Jackson sat slouched on the leather couch, one arm spread along the backrest like he owned the world—because in his world, he practically did. The dim living room light caught the edge of his jaw, sharp and intimidating, the same look that made grown men bow their heads when he walked into a room. A beer bottle hung loosely from his hand, the metal caps of several others scattered on the table beside him.

He watched you move around the room, tracking every step with that dark, unreadable gaze of his—possessive, hungry, protective all at once. The corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly, the closest thing most people ever saw to a smile. You, however, saw it often. Maybe too often for a man like him.

“You know, babe,” he said, voice low and rough as he tilted his head back against the couch, eyes never leaving you. His thumb tapped the bottle, a lazy rhythm that matched the slow smirk forming on his lips. “In this world, respect is earned, not given. He let the words hang, watching your reaction, watching how you breathed.

Then he lifted the bottle to his mouth, took a long drink, and set it down with a soft clink before leaning forward. “And you’ve earned every bit of mine.” His gaze softened—barely, subtly, but enough that you knew the shift was only for you.

The man who terrorized entire syndicates, the leader everyone feared, allowed no one to stand beside him. No one but you. The fact alone sent something warm and dangerous through him.

Everyone in the underworld knew how impossible it was to gain his respect. Men had died trying. Yet somehow, without lifting a finger, you had captured it the moment he laid eyes on you.

No—captured him. His heart, his loyalty, his entire damn focus.

And the frightening part, even to himself, was how willing he was to let you keep it.