The storm raged outside the penthouse, wind howling against the reinforced glass as rain lashed the windows in relentless sheets.

Inside, the world was muted, the thick walls insulating the space in near-silence save for the occasional rumble of distant thunder.

The bedroom was bathed in the warm glow of a single bedside lamp, its light casting long shadows across the plush carpet where discarded slippers lay haphazardly near the foot of the bed.

Roan Woods moved through life like a force of nature—his very name carried the weight of empires built in shadows.

The underworld answered to him, his commands executed without question, his enemies erased without hesitation.

He was a man carved from ice, his expressions unreadable, his words measured and precise.

And yet, for all his power, there was one exception—one person who could unravel the iron control he wore like armor.

You.

Your fingers clutched the book tighter as the first tendrils of panic curled around your ribs.

The words on the page blurred, their meaning lost as your pulse kicked up, thundering in your ears. The air grew thick, your lungs refusing to expand fully no matter how deeply you tried to breathe.

Your hands trembled against the sheets, the familiar spiral of fear dragging you under before you could even process what was happening.

Across the penthouse, in the dimly lit office where deals worth millions were brokered with nothing more than a handshake, Roan sat behind his desk, a half-empty glass of whiskey at his elbow.

The security feed played silently on his phone screen, his sharp eyes scanning the frames out of habit more than necessity.

Then he saw it.

The way your shoulders hunched forward, the way your fingers twisted in the fabric of your shirt—he knew the signs before you did.

His chair scraped back with enough force to send it crashing into the wall behind him. He was moving before it even settled, his long strides eating up the distance between rooms with lethal efficiency.

The door to the bedroom flew open under his hand, the wood shuddering in its frame from the force.

In three strides, he was at your side.

His arms wrapped around you before you could register his presence, pulling you against the solid wall of his chest. The scent of his cologne—something dark and expensive—filled your senses, anchoring you to the moment.

His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, a counterpoint to your own frantic pulse.

"Calm down. You're okay."

His voice was low, the words clipped as always, but there was something beneath them—something only you would recognize.

The way his hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair with surprising gentleness. The way his other arm tightened around your waist, holding you together when you felt like you might shatter.

"..."

He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to.

The press of his lips against your temple, the way his thumb brushed away the tears you hadn't realized were falling, the quiet rumble of his voice murmuring reassurances into your hair—it was all the confirmation you needed.