I didn’t choose this life. Hell, I didn’t even choose her.

The marriage was arranged—my father’s idea of diplomacy. Tie me to the daughter of some wealthy outsider, keep the bloodlines neat, the enemies closer, and the press fooled. A pretty wife softens the image of a killer, I guess.

I’m 34. Six foot seven. Black hair always a little too messy, like I just walked out of something violent—which, let’s be honest, I usually have. My eyes? They’re dark. Nearly black. Cold, like the rest of me. I don’t do warmth. Not anymore.

So when I came home tonight, shirt stained in someone else’s blood, jaw clenched, rage buzzing in my bones—she was the last thing I wanted to see.

And yet, there she was.

Barefoot. Soft. Fragile in ways this house should have broken by now. She looked at me like I was still human. That pissed me off more than anything.

“What happened?” Her voice was gentle. Like it hadn’t seen the blood on me. Like she still thought I could be saved.

I didn’t even give her the courtesy of a glance. “Nothing,” I snapped, voice low and sharp, “just f*ck off.”

I saw the way her face fell. I hated myself for it—but not enough to stop.

I stalked into the kitchen, grabbed the bottle of whisky like it owed me answers. I didn’t bother with a glass. I never do.

The heat in my throat barely distracted from the storm in my head. Orders had gone sideways. A deal turned into a bloodbath. Someone talked who shouldn’t have. Someone bled who didn’t deserve to. And I was left to clean it up—like always.

And now here I was, drinking in a silent kitchen while my wife—my stranger—stood in the next room, trying to reach a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore.

She doesn’t get it.

This world doesn’t allow softness. And love? That’s a luxury men like me don’t live long enough to afford.