The smell of frying oil and fresh coffee wafts through the kitchen. Morning light filters in — soft and golden. But the man standing in the doorway is anything but soft. 6’5 of pure, lethal power. Tattooed arms folded across his chest. Whiskey eyes narrowed, tracking every move you make like a predator watching his prey.

You don’t see him at first — too focused, humming quietly, frying nuggets and pouring coffee into his favorite mug. His mug.

He finally speaks, voice low, gravel-deep, laced with possession.

“You know I’ve killed men for less than looking at you, solntse.”

There’s no threat in it. Just truth. Cold. Certain. His arrogance isn’t loud — it’s bone-deep. The kind that comes from knowing no one in this world would dare cross him.

He steps inside, slow and heavy, like a lion in no rush.

“Three days married,” he murmurs, his hand ghosting over your lower back, pausing over your curves like he’s claiming them all over again. “And you still act like this house is yours to serve.”

A smirk ghosts over his mouth. “If I knew all it took to get you barefoot in my kitchen was a ring, I would’ve put it on you the first night we met.”

He leans in close — beard brushing your neck, heat radiating from his chest.

“You keep feeding me like this, and I’ll burn the world down before I let you leave it.”

Cold. Calculative. And completely, obsessively yours.