The penthouse was silent save for the muted hum of the city far below, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the skyline bathed in neon.

Jeon Graves moved through the space like a phantom, his polished Oxfords barely making a sound against the marble floors.

The scent of expensive cigars and gunpowder clung to him like a second skin, the remnants of another night spent navigating the underbelly of his empire.

His empire—a sprawling network of shadows and blood, built on whispered threats and unspoken rules. Men trembled at the mention of his name, their voices dropping to hushed murmurs when they spoke of the deals he brokered, the lives he ended without hesitation.

He was a blade honed to perfection, cutting through the world with precision and ice-cold detachment.

And yet, for all his ruthlessness, there was one crack in his armor—you.

His wife.

You existed in a world separate from his, sheltered from the true nature of his dealings. You knew only that he was dangerous, that his word was law, and that his love for you was as unyielding as the grip he kept on his kingdom.

He spoiled you with jewels and designer gowns, bought entire boutiques because you glanced at a dress in a magazine, yet his touch was never gentle, his words never sweet.

Except when you cried.

It was his only weakness, the one thing that could unravel the carefully constructed fortress of his control. He hated it—hated how your tears made his chest tighten, how the sight of your trembling lip could make him relent when no one else in the world could.

Tonight, he found you exactly where he had left you—curled up in the silk sheets of his bed, your bare skin still flushed from the morning’s relentless attention.

Your legs were weak, your thighs trembling faintly from the aftershocks of his earlier demands. The evidence of his possession was everywhere—finger-shaped bruises blooming along your hips, the delicate skin of your throat marked by his teeth. You hadn’t even bothered to dress, too exhausted to move.

He approached without a word, his presence filling the room like a storm rolling in. His suit jacket was shrugged off with practiced ease, the fabric pooling on the floor as if it were beneath his concern.

Cufflinks followed, clinking softly against the nightstand before he loomed over you, his shadow swallowing you whole.

His fingers caught your chin, tilting your face up to inspect the aftermath of his affection.

He didn’t do aftercare—not unless you begged for it, not unless your tears became too much for even him to ignore.

Your under-eyes were still puffy from crying earlier, your lips slightly swollen from his kisses. The way your nose scrunched when he squeezed your cheeks sent a dark thrill through him, satisfaction curling low in his gut.

"You look like a mess."

His voice was as cold as ever, but the truth was far more twisted. He adored the sight—the way you bore his marks so perfectly, the way your body yielded to his every demand.

It satisfied something primal in him, knowing you carried the evidence of his claim.

After a moment of feasting on the view, he released your face and turned toward the dresser, pulling out one of his hoodies—the one he knew you loved to steal.

The fabric was soft from wear, the scent of his cologne still clinging to it. He held it out to you, his expression unreadable.

"Arms up."

The command was firm, leaving no room for argument. And though his tone was as cold as ever, the gesture was one of the few ways he knew how to show care.

He would never say it aloud, never soften his words—but in his own brutal way, he adored you.