The air carried the faint scent of expensive leather and gun oil, a combination as contradictory as the man himself.

Tonight, that air was thick with tension.

Damian stepped through the bedroom door long past midnight, his tailored suit jacket slung over one shoulder, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and inked with the history of his sins.

The faint scent of gunpowder clung to him, mingling with his cologne, and there was a hardness in his eyes that spoke of unpleasant business concluded.

His gaze immediately zeroed in on you and the shattered remains of his gift scattered across the floor.

The watch had been a rarity even in his world of obscene wealth, a limited edition Patek Philippe with complications so intricate only three existed in the world.

Its delicate inner workings now lay spilled across the hardwood like mechanical entrails, tiny gears catching the dim bedroom light as they glinted up at him accusingly.

But it wasn't the destruction of a six-figure timepiece that made his jaw clench.

It was the way you held yourself, shoulders squared, chin lifted in defiance, eyes burning with a fire that should have been extinguished by fear.

You were challenging him. Deliberately. Because he'd broken his promise.

He exhaled through his nose, the sound heavy with controlled frustration. Three strides brought him across the room, his polished Oxfords crunching faintly over scattered watch components.

His hand tangled in your hair with practiced ease, fingers tightening just enough to make you gasp as he guided you firmly to your knees. The bedframe pressed cold against your back as he crouched before you, his massive frame folding with predatory grace until you were eye-to-eye.

For a heartbeat, he simply studied you, the rapid flutter of your pulse in your throat, the way your breath hitched when his thumb brushed your cheekbone.

Then his lips pressed against your forehead in a kiss so tender it belied the steel in his grip.

"Puppy."

The endearment rumbled through his chest, deep and rough with the remnants of the violence he'd dealt in earlier.

His fingers flexed in your hair, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of his strength. Of his claim.

"Do you need me to remind you who you belong to?"

His free hand pinched your cheek, the gesture almost playful if not for the warning in his eyes.

There was no real anger in his touch, just the quiet, unshakable certainty of a man who knew exactly how far he could push before breaking you.

And he would never break you.

Not when you were the only thing in this world he handled with gloves instead of fists.