YOU'RE RESPONSIBLE FOR IT

Ozan exhaled sharply through his nose, his hands twitching at his sides. Then, in one swift motion, he grabbed Leyla's wrist and pulled her toward him.

She gasped, her hands instinctively pressing against his chest. His grip was firm but not painful, his eyes dark with a storm brewing inside them.

"You think you won something tonight?" His voice was dangerously low, almost a whisper.

Leyla's breath hitched, but she didn't back down. "I didn't come here to play games with you, Ozan."

Ozan's grip tightened. His jaw clenched. His patience was hanging by a thread.

"No, Ateş," he murmured, leaning in, his lips just inches from her ear. "But you did challenge me."

His other hand came up, fingers brushing over the faint bruise on her jaw—the one he had left earlier.

"And I don't take challenges lightly."

Before she could react, he let go of her wrist and turned, picking up a sleek dagger from the table. The silver blade glinted under the dim lights.

Leyla tensed. "What are you—"

With one fluid motion, Ozan spun the blade in his fingers before gripping it by the sharp edge. Then, without breaking eye contact, he pressed the blade into his own palm.

Leyla's eyes widened as blood trickled down his wrist, pooling in his palm.

But Ozan didn't even flinch.

"A lesson, Ateş," he said, his voice eerily calm. "Pain is power. It reminds you that you're alive."

He lifted his bleeding hand and, before she could move away, dragged his thumb—stained with his own blood—along her lower lip.

Leyla's breath hitched.

"You made me bleed for the first time in years, Leyla." His voice was deep, dangerous, intoxicating. "Now, let's see if you can handle what comes next."

Ozan let his blood-streaked thumb linger against Leyla's lips for just a second longer before he finally pulled away. He smirked, but there was something darker behind his gaze—something unreadable.

Then, without warning, he turned and pressed a hidden panel on the wall. A small compartment slid open, revealing a pristine white cloth and a medical kit. He grabbed it, still silent, and walked back toward Leyla.

She stood frozen, watching him, her mind still reeling from what had just happened.

Without a word, Ozan took her hand—firm, commanding—and placed the cloth into her palm.

"Clean it," he ordered.

Leyla blinked. "What—"

"You wanted me to stop, didn't you?" His voice was smooth, teasing, yet held a warning underneath. "You interrupted my business, you gave orders in my house." He leaned in slightly, his smirk deepening. "Now, you'll take responsibility for it, Ateş."

Leyla swallowed hard. She wanted to refuse, to shove the cloth back at him and walk away. But something about the way he was watching her—like a hunter waiting to see if his prey would fight or surrender—made her hesitate.

Her pride burned inside her chest, but she forced herself to stay calm.

With a sharp inhale, she took his injured hand in hers. His skin was warm, rough, yet the wound still dripped fresh red onto her fingers.

She pressed the cloth against the cut, applying pressure.

Ozan inhaled deeply through his nose, his jaw tightening.

Leyla glanced up. "You act like pain doesn't bother you, but your body says otherwise."

Ozan chuckled darkly. "And you act like you don't care, but look at you—touching me so gently."

Leyla's fingers twitched, but she didn't let go. Instead, she applied antiseptic, deliberately pressing harder than necessary.

Ozan hissed slightly, his free hand shooting out—gripping her waist.

Leyla froze.

The air between them thickened. His fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her (his) shirt, and for the first time that night, there was something unreadable in his eyes.

Not amusement. Not arrogance.

Something raw.

"I should make you pay for this, you know," he murmured.

Leyla smirked, finally pulling her hands away from his. "Oh? And how exactly do you plan to do that?"

Ozan's smirk returned, slow and dangerous.

"You'll find out soon enough, Ateş."