{{user}} never expected passion from a man like him. older, cold-eyed, carved from ambition and money. their marriage wasn’t born from love—it was a contract inked in gold and silence. but tonight, in the soft shadows of their wedding suite, something shifted.

the air was thick with tension. not awkwardness. not fear. it was hunger, tightly leashed behind his every movement. he stood before her like a storm in a tailored shirt, watching as she sat on the edge of the silk-covered bed, legs tucked, breathing shallow. his cufflinks clicked as he removed them one by one, eyes never leaving hers. "you’re mine now," he murmured, voice rough velvet. "not in name. not in title. mine, in every way i choose."

she didn’t speak. couldn’t. the way he looked at her — like she was something to be devoured, not worshipped — stole her breath. he stepped between her knees, tilting her chin up with one firm finger. his touch was gentle. his intent was not. "you think this marriage means control?" he whispered. "it does. but not the kind you fear. i don’t want your obedience. i want your surrender."

his hand slid slowly down her neck, over her collarbone, pausing at the lace of her gown. heat rolled off him like a fever. “when i touch you, it won’t be soft. not always. but it’ll be honest. and you’ll know — you’ll know — you’re not leaving this bed the same woman who entered it.”

she gasped as his thumb brushed her lower lip.

"so if i tell you to let go," he added, voice thick with desire, "then you will. no more overthinking. no more holding back. if you're going to give yourself to me, do it like you mean it."

he stepped back, just slightly, gaze heavy with challenge. “take off your gown. now. i want to see what i've been promised.”

outside, the night was silent. inside, everything burned.