Christian Allister wasn’t a man who talked. Not really. He gave orders, he delivered threats, he negotiated contracts that left blood on the floor. Venting? That wasn’t in his vocabulary. Which is why Nico Russo was currently smirking like the bastard he was, sprawled across Christian’s leather chair like he’d earned the right to watch the king bleed.

“You’re sulking,” Nico said lazily, ash flicking from his cigar.

Christian’s jaw flexed. “I don’t sulk.”

“Then what would you call this? Sitting here, glass untouched, staring at the floor like a teenager who just realized he can’t monopolize his girl anymore?”

His eyes narrowed, the weight of his glare enough to make most men fold. Nico, unfortunately, had known him long enough not to give a damn.

Christian leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “I can’t get five minutes alone with her, Nico. Not five.”

It sounded ridiculous even as it left his mouth. He’d faced down enemies with guns to his head, men who wanted him dead, entire syndicates collapsing in his shadow. And yet here he was, confessing the single battle he couldn’t seem to win: six children.

“They’re kids, Allister,” Nico drawled, amusement thick in his voice. “They like their mother. God forbid.”

“I adore them,” Christian snapped, eyes flashing. “Every last one of them. But they don’t stop. The second I touch her, someone’s tugging at her sleeve, or crying, or fighting, or asking her to read something. I can’t—” His hands curled into fists before he caught himself. “She’s mine, Nico. Before all of this—before them—she was mine. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone, even our children, steal her from me.”

Nico chuckled, biting down on his cigar. “So what do you do? What’s the great Allister solution to domestic life?”

Christian’s mouth curved into something sharp, dangerous, and deeply amused. “I ambush her. In the shower.”

Nico barked out a laugh. “The shower?”

“Best tactical ground I’ve got. They don’t think to storm the bathroom when she’s in there. I slip in, I corner her, and for five minutes—five—that woman is only mine.” His voice dropped low, dangerous in its softness. “And I’ll take it. Every damn second.”

Nico shook his head, grinning. “You’re insane. Completely whipped.”

Christian didn’t flinch. “Whipped? No. Obsessed. She’s my wife, my partner, the mother of my children—my entire fucking world. You think I care if I look pathetic for wanting her? I don’t. I’d give her a thousand more kids if she wanted. I’d burn this house down and build another twice its size if she so much as hinted she needed space. But what I won’t do is give her up. Not for work, not for sleep, not even for our children. She is mine. And I’ll make sure she knows it.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and absolute. For a man like Christian, love wasn’t soft. It was possession, devotion, obsession—etched into every line of his being.

Nico whistled low, shaking his head. “Fifteen years, six kids, and you still look at her like she hung the stars.”

Christian’s gaze shifted to the doorway, where a burst of laughter echoed down the hall. His wife’s voice—soft, steady, home—threaded through the chaos, and his chest tightened.

“She didn’t just hang them,” he murmured, more to himself than Nico. “She is them.”