Shouting echoed from the foyer, followed by the sickening, sharp crack of glass fracturing into a thousand pieces. Heavy boots thudded against the marble floor downstairs as security tackled the intruders who had breached the outer gates. Cold air rushed through the broken window, carrying the scent of damp earth and cheap spray paint. Red paint splattered across the white columns of the grand hallway, dripping like fresh blood onto the pristine floor. Panic seized my chest, locking my lungs and stealing my ability to breathe. My feet glued themselves to the floor, my eyes wide as I stared at the jagged shards glinting in the dim hallway light. Suddenly, the world tilted. Strong arms slid beneath my knees and behind my back, lifting me effortlessly into the air before I could even take a step. "Don't move," Namjoon commanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl against my ear. His chest was a solid wall of heat, his muscles tensed so tightly they felt like carved iron. "Namjoon, put me down," I whispered, my fingers clutching his expensive wool coat out of sheer instinct. "You're going to get hurt if you carry me." Ignoring my plea, he tightened his grip, pulling me flush against his broad torso. He stepped over a stray shard of glass with absolute precision, his dark eyes locked on the hallway ahead. Anger rolled off him in suffocating, visceral waves. A vein pulsed violently at his temple, his jaw clenched so hard I feared his teeth might shatter under the pressure. "There is glass everywhere," he muttered, his breath hot against my cold cheek. "You are not touching this floor with bare feet." He carried me past the shouting guards, past the chaos of the entrance, and kicked open the heavy oak doors of his private study. With another swift movement of his foot, he slammed the door shut, locking out the noise of the world. Silence fell over us, thick and heavy. He did not put me down immediately. Instead, he stood in the center of the dimly lit room, holding me as if I were a fragile relic he had just rescued from a burning building. Breathing shallowly, he stood with his chest rising and falling in sharp, jagged intervals. Every muscle in his upper body was coiled like a spring, ready to snap at the slightest threat. I stared at the sharp line of his collarbone, visible through his open shirt collar. A small smear of red paint had managed to transfer onto his sleeve, a jarring stain against his otherwise perfect appearance. My heart hammered against my ribs, but another sound began to drown it out. A deep, rhythmic thudding vibrated through my own chest, mirroring my pulse but operating at a terrifyingly rapid pace. A strange sensation washed over me as the supernatural bond flared. The adrenaline coursing through our veins was making our physical senses bleed together, magnifying everything to an almost unbearable degree. Inhale. Exhale. I could smell the rich, earthy scent of his cedarwood cologne mixed with the metallic tang of sweat and raw anger. Every touchpoint of our bodies felt magnified. The heat of his palms burned through the fabric of my trousers and my shirt, sending electric sparks directly to my spine. Our marks—the elegant scripts of our names etched onto our skin—burned in unison. The brand on my wrist pulsed with a feverish, golden warmth, matching the exact rhythm of the heat radiating from his body. It felt as if an invisible thread was tightening around my lungs, pulling me closer and closer to him until the boundary between where I ended and he began dissolved entirely. The sheer intensity of it made my head spin, my vision blurring at the edges as the room receded into nothingness. "Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice dropping to a raw, raspy whisper. He finally set my feet down onto the plush Persian rug, but his hands remained firmly anchored to my waist. "No," I breathed, my voice trembling. "I'm fine. But the house... those people..." "They will be handled," he cut me off, his grip tightening. His eyes scanned my face, searching for any sign of physical damage, his gaze lingering on my lips. Desire, hot and heavy, flared in the dark depths of his pupils. The bond pulsed between us, a tangible current of energy demanding that we close the tiny distance remaining. My gaze fell to his mouth, full and parted. A primal urge screamed at me to wrap my arms around his neck, to pull him down and lose myself in his kiss. Fear, cold and sharp, instantly followed that desire. If I gave in now, I would be lost. If I let myself become dependent on his touch, on his protection, what would happen when the world finally tore us apart? "Namjoon, please," I said, placing my hands on his broad chest to push him away. "We need to be logical about this. You can't keep me here." His chest barely budged under my palms. He stood like a mountain, immovable and solid, his eyes narrowing at my attempt to create distance. "Logical?" he repeated, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping him. "You think logic matters right now? Someone threw a brick through my window because of you, and my only thought was whether you were bleeding." "That's exactly my point!" I cried, tears of frustration stinging my eyes. "They are targeting you because of me. The rumors, the hate... it's all because I'm here." Step by step, he forced me backward. My heels sank into the soft rug until the back of my thighs hit the edge of his massive mahogany desk. "Let them try," he whispered, towering over me. His presence was overwhelming, blotting out the rest of the world until there was only him. He leaned in close, trapping me against the heavy wood. His hands came up, framing my body, resting on the desk behind me. "You are not leaving," he vowed, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged movements. "You belong here. With me." "This is madness," I whispered, though my heart was betraying me, leaping in my chest at his possessive declaration. "Maybe it is," he murmured, his gaze dropping back to my lips. "But I will not let you run." Gold light filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the study, casting long shadows across the rows of leather-bound books. The room felt like a sanctuary, a quiet fortress cut off from the harsh reality of the outside world. Yet, the air between us was electric, charged with a tension so thick it felt hard to breathe. Every breath I took felt like inhaling his essence, filling my lungs with his heat. His eyes, usually warm and intellectual, were dark with a fierce, protective instinct that terrified me as much as it thrilled me. I could see the battle raging inside him, the struggle to remain the gentle, patient man he wanted to be while his inner beast screamed to claim what was fated. "Why do you always try to run?