chapter 8

Kitty didn't dare to move, his breaths were getting more ragged. He groaned against her face, Dazai had pinned her on the floor at this rate. It was not a mistake.

The tensions between Dazai and Kitty were clearly visible. At one side, she felt Dazai being a dog in heat and on the other side, she found him seductive, his moans and the way he had struggle to control himself were all enticing games and fun to her.

She moved her head slightly on an attempt to look at his face but he had hid himself on her neck, his breathes were rapid, the sounds were clearly erotic. She could clearly

feel a thrill of eroctism trailing down her spine. She even felt his erectile.

Their body were pressed against eachother and Kitty could explicitly feel the wetness of Dazai's lips and his tongue. They weren't skin to skin but their desires were, the situation of rawness were.

The naked desires were. An unexplored territory that deserved to be explored and discovered.

Dazai lifts his face and he had seen Kitty lost in an utmost desires, her eyes were shut closed but she carried an expression of primal hungerness.

He finally whispered in Kitty's ear, unknowingly blowing some hot breath on her ears, which were quite playful, "You're treading dangerous waters, but I can promise you… they're intoxicating.,"

With every fiber of his being, Dazai restrained himself. His fingers clenched into fists at his sides, the sharp sting of his nails biting into his palms. The thought of becoming worse than Mori—of surpassing him in cruelty and manipulation—was something Dazai couldn't stomach. Even now, the memory of Mori's cold, calculating presence made his stomach twist. Mori was the most respected boss of the Port Mafia, yet Dazai had always despised him. Not because of his power, but because Mori had mastered the art of seeing people as tools—pawns in a game that had no regard for their humanity.

Dazai had often wondered, in the darkest corners of his mind, whether he was destined to become like him. The thought was terrifying—more terrifying than death itself. He had always been a man on the edge, teetering between destruction and salvation, but to fall into that abyss? To become the very thing he hated most? That would be unforgivable.

Dazai pulled the handcuffs from his coat pocket, snapping them around her wrists without a word. Kitty stared at the cold metal, her mind racing. "What does he mean by this?" she thought, confusion and fear flooding her.

His hair was messy, his expression cold—empty, even. He stood up suddenly, his movements stiff and deliberate, and Kitty instinctively shrank back. Her heart raced as she watched him, unsure of what would come next.

"Get up," he commanded, his voice sharp, like a knife cutting through the silence. His gaze was unwavering, making her feel smaller than she already did.

With a fearful shudder, Kitty obeyed, rising to her feet like an obedient pet, her hands still cuffed, her heart pounding in her chest.

Dazai suddenly remembered the task he had at hand which was to bring her to Mori. He was just robotically following it.

Dazai paused for a moment, as if snapping out of a trance. His expression shifted slightly, though the emptiness remained. He remembered the task he had at hand—bring her to Mori. It wasn't personal. It never was. His mind had already shut down to the point where he was nothing more than a tool, mechanically following orders.

He glanced at Kitty, his eyes still void of any emotion, and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Let's go," he said flatly, turning on his heel without waiting for a response. The task was simple, but the way he approached it left her with a chilling sense of inevitability.

Kitty felt small to him - both physically and mentally. She wanted to cry but she forced herself to not cry anymore as a subtle act of resilenience and autonomy. But did her resilenience or autonomy really mattered among the powerful hands of mafia men?