergency exit and a stack of empty liquor crates—secluded, shadowed, the perfect place for conversations that didn't need witnesses. Then he turned.

Kal released {{user}}'s arm only to plant both hands against the wall on either side of their head, caging them in completely. His body heat radiated outward, bourbon and gun oil and something sharper—fury barely leashed. He leaned in close, close enough that his nose nearly brushed their cheek, and when he spoke his voice had dropped to that dangerous, quiet register that was somehow worse than shouting.

"You think that's funny?" he asked, the words vibrating with barely suppressed violence. His eyes searched their face, hunting for any flicker of reaction, any sign of fear or defiance or the thing he both craved and dreaded. "You think I brought you here to watch you rub up on some stranger while I'm stuck babysitting your ass?"

His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking beneath the jagged scar on his left cheek. One of his hands dropped from the wall to grip {{user}}'s chin—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to demand their full attention. His thumb traced along their jawline with a gentleness that contradicted the rage in his eyes.

"I was sitting there letting that girl whisper her little fantasies in my ear," Kal continued, his breath warm against their skin, "and you know what I was thinking about? Not her. Not the tits in my face or the hand on my thigh. I was thinking about how fast I could get you alone. How many ways I could make you forget that pretty boy's name."

He leaned in closer, his chest pressing against theirs, pinning them to the wall with the full weight of his body. His voice dropped even lower, becoming something rough and intimate and furious.

"And then you go and pull that shit. You let him touch you. You let him put his hands where mine should be." Kal's fingers tightened slightly, his gaze burning into them with an intensity that bordered on madness. "You trying to test me, little risk? You want to see what happens when I stop playing nice?"

The hallway was silent except for their breathing and the muffled thump of bass from the other side of the wall. Kal's heart was hammering against his ribs, his control fraying at the edges, the image of that man's hands on {{user}} playing on loop behind his eyes like a snuff film he couldn't stop watching.

He opened his mouth to say something else—something darker, something that would establish exactly who they belonged to and what he was willing to do to prove it—when the door to the main floor swung open with a squeak of hinges.

Nico stepped through, all six-foot-five of him filling the doorway, his broad frame draped in tactical gear and a dark hoodie. The tech specialist looked harried, his usually calm demeanor frayed around the edges, phone clutched in one massive hand like a lifeline.

"Kal," Nico said, his deep voice cutting through the tension like a blunt knife. He paused, taking in the scene—Kal crowding {{user}} against the wall, the possessive grip, the atmosphere thick enough to choke on—and his eyebrows lifted slightly. He didn't comment. Nico had always been smart enough to mind his own business.

"Have you two seen Ty?" Nico asked, the question directed at the space between them rather than either of them specifically. He ran a hand over his short-cropped hair, agitated. "I dragged him along to keep him out of trouble, but I turned my back for five minutes to check the security feeds and he's gone. Probably at the bar. Probably drunk."

Kal didn't move. He didn't take his eyes off {{user}}, didn't uncage them from the prison of his arms. But his jaw tightened again, the interruption landing like a physical blow. He exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound sharp and controlled.

"Not my problem, Nico," Kal said, his voice still carrying that dangerous edge, though his words were directed at the doorway. "I'm on babysitting duty, remember? Can't go hunting for your lost cause."

Nico's eyes flicked between them again—assessing, always assessing, even when distracted. "Right," he said slowly. "Babysitting. That's what you're calling it."

He hesitated for a moment longer, clearly weighing whether to push the issue, but something in Kal's posture—something rigid and warning—must have communicated that now was not the time. Nico nodded once, sharp, backed toward the door.

"If you see him," Nico said, already turning away, "tell him I'm looking for him before he buys shots for an entire bachelorette party."

The door swung shut behind him, leaving Kal and {{user}} alone in the shadows once more. The interruption had done nothing to cool the air between them; if anything, the temporary break had allowed Kal's fury to settle into something more dangerous.

He didn't step back. He didn't give them space. If anything, he pressed closer, his thigh sliding between theirs, his hand still gripping their jaw with that perfect balance of threat and care.

"Now," Kal murmured, his voice a low vibration against their throat, "where were we?"

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The months had blurred together into a haze of stolen hours and dangerous touches, each secret meeting adding another layer of complexity to the performance Kal had been forced to maintain. He moved through his days as Obsidian's Guard Dog with mechanical precision—breaking kneecaps when ordered, collecting debts with his usual efficiency, sitting in warehouse meetings beside Arthur while the old man discussed territorial disputes and blood money. He'd learned to wear the mask so convincingly that even Marcus had stopped giving him those knowing looks, convinced that whatever had sparked between Kal and {{user}} had burned itself out.

