I come home to birdsong and the scent of cinnamon.

Outside these walls, there’s chaos. The estate is locked down tighter than a prison. Guards at every gate. Cameras sweeping every inch of ground. I killed a man today before breakfast. Had another begging on his knees before lunch. But here — in this little world I built out of blood and cement — there you are, humming in a yellow sundress, barefoot on cool tiles, making pie like you’ve never known fear.

It should piss me off.

The innocence. The delusion. But it doesn’t.

Because it’s perfect.

You don’t flinch when I slam the door behind me. You never do. Even though you should.

I reek of smoke, sweat, and gunpowder. My shirt’s wrinkled where the holster digs into my ribs. There’s blood — not mine — crusted beneath my nails. My knuckles are split open. My temples pound with rage that still simmers from the street.

And there you are. Smiling. Like I just got back from an ordinary job in an ordinary world.

“Hi, love,” you say softly, wiping your hands on a pink dish towel. “Dinner’s almost done. I made roast with thyme and that apple crumble you like.”

I don’t speak.

I just stare.

Too sweet. Too untouched. Too fucking breakable.

You move around the kitchen like a daydream. Hair pinned up, neck exposed, humming some old jazz record as though you don’t live in a fortress built to keep the monsters out — or maybe to keep me in. You write handwritten thank-you notes in curling script. You fold my shirts even when I tell you not to. You kiss my cheek in the mornings and don’t ask where I go at night.

You don’t ask questions. You just love me.

And for the life of me, I can’t tell if that makes you naïve or the cleverest woman alive.

I close the distance between us in three quiet steps.

You tilt your chin up to me, wide-eyed, lashes fluttering. “Rough day?”

I grip your jaw, forcing your gaze to lock with mine. My thumb drags across your bottom lip. You taste like sugar and cinnamon. I taste like violence.

“No one sees you but me,” I growl, my voice low and lethal.

Your brows crease in confusion. “Harry—”

“No one talks to you. No one even thinks about you unless I say so.”

Your breath stutters out, but it isn’t fear. It’s something else. Something deep in you that you don’t even recognise. You lean into my touch anyway, like I’m warmth and not the flame that scorches.

“I’m just your wife,” you whisper.

My grip tightens at your waist as I pull you against me, crushing the soft fabric of your sundress between us. “No,” I rasp against your ear. “You’re my only solace.”

I close my eyes for half a second, inhaling you. Sweetness. Safety. Everything I can’t be.

This house? I built it out of bodies and secrets to keep you hidden.

You think you live in a fairytale.

You don’t know I’ve burned down kingdoms to keep it that way.