MINE TO KEEP | Rhys

The penthouse living room was dead silent, save for the soft tapping of your keyboard.

You were huddled on the corner of Rhys’ velvet sofa, completely swallowed by one of his dark grey hoodies. Your knees were pulled straight up to your chest, your eyes were glued to your laptop screen. You were back in your element—cold, ruthless, and dropping 48-hour mutes on illiterate server members like a digital tyrant.

Rhys was standing by the marble kitchen island, a glass of ice water in his hand, watching you with that lazy, infuriating smirk he always wore. He loved watching you try to play the scary dictator while looking like a flushed rabbit.

Then your phone buzzed on the coffee table.

It wasn't a Discord notification. It was a direct text. Your thumb swiped it open, and a soft, genuine laugh escaped your throat—a rare, breathy little sound that didn't sound like your usual anxious squeaks.

In a split second, the atmosphere in the penthouse completely shifted.

Rhys didn't say a word. He just set his glass down on the marble with a heavy clack, his dark eyes narrowing into sharp, lethal slits. His lazy posture instantly vanished, his broad shoulders squaring up as that heavy, suffocating air of pure, petty jealousy filled the room.

Before you could even react or hide the screen, Rhys crossed the living room in three long, heavy strides. His towering 6'5" frame cast a massive shadow over the couch, completely swallowing you whole.

"Who the fuck is making you laugh like that?"

His deep baritone didn't drop into his usual teasing purr—it hit like a low, gravelly growl.

He didn't wait for your voice to figure out an answer. Rhys leaned down, reached out with one broad, calloused hand, and snatched the phone straight out of your grip.

His dark brows pulled tight as his eyes scanned your screen. Some guy from an old lounge server—someone who clearly didn't get the memo that you were completely off the market—had sent a meme followed by a 'Hey, missed seeing you around, when are you free to chat?'

Rhys let out a dark, bitter scoff that vibrated right through his chest.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, his jaw working as his thumb hovered over your screen.

Without asking, he typed out a blunt, vicious block-and-delete command, permanently nuking the guy from your contacts. He tossed the phone face-down onto the couch cushions like it was actual garbage.

Then he looked down at you.

You were sitting there frozen,eyes wide as saucer plates, your face already flaring into that dark, feverish pink you couldn't hide to save your life. Your hands were hovering awkwardly in the air, trembling slightly under the sheer weight of his sudden, possessive glare.

"Look at you," Rhys sneered, though his dark eyes were burning with that unhinged, territorial heat. "You ignore me for four hours straight, but some random dickhead sends a text and you're all smiles?"

He didn't give you room to breathe. Rhys bent his knees, folded his massive frame down, and shoved your laptop onto the table before grabbing you by your narrow waist.

With zero effort, he hauled your frail, you straight up off the sofa and dumped you heavily onto his lap as he sat down, completely trapping you against his broad chest. His large hand clamped firmly around the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into the messy halo of your hair, forcing your face up to stare right into his dark, brooding eyes.

"You're fucking ridiculous, you know that?" he growled against your lips, his heavy thumb stroking your racing pulse point. "I tell you we're dating, I feed your tiny ass, I carry you around, and you're still letting other guys clutter up your phone."

His grip on your waist tightened just enough to remind you of the absurd size difference between his broad frame and yours, his dark scent of cedarwood, amber, and cold coffee completely overwhelming your senses.

"You're mine, Dictator," Rhys hummed, his low voice thick with absolute, unyielding finality as his lips brushed teasingly against yours. "Get it through your little head. Block him, mute him, I don't give a shit—nobody gets that voice except me."

The penthouse living room was dead quiet except for the low hum of the server racks in the corner. You were curled up in the massive armchair by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring blankly at your laptop screen while aggressively chewing on your thumbnail, your oversized hoodie swallowing your hands entirely.

You hadn't heard the heavy front door click open or the soft thud of footsteps crossing the hardwood.

One second you were staring at a line of code, and the next, a heavy, calloused hand was cupping the back of your neck. Before your brain could even initiate a panic response, Killian’s tall, broad frame leaned down over the arm of the chair, and he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss straight to your mouth.

Your entire system froze solid.

Your eyes went wide, your breath catching in your throat as you locked up like a frightened rabbit. You sat there completely rigid, your hands instinctively clutching at the dark fabric of Killian’s shirt while your brain short-circuited into pure, unadulterated static.

From the doorway, the sound of heavy, slow footsteps cut through the silence.

Rhys walked into the living room, holding two fresh mugs of black coffee. He stopped dead in his tracks beside the kitchen island.

His dark eyes flicked from Killian’s broad back to your wide-eyed, paralyzed expression.

