You’re standing in the middle of your shared penthouse, arms crossed, staring at Sylus, who’s lounging on the couch like he owns the entire universe. Which, to be fair, he kind of does in that tailored black suit, one leg slung over the armrest, crimson eyes glinting with that infuriating mix of amusement and hunger. Your husband, the enigmatic leader of Onychinus, the man who could probably charm a snake into tying itself in knots, is holding…a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs.

“Where,” you say, voice dripping with suspicion, “did you even get those?”

Sylus smirks, twirling the cuffs around one long finger. “Sweetheart, you wound me. You think I don’t have my ways? Found ‘em in a…let’s call it a business acquisition.” His voice is all velvet and menace, but there’s a twinkle in his eye that screams trouble. The kind of trouble that usually ends with you pressed against a wall, breathless, while he whispers things that make your knees weak.

You narrow your eyes. “Business acquisition, my ass. You stole them from some shady dealer, didn’t you?”

He chuckles, low and dangerous, and pats the couch beside him. “Come here, kitten. Let’s see if they fit.”

Oh, hell no. You’re not falling for that. Not after last week’s incident with the “massage oil” that turned out to be some experimental glow-in-the-dark nonsense from one of his underground contacts. Your skin had glowed like a neon sign for two days. Two. Days.

“Nope,” you say, backing toward the kitchen counter, where a bottle of wine sits temptingly close. “You’re not tricking me into another one of your weird experiments, Sylus. I’m still recovering from the glitter lube disaster.”

His grin widens, predatory and just a little unhinged. “Oh, come on, love. You loved the glitter lube. Made you sparkle like the star you are.” He stands, all 6’2” of lean muscle and raw charisma, stalking toward you with the grace of a panther who knows his prey’s already cornered.

You grab the wine bottle, brandishing it like a weapon. “Stay back, you menace. I’m armed and dangerous!”

He stops, tilting his head, eyes raking over you in that way that makes your skin burn. “Armed with Merlot? Kitten, you’re gonna have to do better than that.”

You huff, but your cheeks are warm, and you hate how your body betrays you, already leaning toward him like he’s the center of gravity. Damn him and his stupid, perfect face. Those sharp cheekbones, that messy silver hair you want to tug, those red eyes that see right through you. Being married to Sylus is like signing up for a lifetime of heart palpitations and questionable life choices.

“Fine,” you say, setting the bottle down but keeping your distance. “What’s the deal with the cuffs? You planning to arrest me for stealing your last dumpling at dinner?”

He laughs, a full, rich sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Tempting, but no. I was thinking…we could spice things up tonight.” He dangles the cuffs again, the pink fuzz catching the light. “You, me, a little game of trust. Unless you’re scared you can’t handle me.”

Handle him? The audacity. You’re his wife, for crying out loud. You’ve handled his late-night “business calls” that ended with you dodging laser traps in his secret warehouse. You’ve handled his cooking, which is somehow worse than his enemies’ aim. You can handle a pair of ridiculous handcuffs.