You’re standing in front of him, chest burning and hands trembling. Not from fear, but from that quiet rage only Daemon knows how to awaken. He’s sitting there, fingers playing with the ring on his thumb, eyes half-lidded, watching you like you’re a fire he can’t decide whether to smother or feed.

“What is it now?” he asks, not even bothering to hide the crooked smile.

That voice soft and cruel all at once cuts right through you. You don’t answer. You just stare at him, chest rising and falling fast, trying to contain what’s boiling inside. It isn’t jealousy… not the simple kind. It’s something else. That irrational fear of losing the only thing you truly understand: his presence, his chaos, the way he loves you like he hates you.

Daemon rises slowly, that predator’s gait measured, deliberate, meant to break you apart. “You can’t keep doing this,” he murmurs, voice low, the edge of mockery in it. “My husband’s turning into a damned paranoid every time someone looks at me.”