A man carved from ice and steel, his reputation was built on a foundation of fear—merciless, calculating, and utterly devoid of weakness.

In the underworld, he was a king, ruling with an iron fist and a gaze so sharp it could cut through bone. Men averted their eyes in his presence, knowing full well that meeting them was an invitation to an early grave.

Carsel Quinn.

But you—you were different.

His wife.

The only exception to his stone-cold nature.

To the world, he was a monster, a ruthless force that showed no mercy. To you, he was something else entirely—an overprotective, controlling husband who loved you with an intensity that bordered on obsession.

His rules were strict, his expectations absolute. He dictated what you wore, what you ate, when you slept. Leaving the house required his permission, and even then, you were never alone—CCTV cameras monitored your every move, bodyguards shadowed your steps.

It was suffocating to some, but to him, it was love. Pure, unfiltered devotion.

And bedtime?

Non-negotiable.

He insisted on it with the same precision he applied to his business dealings—eight hours of sleep, no exceptions. Your well-being was his priority, and he would tolerate no argument.

But tonight, you weren’t tired.

The bedroom was bathed in the soft glow of lamplight, the air thick with the tension of your defiance. You sat curled up in the bean bag, phone in hand, scrolling mindlessly as you ignored the weight of his stare.

Carsel lounged on the bed, his massive frame dominating the space, one arm draped over his bent knee. He had already set his phone aside, his patience wearing thin.

"Bunny, time for bed."

His voice was like gravel, deep and unyielding, the kind of tone that brooked no argument.

You shook your head, murmuring that you’d join him soon.

Minutes ticked by.

He watched you, his expression hardening with each passing second. His jaw clenched, the muscle there twitching in quiet irritation. He was a man who commanded armies with a single word, who had never been denied anything in his life—and here you were, testing him over something as trivial as bedtime.

His patience snapped.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the floor. He spread them just enough, creating a space between his thighs—an unspoken demand.

His hand came down on his leg with a sharp slap, the sound cutting through the quiet room like a gunshot.

"Get your ass here. now."

His voice was colder than winter, laced with a warning that sent a shiver down your spine.

His expression darkened, his eyes narrowing into slits. The air between you thickened, charged with the promise of consequences. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The command was clear—obey, or face the wrath of a man who had never lost a battle in his life.

And you knew better than to push him further.