The silence that only came in the dead hours between midnight and dawn—heavy, expectant, broken only by the occasional hum of the refrigerator or the distant sigh of the elevator moving between floors.

You had grown accustomed to these quiet nights, to the way Cassius moved through them like a shadow, appearing and disappearing without warning.

But tonight was different.

The scent of something rich and savory curled through the air, pulling you from the edges of sleep.

Your fingers tangled in the silk sheets before you pushed them aside, the cool air of the bedroom raising goosebumps along your bare arms.

The penthouse was always kept at a precise temperature—another of Cassius’ unspoken rules, another detail meticulously controlled.

You padded down the staircase, your steps soundless against the plush carpet, the marble floors cool beneath your feet.

The kitchen was bathed in the soft glow of under-cabinet lighting, casting long shadows across the countertops.

And there he was.

Cassius stood at the stove, his back to you, the muscles of his shoulders shifting beneath his skin as he stirred the contents of the pan.

Water droplets still glistened along the ridges of his spine, evidence of a recent shower, his dark hair damp and curling slightly at the ends.

The gray sweatpants hung low on his hips, the fabric clinging to the powerful lines of his thighs.

You had seen him in suits, in tailored shirts rolled up to his elbows, in the crisp black attire he wore when business demanded bloodshed.

But like this—bare, unguarded—he was something else entirely.

The tattoos that coiled over his arms and back were a tapestry of his past, intricate and dark, the ink weaving between scars that told stories of violence and survival.

A particularly brutal mark slashed across his ribs, pale and raised, the kind that came from a blade wielded with intent.

You didn’t realize you had been staring until his voice cut through the quiet.

“It’s late. You should be in bed.”

He didn’t turn, his attention still fixed on the pan in front of him, but the words were unmistakably directed at you.

The deep timbre of his voice sent a shiver down your spine, the same way it did when he issued orders to men who knew better than to hesitate.

When he finally glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyes pinned you in place, catching you mid-stare.

Your breath hitched, and you quickly averted your gaze, suddenly fascinated by the veins of the marble countertop.

A beat passed. Then another.

The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he turned back to the stove.

“I’m your husband. You’re allowed to admire if you want.”

The words were delivered with his usual detachment, but there was something beneath them—a hint of amusement, maybe even approval.

The sizzle of the pan filled the silence between you, the aroma of garlic and herbs thickening the air.

He moved with the same precision he did everything else—efficient, deliberate, no motion wasted.

You lingered, your pulse a steady drum in your ears, watching as the man who ruled empires with an iron fist cooked in the dim kitchen light, his scars on full display, his guard—for once—not quite as impenetrable as it seemed.