C-8

"Don't ever think you can control me," Dean snarled as he burst into the darkened room. "You have no idea what you do to me."

In that moment, every thought in his mind spiraled out of control. Dean couldn't deny the truth: when Ada—his so‐called "coffee girl"—began to adjust her torn dress and a glimpse of her lacy undergarments caught his eye, he lost all restraint. He had been with many women before, but none had stirred him as deeply as Ada did. No one had driven him wild the way her subtle movements, the delicate way she bit her lower lip or sighed softly, did. It was as if every gesture of hers unraveled him, and in that moment, he surrendered completely.

"Are you insane?" a gruff voice demanded from the shadows as Dean stepped further inside. Yet his mind was already racing. He remembered how the kiss had taken him by surprise—how he had pressed his lips to hers with a hunger he never thought himself capable of. Her mouth had tasted like a forbidden sweetness, a flavor he wished he could savor forever. He had nibbled and sucked with such intensity that when Ada finally returned the kiss, it was as though she were matching his passion note for note. But just as quickly, a surge of jealousy had crashed over him. The thought that another man might have tasted her first was unbearable.

"I'm sorry," he had whispered as he turned away, raking his hands messily through his hair in a futile attempt to regain control. Yet no sooner had the words left his lips than a searing sting exploded on his shoulder. Ada's hand had struck him sharply.

"That was for kissing me without my permission!" she cried, her voice breaking as fresh tears welled in her eyes. "I was almost raped once, and you— you just went ahead and kissed me!"

For an instant, Dean's bravado faltered. He felt a twinge of remorse—something rare for him. But even as he recognized his mistake, a dangerous obsession bubbled beneath the surface. In that raw, volatile moment, his inner voice challenged him.

"You liked it, didn't you?" he demanded roughly, pulling Ada from the cold floor. "You kissed me back like a pro. Who taught you to kiss like that?"

Before Ada could muster a response, Dean slammed her against the wall. Her eyes, wide with shock and pain, pleaded silently for mercy even as fear danced in them. "Answer me!" he roared, his voice low and commanding. "Who taught you how to kiss like that?" His tone was as harsh as it was possessive—a desperate need to claim every part of her, to be the first and the only one.

Ada stuttered, "W-what do you mean—" but before she could finish, Dean's desire overwhelmed his restraint. He pressed his lips to hers once more, this time with a rougher intensity that left little room for gentleness. The kiss was aggressive, a collision of need and raw emotion. Ada's body recoiled as she pushed him away, and the sound of another sharp slap echoed in the room. The metallic taste of blood mingled with the bitter tang of regret in his mouth.

"You're a bastard!" Ada screamed, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and hurt as she shoved him aside and fled through the door, her torn clothes barely clinging to her.

Dean stood there for a long, breathless moment, torn between fury and a maddening possessiveness. As he watched Ada disappear into the night, his subconscious sneered mockingly, "How is she yours?" But he barked back, "Shut up, not now!" even as the jeers of onlookers in the club reached his ears.

Muttering to himself, Dean's inner dialogue grew louder. "What? They've never seen a man talk to himself before?" he mused bitterly. His voice was laced with both frustration and a dangerous obsession. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone else claiming Ada—the very idea of another man's lips on hers sent a violent shudder through him.

His gaze shifted, and soon he heard faint whimpers from a darkened hallway. Instantly, his anger surged anew. Dean flicked on the overhead light, revealing a heartbreaking scene: Ada, disheveled and trembling, stood in a pitiful state. Her clothes were haphazardly gathered around her waist, her bra hanging loosely, exposing her reddened, delicate skin.

A voice—his own inner critic—mocked, "You still think her boobs are beautiful in this state?" Dean rolled his eyes at the thought, though even he couldn't deny the tragic allure in her ruined appearance.

"B-boss, what are you doing here?" came a stuttering interjection from one of the attackers—a man named Jake, whose panic was evident as he turned to face Dean.

"Where did you touch her, Jake?" Dean demanded in a voice that dripped with predatory menace. "Tell me everything."

"Just a few slaps on her… on her boobs, that's all—" Jake tried to explain, but his words were cut short as Dean leveled his gun without hesitation. In one swift, ruthless motion, he fired twice. Jake crumpled to the floor, screaming in agony as he writhed in pain.

"What did I say about preying on any girl you see?" Dean growled, crouching beside the fallen man. His rule was absolute: though he ran a ruthless organization, he had one inviolable line—no one was to violate Ada. She was off limits, sacred even in his dark world.

