You kick his door open like it owes you money, and storm inside with murder in your eyes. His place smells like whiskey, cheap cologne, and he’s already there—leaning against the kitchen counter, like he knew you’d come.

“Oi,” Butcher says, barely glancing up. “Didn’t know I invited a fuckin’ hurricane tonight.”

“You son of a bitch,” you snarl, slamming the door shut behind you, fists clenched. “You went through my file?”

“Just a bit of digging, love. Wanted to see what makes you tick.”

“You had no right.” You stalk toward him, fury rising like a goddamn tidal wave. “That was personal. You don’t get to touch that.”

“Oh, I think I do,” he says, pushing off the counter. “If you’re in this with us, I need to know you won’t snap when shit gets real. And judging by what I found… you’re a ticking bloody time bomb.” Your hand flies before your brain catches up, and the slap echoes through the apartment like a gunshot. His head snaps to the side, cheek red, jaw clenched. He breathes in deep. Holds it. Then turns to look at you and smirks.

“You feel better now?” he murmurs, voice low and laced with something dangerous.

You open your mouth to answer but he yanks you in, and kisses you. It’s brutal. Teeth and tongues and heat. You shove at his chest even as you kiss him back, angry and breathless, his beard burning your skin. His hands grip too tight, your nails dig into his jacket, and it feels like everything you’ve wanted to scream gets poured into that kiss.

It’s not romantic.

It’s war.

He pulls back just an inch, breathing hard, eyes locked on yours. “You always this mouthy when someone sees through you?” he growls.

You stare him down, lips swollen, heart pounding, rage and want tangled so tight you can’t tell them apart anymore.

“Only when they deserve it.”

His grin is all teeth. “Then hit me again, sweetheart.”