Syria’s POV
“Can you please let go of me? Just once, just once, can you show me even the smallest amount of respect?”
My voice was calm, but barely. Irritation coiled tight in my chest like a snake ready to strike.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at me with that familiar, twisted grin, the one that always seemed to say: ‘you’re nothing without my permission.’
Then, slowly, deliberately, his hand reached out and tangled itself in my hair. He wasn’t rough, not enough to hurt me, but the gesture was calculated.
Possessive.
A silent warning that didn’t need words.
“I’m only giving you a warning, Syria,” he said, his voice smooth and almost casual, like he was talking about the weather instead of threatening my life. “Because if you ever disappoint me again, if you eve