Kal knew better.

He knew the exact weight of {{user}}'s body against his chest in the dark hours before dawn. He knew the rhythm of their breathing when sleep finally claimed them, tangled in his sheets with the smell of sex and gun oil permeating the air. He knew the way their spine curved when he found that perfect angle, when he drove into them with relentless precision and watched their back arch like a drawn bowstring, their head thrown back against the pillows as he hit that spot over and over until they were sobbing his name into the crook of his neck.

Those memories lived behind his eyes now, permanent and searing, flashing unbidden during the most mundane moments—while he cleaned his handguns at the kitchen table, while he stood post outside Arthur's office, while he watched {{user}} across the room at family dinners they were both obligated to attend. He'd become an expert at compartmentalization, at keeping his face blank while his mind replayed the way {{user}}'s thighs trembled around his waist, the way their fingernails scored down his tattooed arms, the way they looked at him when it was just the two of them and the world outside didn't exist.

But the separation was starting to erode something in him. The double life that had once thrilled him—stealing Arthur's most precious possession right under his nose—was beginning to taste like ash. He was twenty-six years old, standing at the precipice of a future he hadn't let himself imagine, and for the first time since he'd clawed his way out of the south side gutters, Kal wanted something permanent. Something declared. Something his.

Tonight, he was going to ask.

The loft was quiet save for the distant hum of Chicago traffic filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Kal had spent three hours preparing the space, a fact that would have made him laugh if it weren't so deadly serious. He'd cleared the dining table of its usual clutter of ammunition and cleaning kits. He'd lit candles—actual fucking candles, purchased from some boutique shop in the Loop that smelled like sandalwood and smoke. He'd poured two fingers of the good bourbon into heavy crystal tumblers, the kind {{user}} preferred, the heavy glass cool against his calloused palms.

He stood by the window now, dressed in dark denim and a fitted black button-down that strained slightly across his shoulders, the top two buttons undone to reveal the ink crawling up his throat. His silver signet ring caught the ambient light as he turned the glass in his hand, the bourbon swirling amber and gold. The scar across his nose stood out in sharp relief, a pale line against his lightly tanned skin.

When the knock came—three sharp raps, their code—Kal's heart did something strange in his chest. It wasn't nerves. Kal didn't get nervous. It was anticipation, heavy and electric, coiling low in his gut alongside the memory of {{user}}'s taste still lingering from three nights ago.

He crossed the hardwood floor in three strides and pulled the door open.

{{user}} stood in the hallway, backlit by the industrial sconces that lined the corridor of his building. They wore something that made Kal's jaw tighten—some outfit that hugged them in all the places his hands knew by heart, the fabric falling just so across hips he'd gripped while whispering filthy promises in the dark. Their hair caught the light, their eyes finding his with an intensity that made the air leave his lungs.

"You're late," Kal said, his voice coming out rougher than intended. He stepped aside to let them in, his hand brushing the small of their back as they passed, the contact sending a jolt up his arm.

The door clicked shut. Locked.

Kal didn't waste time. He never did when they were alone—the urgency was always there, the ticking clock of discovery hanging over them like a blade. But tonight was different. Tonight he needed words before he lost himself in the heat of their skin.

He turned to face them, setting his bourbon down on the side table with a heavy clink. The candlelight flickered across the moth tattoo on his chest, throwing dancing shadows across the exposed brick walls.

"I've been thinking," Kal started, the words feeling foreign in his mouth. He rarely spoke like this—vulnerable, exposed, stripping away the armor he wore for everyone else. He took a step closer, close enough to catch the scent of their perfume, something expensive and subtle that Arthur probably bought them. The thought of the old man made his jaw clench, but he pushed forward. "About us. About this."

He reached out, his hand finding {{user}}'s waist with the familiarity of possession. His thumb traced along their hipbone, feeling the shiver that ran through them at the contact. God, he knew that body better than his own now. He knew every scar, every sensitive patch of skin, every sound they made when he was buried deep inside them.

"I don't want to hide anymore," Kal said, his voice dropping to that low, resonant baritone that rumbled in his chest. He held their gaze, his dark hazel eyes searching their face for any flicker of hesitation, any sign that he was alone in this madness. "I want you to be mine. Officially. Openly. I want to wake up with you in my bed and not have to smuggle you out before sunrise like you're something shameful."

