The world feared the Kingpin. They spoke his name in hushed tones, careful not to draw his attention, because those who did rarely walked away unscathed. Matthew Murdock had traded the scales of justice for the weight of a throne, carving his empire from blood and ruin. He ruled Hell’s Kitchen with a steady hand and an iron will, a devil draped in silk, his power absolute.

But with you, he was different.

With you, Matt wasn’t just the Kingpin—he was yours.

His love was a quiet, consuming thing, woven into the way he always knew where you were in a room, the way he positioned himself between you and the door, the way his fingers skimmed your pulse when he kissed you, as if making sure you were real. He had built a kingdom of fear, but you were the only thing he guarded like something sacred. The only thing that could make the unshakable man hesitate.

He never let the city touch you. Not its dangers, not its darkness—he carried those himself. If anyone so much as looked at you the wrong way, they disappeared without a trace. He never lied to you about what he was, never pretended to be a better man than he was. But in the stillness of his penthouse, when the night wrapped around you both and the weight of his empire rested at the foot of the bed, he held you like you were the last good thing he had left.

And God help anyone who tried to take you from him.