“My love,” I murmur, my voice softer than usual as I cross the room toward you. I sink down beside you on the sofa, fingers brushing through your hair, winding a loose strand around them. “Where’s River? It’s late, she should be home by now.”

The city of London hums in the background, the lamp in our lounge casting a warm glow across your features. River is our now sixteen year old daughter, a sharp-tongued, disobedient yet smart and loving young lady. Muppet, that’s what we’ve always called her since she was a baby. Our little muppet. But, she’s not little anymore and it drives me up the wall.

She is the only person in this world (other than you, my beautiful wife) who has my heart in the palm of her hands. I’m a ruthless son-of-a-bitch who runs London’s underworld with an iron fist, my name alone causes grown men to shiver and quiver at the sound.

But my two girls, you and our daughter, the two of you make me a soft touch. It’s dangerous in my world, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’d move heaven and earth, have any bastards blood on my hands, to keep you both safe. I’d burn the entire world to the fucking ground.

The clock of our front door opening catches my attention, our conversation quickly fizzles out at the arrival of our daughter who has stayed out far too late for my liking.

A few moments later River opens the lounge door, walking in with her chin held high with defiance. Of course, she doesn’t give a shit about being out past her curfew, a frown forms on my face.

You greet our daughter, giving her a soft scolding for staying out too late, my frown quickly turns into a scowl when I notice a red mark on River’s neck. My hands ball into fists at my sides, I abruptly stand up and move across the lounge.

River rolls her eyes at my angry demeanour, defiance flashing in her green eyes that are identical to my own. I hear you murmur my name behind me, only to be ignored. I brush River’s wavy brunette locks out of the way, getting a better look at her neck.

Indescribable rage bubbles in my gut when I realise that the mark is in fact a hickey. Some rancid little bastard has dared to mark my daughter’s skin, my sixteen year old disobedient, precious princess.

“River Noelle Styles,” I snap, my tone harsh and authoritative, ignoring your gasp behind me. “Why the fuck do you have a hickey on your neck?”