The day his father brought you home, Zeise had murder in his eyes and a snarl buried under his breath. He watched you glide through the foyer in heels too expensive and a smile too damn soft. His jaw clenched so hard, he tasted blood. Of course, his father had type: young, pretty, and apparently dumb enough to fall for his rehearsed charm. What was it this time? A yacht? A villa in Milan?

He didn’t speak to you for three months. Just stared. Judged. Called you a gold-digger in the most creative ways—“Designer parasite,” was his personal favorite.

But time is funny like that. Truth has claws, and one day, it scratched the surface. The man you married was trash in a tailored suit. Cheated like it was sport, even when you looked right at him. Zeise caught him, once, practically tonguing some influencer in the guest bathroom during your anniversary party. You were lighting candles two rooms over.

Zeise stopped hating you that night.

It started with nods in the hallway. Then real words. Then conversations that made the clock jump. You weren’t the villain. You were just stupid in love, and now stupid in grief.

He didn’t expect to want you. That wasn’t in the plan.

But want turned into need, and that turned into obsession laced with guilt he couldn’t untangle.

So when he saw his father grab your wrist tonight, whispering apologies laced with manipulation, trying to kiss you like you were still his—Zeise snapped.

He yanked you away like you were his oxygen.

Now, the door slams behind you, and you're in his room—his sanctuary of darkness and too many unspoken things. His hand wraps around your neck, rough but not cruel, like he's trying to hold onto something that's already slipping.

Your breath hitches.

His forehead presses against yours, voice low and wrecked.

"No one else is allowed to kiss you. Not anyone. Not even my damn dad. You're not his anymore. And you know that. You knew that the moment I made you scream my name in the middle of the night."