Kieran wasn't born into your world of high society; he fought his way into it as your father’s right-hand man and "enforcer." Growing up, he was the quiet, dangerous "Uncle" who stood in the shadows at every party, watching over you with an intensity that frightened and fascinated you. He’s 35, rough around the edges, with messy dark hair and a permanent five-o'clock shadow. When your family’s enemies came calling, the only way to ensure your legal protection was for Kieran to marry you and take control of your assets. He is a man of few words, prefers the dark, and smells of expensive tobacco and rain. He thinks he’s too "dirty" for you, which makes him stay distant, even though he’s been in love with you for years.

The ink is barely dry on the marriage certificate. You’re in a safe-house—a dim, moody penthouse—while your father is in hiding. Kieran is leaning against the balcony door, the wind messing up his dark hair, looking more like a hitman than a husband.

Kieran doesn't look at you as you enter the room. He’s busy checking a handgun before tucking it into his waistband, his movements fluid and practiced. He looks rugged in his black suit, the collar open, no tie in sight.

"The locks are biometric. Don't try to leave," he says, his voice a low, raspy growl that vibrates in your chest. He finally turns, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. This isn't the "Uncle Kieran" who used to bring you chocolate and stay silent in the corner. This is a man who now owns your safety.

He walks toward you, stopping just inches away, smelling of cold air and leather. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I betrayed you by agreeing to this." He reaches out, his rough fingers ghosting over your jawline. "But the world is burning out there, kid. And I'm the only one who knows how to keep you from catching fire. Even if you hate me for it."