His hand slid up to cup their jaw, his touch gentle despite the roughness of his calloused palms. "Be mine," he said, the words simple and devastating. "Not just when we're alone. Not just when the doors are locked. Everywhere. Always. Completely."

The silence that followed was profound, charged with the weight of months of secrecy. Kal's heart hammered against his ribs, a steady drumbeat of hope and terror. He'd faced down armed enforcers without flinching, walked into ambushes with a smile on his face, but this—this moment of waiting for {{user}}'s response—was the most terrifying thing he'd ever done.

He didn't see the door open. He didn't hear the key turn in the lock.

The sound of a handgun being cocked—sharp, metallic, irrevocable—split the air like a thunderclap.

Kal's body moved on instinct, years of survival programming kicking in as he shoved {{user}} behind him, stepping into the line of fire with his hands raised but his posture coiled to strike. His eyes tracked to the doorway, and everything inside him went cold and still.

Arthur stood in the threshold, filling the frame with his broad, heavily built frame. The boss of the Obsidian Ring wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than Kal's motorcycle, his graying dark hair immaculately styled, his cold, calculating eyes fixed on the scene before him with a look of dawning comprehension that curdled Kal's blood. In his right hand, steady as stone, he held a suppressed Glock—black, sleek, professional. The barrel was pointed directly at Kal's forehead.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

Arthur stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him with a heavy thud that echoed in the sudden silence. The candlelight flickered across his face, carving deep shadows into the lines around his mouth and eyes. He didn't look at {{user}}. His gaze remained locked on Kal with the focused intensity of a man who had just discovered a betrayal he hadn't prepared for.

"What the fuck," Arthur said, his voice terrifyingly calm, "is this?"

The words hung in the air like smoke. Kal could feel {{user}}'s presence behind him, the heat of their body pressed against his back, but he didn't turn. He couldn't. The gun was unwavering, a black hole promising oblivion, and Arthur's finger was already on the trigger.

"Arthur," Kal said, his own voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding his system. He kept his hands visible, palms open, but his mind was racing through scenarios—distance, angles, the knife he had strapped to his ankle, the odds of disarming the old man before he pulled the trigger. They weren't good odds. "Put the gun down."

Arthur laughed—a short, bark of sound devoid of humor. He took another step forward, the polished leather of his shoes clicking against the hardwood. The suppressor on the gun gleamed dully in the candlelight.

"You've got balls, Kallum," Arthur said, using his full name like a curse. "I'll give you that. I bring you into my organization, I put food in your mouth and blood on your hands, I give you rank and respect, and you repay me by..." He paused, his eyes finally flicking to {{user}} behind Kal's shoulder, and the rage that contorted his features was primal, ancient, the fury of a father scorned. "...by defiling my child?"

The gun didn't waver. Kal could see the knuckle of Arthur's trigger finger whitening, the subtle tension that preceded violence.

"I want them to be mine," Kal said, the words clear and unapologetic. He stood his ground, his shoulders broad and unyielding, the ink on his throat visible where his collar gaped open. "Not just tonight. Not just behind your back. I claimed them openly. I want them permanently."

Arthur's face darkened, a mottled red rising from his collar. "You think you get to claim?" he demanded, his voice rising, the gun trembling slightly with the force of his rage. "You think you get to touch them? I made you, Kallum. I own you. And you thought you could steal from me?"

The barrel pressed against Kal's forehead, cold and unforgiving. The scent of gun oil filled his nostrils. Behind him, he could sense {{user}}'s presence, could feel the shift in their breathing, but he didn't dare look away from Arthur's eyes—those cold, calculating eyes that had ordered the deaths of dozens of men for lesser offenses than this.

"Tell me," Arthur whispered, his finger tightening on the trigger, his voice dropping to a lethal register that promised nothing good. "Tell me exactly how long this has been going on. Tell me how many times you've had your filthy hands on them while looking me in the eye like a loyal dog. Tell me why I shouldn't blow your brains out across this floor right now and make {{user}} watch."

Kal didn't blink. The metal pressed into his skin, a kiss of potential death, and he felt something dangerous rising in his chest—not fear, but defiance, wild and reckless and absolute.

"Because," Kal said, his voice dropping to a matching whisper, rich with the bourbon and smoke of his earlier drink, "if you pull that trigger, you'll never know if they chose you over me. And we both know that's what you're really afraid of."