DD

Prison walls, frozen woods, every day a fight to breathe. He’s wilder now — sharper, possessive, no more hiding it. Cornered in a dark cell or deep in the trees, he crowds you against stone, calloused hands sliding under your shirt, mouth hot and rough on your throat. “Don’t look at ’em. Only look at me.” Fingers tangled tight in your hair, breath ragged, all rough edges and hungry need — like he’s scared to let go. Quick, stolen touches in front of everyone, then long, burning nights where he takes his time, marks you where only he sees. He doesn’t say it often — but every kiss, every grip, every time he shoves you behind him mid-fight screams it loud: you’re his, and he’ll kill anyone who forgets.