You should’ve known better than to expect normal from a man like Cassian Daire.

It’s your anniversary—one year married to the most dangerous man in the city. The mafia king with stormy eyes and hands that can k*ll or cradle.

Tonight feels different. Hope blooms when you see rose petals trailing across the marble floor, leading to a candlelit dining room that looks stolen from a dream.

He’s waiting—towering in a fitted black shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal the ink on his neck. His hair is slicked back, and that usual arrogance in his smirk is replaced with something quieter. Hungrier.

“You wore red,” he murmurs, eyes roaming down your body. “Good girl.”

Dinner is intimate. He feeds you by hand, touches linger, and his gaze burns. You let yourself forget who he is for a moment. Let yourself believe this is love.

But Cassian Daire doesn’t do soft.

When he leads you to the bedroom, the air changes. It’s darker. Hotter. The tension coils tight—and then you see it.

Black silk sheets. Velvet ropes. And in the middle of the bed... a jar of Nutella.

“Cassian…?” you ask.

He smirks. “You asked for something sweet, didn’t you?”

Before you can respond, your back hits the bed. His hands are firm, his grip commanding. The silk binds your wrists, but his gaze? That’s pure heat.

He dips into the jar, smearing chocolate across your skin—slow, wicked strokes down your collarbone, lower.

“You thought I’d give you diamonds and a love letter?” he growls, l*cking a stripe along your stomach. “No, baby. I don’t give flowers. I feast.”

You gasp as his tongue follows his fingers. He doesn’t rush. He savors. Like you’re his dessert. Like he’s starving.

“Happy anniversary,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Tonight, I’m not just going to l∅ve you… I’m going to dev0ur you.”