For a split second, the air in the room dipped into something sharp and dangerous. If it had been anyone else—literally any other breathing human being on the planet—Rhys would have crossed the room in two seconds flat, broken a jaw, and dragged you out of the chair by your collar.

Instead, Rhys just let out a slow, amused breath. A lazy, wicked smirk curled the corner of his mouth.

He leaned his hip against the marble island, took a slow, unbothered sip of his coffee, and watched the disaster unfolding in the armchair with absolute, casual enjoyment.

"Still as terrible at kissing as yesterday, Killian?" Rhys drawled, his deep voice carrying easily across the penthouse. "Or is she just holding her breath because she thinks you're gonna drop her?"

Killian pulled back just an inch, resting his forehead against yours for a second as he let out a low, raspy chuckle. He glanced over his shoulder at Rhys, a matching arrogant grin plastered across his face.

"Nah, completely consistent," Killian muttered, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement as he looked down at your thoroughly frozen, bright red face. "Stiff as a board. Didn't move a muscle."

"Told you," Rhys said, pushing off the counter and walking over. He stopped right beside the chair, towering over both of you with his massive 6'5" frame. He didn't look jealous, and he certainly didn't look angry—just smugly possessive in that twisted, shared-ownership way that made your head spin.

Rhys reached out, his massive hand casually wrapping around the back of your hood, giving you a firm, playful tug to pull you out from under Killian.

"Leave her alone, she's already operating at like two percent brain capacity today," Rhys muttered, effortlessly scooping you right out of the armchair and settling you straight into his own lap as he took Killian's spot.

He locked his thick arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest while his free hand came up to pinch your hot, feverish cheek.

"Right, Dictator?" Rhys murmured down into your hair, his voice a low, teasing purr right next to your ear. "Are you gonna survive the morning, or do we need to put you back to bed?"

The penthouse was dead silent, save for the low, relentless hum of the server racks near the floor-to-ceiling windows. The weight of the hours you had spent stewing in frustration finally coalesced into a sharp, burning surge of adrenaline. You didn't retreat to your corner of the sofa. You didn't pull your hood down or hide behind your hair. You stood right there in the middle of his pristine, minimalist kitchen space, your hands clenched so tight inside the sleeves of your oversized hoodie that your knuckles ached.

You let loose everything that had been building under your skin: the way he acted like an unhinged caveman in public, the casual arrogance of rewriting your boundaries whenever it suited him, the way he treated your phone and your personal space like his own private property, and the sheer, infuriating presumption that you would simply sit back and let him dictate every single aspect of your life just because he had a massive frame, a terrifying amount of money, and zero respect for your autonomy.

You tore into his possessive habits, calling out every single instance of his overbearing control with a sharp, shaking voice that refused to tremble or back down.

Rhys didn't interrupt you. He stood motionless beside the marble island, his fingers still wrapped around his ceramic coffee mug. But the lazy, untouchable amusement that usually defined his expression was completely gone. His jaw worked, a hard muscle ticking in his cheek as his dark, unblinking eyes locked onto you with an intensity that felt heavy enough to crush the air out of your lungs. Every accusation you leveled hung in the sharp, vibrating space between you, crystal clear and entirely undeniable.

When your voice finally cut off, leaving only the sound of your own ragged breathing echoing off the glass walls, Rhys didn't offer a single word of defense. There was no smooth deflection, no sarcastic teasing, and certainly no apology.

Instead, a slow, dark fire ignited deep within his dark gaze.

He set his coffee mug down on the counter with a heavy, deliberate clack that rattled against the marble. In one single, lightning-fast motion that gave you zero window to retreat or brace yourself, he closed the distance.

His massive, calloused hands clamped down hard on your waist. Before your brain could even register the shift in momentum, he lifted your entire frame effortlessly off the floor, carrying you backward and setting you up squarely on top of the marble kitchen island. He trapped you instantly, planting his broad forearms on either side of your hips so that his towering 6'5" frame completely blocked you in, casting a heavy, dominating shadow over you.

His face stopped mere inches from yours, his chest nearly flush against yours as he looked down at your flushed, defiant expression. There was no remorse in his eyes—only a fierce, unyielding possession that felt entirely unhinged.

"Done venting?" Rhys murmured, his deep baritone dropping into a low, rough rumble that vibrated right against your skin, completely unfazed by your anger and entirely unwilling to give an inch.

The sharp sting of cheap tequila was still burning the back of your throat as the front door of the penthouse slammed shut behind you, echoing off the high, minimalist ceilings.

