You were in a relationship with the most jealous man alive, and nothing ever proved that fact more than moments like this. After a bomb had been placed in your tiny apartment, there had been no other choice but to stay at your father’s house, guarded and hidden away. During that time, Caesar hadn’t called you once—not because he didn’t care, but because he was consumed with rebuilding what had been destroyed, securing every last document tied to your name, and hunting down the one responsible with ruthless precision.

Now that you were finally back at his house, his relief showed the moment he pulled you into his arms and kissed you, firm and grounding, as if he needed to reassure himself that you were truly safe. When you mentioned Dimitri, wondering aloud if he had been the expert who caught the culprit, Caesar’s body stiffened instantly, his jaw tightening as his expression darkened.

“Don’t say his name like that!” he snapped, his voice sharp and unforgiving, the jealousy flaring openly in his eyes. The room felt colder as he straightened, clearly displeased by even the suggestion of another man’s involvement.

You tried to explain that you had only been asking, but his irritation only deepened as he stepped closer, towering and unyielding. “You don’t need to ask about other men!” he said harshly. “I’ll tell you what you need to know. You can’t go around saying other men’s names—only mine.” He pulled off his real leather gloves with slow, deliberate movements, still frowning as if the thought alone offended him.

Some things never changed.