The attackers, now alarmed and scrambling, reached for their weapons, but Dean's presence was overwhelming. His eyes, cold and unyielding, burned with a dangerous promise. The chaos that followed was swift and brutal; the would-be assailants were overwhelmed by his expert precision, their amateur attempts at violence no match for his training and his obsessive protectiveness.

When the room finally fell silent, Dean holstered his weapon with deliberate calm. He strode to where Ada was cowering, her eyes red and glistening with tears. He knelt beside her, his rough hands trembling as they gently attempted to lift the remnants of her torn clothes.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his tone a conflicted mixture of tenderness and possessiveness.

Ada's voice was barely a whisper. "This… this is the second time you've saved me," she murmured, her eyes wide with both gratitude and lingering terror.

Dean's heart pounded in his chest, and for a brief moment, his inner conflict warred with his obsession. "I'm sorry," he said, turning away with his hands running through his disheveled hair—a feeble attempt to express remorse even as his mind raged with jealousy.

Then, as if unable to contain himself, he pulled her close again. "You liked it, didn't you?" he pressed, his voice low and desperate. "Who taught you to kiss like that? Tell me, Ada—who made you this perfect?" His words were harsh, his tone violent with a twisted need to possess every part of her experience.

Before Ada could protest, Dean slammed her against the wall once more. "Answer me!" he bellowed, his eyes dark with a jealousy that bordered on madness. "Who taught you how to kiss like that?" His voice, laced with venom, demanded an answer even as he clung to her.

In a burst of terror and defiance, Ada managed a stuttering reply, "Wh-what do you mean—" but Dean was relentless. He captured her lips in another forceful kiss, rougher this time, leaving no room for gentleness. Ada's body reacted instinctively—she pushed him away with all her might, and yet the violent kiss continued until a fresh slap shattered the moment. Blood, hot and bitter, filled his mouth as he staggered back.

"You're a bastard!" Ada screamed, her voice echoing in the confined space. She shoved him aside and bolted for the door, leaving behind the wreckage of their violent encounter.

As Dean watched her flee, his mind screamed with conflicting emotions—a dangerous cocktail of desire, jealousy, and regret. "How could she be mine and yet not mine?" his subconscious hissed in a tone almost mocking. He barked out a reply to the unseen voice, "Shut up, not now!" even as his inner turmoil threatened to spill over.

Outside, the murmur of onlookers filled the night air, their stares burning into his back. Dean muttered bitterly under his breath, "They've never seen a man talk to himself before." His words blended with his inner dialogue—a ceaseless monologue that both taunted and tormented him.

Then, in a darkened corridor, he heard it: soft, anguished whimpers. The sound spurred him on like a knife to the heart. Flicking on the light with a swift motion, he revealed a scene that made his anger flare anew. Ada stood there, a broken figure, her clothes haphazardly clinging to her waist. Her bra had slipped, exposing her bruised, reddened skin. Even in this pitiful state, there was a tragic beauty to her, a reminder of what he both craved and feared.

Before he could speak, a trembling voice called out, "B-boss, what are you doing here?" It was Jake's partner in crime, eyes wide with panic.

"Where—where did you touch her, Jake?" Dean demanded once more, his voice razor-sharp with fury.

"Just a few slaps… that's all…" Jake stammered weakly.

Before Jake could finish, Dean's cold precision took over. "No more," he declared, leveling his gun and firing without hesitation. Jake's agonized scream echoed as his legs buckled, sending him crashing to the floor.

Dean knelt by Ada, his tone softening as he addressed her, "I said no one is to prey on you. You're off limits, Ada. I will never allow anyone to hurt you."

In the heavy silence that followed, Ada's tearful eyes met his. "Please… don't leave me," she pleaded in a broken whisper.

Dean's voice was low, almost tender as he replied, "I'm here. I won't let anyone take you from me."

As the night deepened, their final exchange resonated in the gloom. Ada, still trembling, managed to say, "I'm scared, but I… I need you."

Dean's dark eyes softened for a fleeting moment as he murmured, "You have my word, Ada. I'll always be your protector."

Their whispered words, heavy with both promise and danger, hung in the air as the echoes of their final dialogue faded into the night:

"Don't ever leave me," Ada begged softly.

"Not as long as I'm here," Dean vowed, his voice a dangerous mix of obsession and sincerity.