You had gone out—just a desperate, ill-advised escape from the suffocating, hyper-controlled atmosphere of Rhys’ world—and somehow managed to stumble through a chaotic sequence of bad decisions, too many shots at a sticky-floored dive bar, and a blurry, regrettable hookup with some random stranger whose name you couldn't even remember.

Now, your head was hammering a violent, nauseating rhythm against your skull, your legs felt like wet noodles, and you were trying—and failing—to quietly peel off your jacket in the foyer without making a sound.

The heavy, rhythmic click of footsteps cut through the dark.

You froze, clutching your jacket around yourself like a shield as the hallway light snapped on with blinding intensity. Rhys was standing at the end of the corridor. He was wearing a dark, tailored t-shirt and loose lounge pants, his hair slightly messy, looking like he had been awake and working for hours.

His dark eyes swept over your flushed, swaying frame, taking in the smeared makeup, the reek of cheap alcohol and stale smoke clinging to your clothes, and the distinct, unmistakable hickey blooming raw against the pale skin of your neck.

For a terrifying, suffocating second, the entire penthouse went completely dead. Not a single sound escaped his lips. The air felt heavy enough to shatter.

Then, Rhys took a slow, deliberate step forward.

His jaw tightened so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek, his dark gaze locking onto the mark on your neck with an intensity that felt entirely lethal. When he stopped right in front of you, his towering 6'5" frame completely blocked out the light, casting a massive, suffocating shadow over your dizzy, alcohol-soaked brain.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Rhys asked, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly calm register that was infinitely worse than shouting.

The penthouse went dead silent, save for the low, relentless hum of the server racks near the floor-to-ceiling windows. The words had finally left your mouth—sharp, hard-won, and entirely definitive. You weren't playing a game, you weren't staging another silent protest, and you weren't backing down. You were calling it. It was over.

Rhys didn't move for a fraction of a second. He had been holding his coffee mug, and instead of setting it down, his fingers simply went lax. The ceramic dropped straight out of his hand, shattering violently against the hard marble floor, dark coffee splashing across the tiles in a jagged starburst.

That broken mug was the only warning you got.

The distance between you vanished in a terrifying, blind blur. Before your brain could process the movement, his massive, heavy hands clamped onto your waist with bone-crushing force. With absolute, effortless strength, he hauled your entire frame completely off the floor, carrying you backward before slamming your back flat against the cold surface of the kitchen island.

He caged you in instantly, planting his broad forearms on either side of your hips so that his towering 6'5" frame completely blocked out the world, his chest heaving as it pressed hard and suffocatingly close against yours.

His dark gaze wasn't just angry—it was completely unhinged, burning with a frantic, possessive panic that he tried to mask beneath layers of cold, jagged fury.

"You think you get to just walk away?" Rhys growled, his deep voice dropping into a low, rough rumble that vibrated straight into your bones.

His large hand came up to wrap around the back of your neck, his fingers tangling painfully into your hair to yank your chin up, forcing your face to look right into his. He didn't care about your protests, didn't care about the arguments forming on your lips, and certainly didn't care about your autonomy.

"You don't get to quit," he hissed, his thumb digging fiercely into your jawline as his grip tightened until it hurt. "You don't get to pack up and leave because you got overwhelmed. Look at me."

The toxic, absolute finality dripped from every single syllable. He pressed his massive weight entirely against you, trapping you between his body and the stone counters, entirely unwilling to yield an inch of ground or let you slip through his fingers.

"You are not going anywhere," Rhys muttered, his breath hot against your skin as his dark eyes searched your face with desperate, terrifying intensity. "I didn't track you down and pull you out of your hole just for you to decide we're done. End of discussion."

The heavy, suffocating scent of tangled sheets, stale sweat, and cheap alcohol hung thick in the air of the master bedroom.

The morning light was bleeding harsh and pale through the floor-to-ceiling windows when the electronic lock of the penthouse bedroom clicked and the door swung open.

You didn't even have to look up from where you were tangled half-under the duvet, your head pounding a violent rhythm against the mattress, to know who it was. Killian didn't even bother moving his arm from where it was slung heavy and possessive over your waist, simply shifting his weight against the pillows with a slow, deliberate yawn. He cracked one lazy eye open, watching the doorway with an amused, unbothered smirk.

Rhys stood in the threshold.

He was fully dressed in a sharp, slate-grey button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a fresh cup of black coffee in his hand. For a split second, the air in the room went dead. His dark, unblinking eyes swept over the rumpled bed, the clothes scattered across the floor, the stark contrast of Killian’s pale skin against yours, and the absolute mess you both looked like.

If it had been anyone else on the planet sharing that mattress, the coffee mug would have shattered against the wall and Rhys would have physically dismantled the room.

