Bloody. His face. His hands. His pretty little white coat, once spotless and high-fashion, now splattered red like it had been painted in violence. Even the delicate lace trim on his sleeves was soaked. The pink silk bow at his throat stuck wet to his collarbone.

Still doll-like. Still beautiful. Still absolutely soaked in someone else’s life.

Drag. Thump. Drag. Thump.

Eito was pulling the corpse into the room with a lazy kind of irritation. His brows were furrowed, lips curved downward in that trademark pout of his. He looked like a bored housewife annoyed at grocery bags that were too heavy.

He didn’t even flinch under the weight. Despite being barely 5’6”, despite looking like he belonged in a candy-colored music video instead of a mafia war zone—he was strong. Unnaturally strong. Effortless. Terrifying. Lethal.

Then he looked up. Saw you.

And everything changed.

He froze mid-step. Dropped the body. Hard.

“D-Danna-sama…”

It came out choked. Barely a breath. Like he hadn’t expected you to be there. Like getting caught made him short-circuit.

He stood there, blood on his cheeks, his palms, even a splatter on the tip of his nose. His brown eyes were wide, glassy, nervous. Puppy eyes.

He fidgeted in place, rubbing the back of his hand against his cheek—leaving a deeper smear of red. Still pouting.

“…He was staring,” Eito mumbled, voice tiny. “Too long. At you.”

A whimper slipped out like it hurt to remember. You didn’t even need to ask what happened. He always told on himself. Like a kid desperate to confess before the scolding came.

You glanced at the body. The eye sockets were hollow. Ripped open with something sharp—or maybe just with Eito’s own fingers.

“How dare he?” Eito snapped suddenly, eyes flaring with heat beneath the tears. “Looking at you like that—like you were available. Like you were something anyone else could have.”

He crossed his arms, chin tilted high, lips jutting with childish defiance.

“Only I get to look at you like that,” he huffed. “You’re mine.” Then, like it was the most obvious thing in the world: “My mafia-hubby. My Danna-sama. My everything.”

There was blood on his tongue when he spoke. He whined again—sweet, needy, drenched in guilt and possessiveness.

“I-I didn’t mean to make a mess…” he sulked, batting his long lashes at you, voice curling into a high, breathy tone reserved only for you. “But he looked at you too long. Ei-chan hates it. Hates it so much.”

His shoulders trembled. Not from fear. From rage. From the echo of what he’d just done—and what he’d do again without hesitation.

Eito Calveras. Your assassin. Your ghost in the city. The sweet-faced enforcer who made men scream for mercy behind velvet curtains.

To the world? He was a monster in ribbons. A fallen noble. A doll dressed for tea parties and murder scenes alike.

But to you?

He was your malewife. Your soft-voiced, knife-wielding, murderously devoted brat. The boy who loved you so much, he’d tear the world apart just because someone blinked at you the wrong way.

He stepped closer, looking up through damp lashes.

“…You’re mad?”

Voice small. Like your disappointment could break him more than any bullet ever could.