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly as he leaned closer. His forehead almost touched mine, his warmth radiating off him in waves. Memories of my childhood flared up, unbidden and painful. I remembered the endless quiet of my parents' house, the way I was always told to stay out of the way, to not make a sound, to never demand attention because I was a burden. I had spent my entire life trying to be invisible, believing that safety lay in the shadows. Now, this man—the center of the world's attention—was pulling me directly into the blinding glare of his spotlight. "Because I don't belong in your world," I whispered, my voice breaking under the weight of my own insecurities. "I am just an art restorer. I mend broken things in the dark, Namjoon. You live in the light, surrounded by millions." "Do you think I care about any of that?" he rasped, his hand sliding up from the desk to cup my jaw. His thumb brushed over my lower lip, his touch sending a shiver straight down my spine. His fingers were warm, slightly rough, and incredibly gentle despite the storm raging inside him. The contrast was dizzying, making my head spin. "You have to care," I urged, trying to ignore the way my body leaned into his touch. "The fans, the media... they will destroy you if you stay with me. They will paint me as a liar, a gold digger, a parasite." "Let them write whatever they want," he growled, his grip on my jaw tightening just enough to make me look directly into his eyes. "I have spent my entire life living for other people, measuring my worth by their approval. But not this. Not you." His words pierced through my defenses, threatening to tear down the walls I had spent a lifetime building. I had grown up learning that love was conditional, that people only cared when you were useful or perfect. But Namjoon looked at me as if I were the only thing that mattered in the entire universe, even when I was at my most broken. It was too much. It was beautiful, but it was absolutely terrifying. "You don't understand," I cried softly, a single tear slipping down my cheek. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be the person you need." "I don't need you to be anyone else," he murmured, his thumb catching the tear and wiping it away with agonizing tenderness. "I just need you." His sheer honesty was a physical blow. It made me want to surrender, to throw my arms around his neck and let him carry the weight of my fears. But the fear of losing myself, of becoming entirely dependent on his love, held me back. If I let myself sink into this warmth, what would be left of me when the fire eventually burned out? "Please, Namjoon," I whispered, my hands gripping his wrists, trying to pull his hand away from my face. "No," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, possessive whisper. He pressed his body closer, leaving no space between us, his heat enveloping me completely. His scent was intoxicating, a sweet torture that made my knees weak. I could feel the hard contours of his chest pressing against my breasts, his thighs framing mine. "I let you walk away once," he continued, his eyes burning with an intense, unyielding resolve. "I spent days searching for you, feeling like half of my soul was missing. I am not making that mistake again." "This is survival," I argued, though my voice lacked any real conviction. "It's survival. For both of us." "Survival is not living," he countered, his face inches from mine. "This is living. And I won't let you hide in the dark anymore." Outside the study, the muffled sounds of shouting and sirens began to fade, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence. The world was fading away, leaving only the two of us trapped in this golden sanctuary. My heart beat in perfect sync with his, a rapid, frantic rhythm that echoed in my ears. The supernatural bond felt like an invisible cord wrapping around us, tightening with every second we spent in close proximity. I wanted to kiss him. The realization hit me with the force of a tidal wave, making my breath hitch. Whispers of my childhood, the cold reminder of my unworthiness, echoed in the back of my mind. It warned me that this was temporary, that a superstar could never truly love a quiet, insecure girl. "You're going to regret this," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Never," he swore, his gaze dropping to my lips once more. His hand slid from my jaw down to the nape of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. He tilted my head back, exposing the sensitive skin of my throat to his gaze. A low groan escaped his throat, a sound of pure frustration and desire that sent a thrill of electricity straight to my core. He was fighting his own desires, trying to restrain himself from taking what he so desperately wanted. "You make me lose my mind," he whispered against my skin, his breath hot and teasing. "I want to lock you in this room and never let the world see you again." "That's not love," I gasped, my hands tightening on his shoulders as my body betrayed me, arching toward his touch. "Maybe it is," he admitted, his lips brushing against my jawline, sending shivers down my neck. "But I don't care what you call it, as long as you are mine." Such intense physical contact was breaking down my remaining defenses. I struggled to keep my eyes open, to maintain some semblance of control over my own body. "Namjoon..." I pleaded, though I didn't even know what I was asking for anymore. Was I begging him to stop, or begging him to never let me go? He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes, his expression a mix of fierce determination and vulnerability. He wanted me to yield, to give him the trust he so desperately craved. "Look at me," he commanded softly, his dark eyes locked onto mine. "Tell me you don't feel this. Tell me you don't want this as much as I do." I opened my mouth to lie, to tell him that this was just the bond, just adrenaline. But the words caught in my throat, choked by the sheer honesty of his gaze. Truth won out. I couldn't lie to him. Not when my heart was beating in his chest, and his was beating in mine. "It's too much," I whispered, my eyes filling with tears again. "It's too fast. I'm scared." His expression softened, the fierce anger in his eyes giving way to a deep, profound tenderness. He pressed his forehead against mine, his breath mingling with mine. "I know," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm to my frayed nerves. "I know you're scared. But I am right here. I am not going anywhere." He shifted his weight, pressing me firmer against the edge of the desk. The solid wood was a cold contrast to the burning heat of his body. "Let me protect you. Give me your trust, or I will lock us both in this room forever."

Chapter 13: Red Paint on Pure Marble