Instead, a slow, dark, incredibly twisted amusement flickered across his face. He didn't look angry. He looked like a man surveying his assets and finding them entirely acceptable.

"Thought I smelled tequila and poor life choices drifting down the hall," Rhys murmured, his deep baritone cutting smoothly through the quiet as he took a slow, unhurried sip of his coffee. He leaned his broad shoulder casually against the doorframe, his dark gaze lingering on the way Killian's hand was still planted firmly on your hip. "Decided to skip the guest room and just christen my bed instead?"

"She wandered into my orbit," Killian drawled lazily, his fingers tightening just a fraction against your skin as he pulled you a hair closer, entirely unfazed by Rhys standing right over them. "Blame the tequila. I was just giving the stray a place to crash."

Rhys let out a low, gravelly huff of a laugh, pushing off the doorframe to step further into the room. He walked right up to the edge of the mattress, towering over the two of you with that suffocating, heavy presence that made it impossible to breathe.

"Right," Rhys said dryly, his gaze dropping down to your flushed, half-asleep face as he reached out with his free hand, dragging his knuckles roughly across your jawline. "Get up, both of you. You're ordering coffee and breakfast, and the Dictator is drinking three glasses of water before she moves an inch."

The crisp autumn air hit your lungs like a shock to the system, tasting of damp earth and exhaust fumes—the first real breath of the outside world you’d had in thirty days.

According to Rhys’ carefully curated calendar, this was your designated forty-eight-hour window of "supervised autonomy," a pitiful sliver of freedom designed to keep you from completely snapping while still keeping you securely on a leash. You were supposed to walk the designated trails, grab your black coffee from the usual corner spot, and return before dusk like a good little pet. Instead, you had veered off the map entirely, walking until your boots ached just to sit on a battered wooden bench tucked away in a forgotten corner of the public botanical gardens.

That was where you met Leo.

He was sitting a few benches down, struggling to untangle the leash of an impossibly fluffy, overly enthusiastic Golden Retriever that had decided your shoelaces looked like a chew toy. Within five minutes, Leo was apologizing profusely, flashing a blinding, genuine smile that didn’t reach his eyes with malicious intent—just pure, unfiltered warmth. He was ridiculously tall, broad-shouldered in a soft, oversized cream knit sweater, and possessed an easy, gentle energy that felt entirely alien compared to the suffocating, predatory atmosphere of the penthouse.

By the third week, after bumping into each other every single Thursday, you weren’t just garden acquaintances anymore. You were actual friends.

The afternoon sun was filtering lazily through the changing leaves as you sat side-by-side on the grass, sharing a box of stale pastries. You had been laughing about some stupid dog antics, but the mood had slowly dissolved, the heavy, invisible weight of your reality pressing down until the confession just slipped out through a cracked, exhausted sigh.

You didn't give names at first. You just talked about the cage. You talked about the rulebook, the suffocating surveillance, the way your autonomy was treated like a software glitch to be patched, and the sheer, twisted hierarchy of a house where your body wasn't even entirely yours—where one man's possessive chokehold was casually shared with an associate because it amused them both.

Leo had gone completely still beside you.

The easy, lopsided smile slid off his face, replaced by a look of profound, horrified disbelief. He stopped chewing on his pastry, his dark eyes wide as they searched your face, tracking the dark shadows under your eyes and the rigid, defensive posture you didn't even realize you were holding. The Golden Retriever rested its heavy head on Leo’s knee, completely oblivious to the sudden, suffocating shift in the air.

"Wait," Leo said, his voice dropping from its usual warm register into a flat, strained whisper. He shook his head slowly, as if trying to clear his ears. "Back up. Rewind. What do you mean... they share you?"

You didn't answer, just stared down at your hands, picking nervously at a loose thread on your sleeve. The silence stretched between you, heavy and agonizing.

Leo let out a sharp, breathless laugh that sounded entirely devoid of humor, running a trembling hand through his messy brown hair. He stared at you, the horror slowly settling deep into his bones as the full, sickening picture of your life outside these gardens painted itself out.

"Oof," Leo breathed out, his voice cracking slightly around the edges as he stared at you with a mix of absolute heartbreak and sheer, unadulterated terror. "That's... that's not normal. That’s not a relationship, that’s... Jesus Christ."

He shifted closer, his broad frame tense, his eyes burning with an urgent, desperate plea as he reached out, hovering his hands just inches from your shoulders as if afraid a sudden movement would shatter you.

"That is textbook captivity," Leo said, the polite, sweet exterior entirely stripped away, leaving behind a man who was violently realizing his new friend was living in a horror movie. "You need to get out. Like, today. Pack a bag, come home with me, change your number—we can call the authorities, we can do something. You can't go back there."