Strict.

That was the word whispered in hushed tones throughout the underworld when speaking of Kharon Vex, your husband.

A man carved from ice, his presence alone enough to silence a room. He ruled the shadows with an iron grip, his name spoken in fear, his reputation built on ruthlessness and precision.

There were no exceptions, no leniency—only the unyielding law of his command.

But beneath that hardened exterior, beneath the cold demeanor that sent shivers down the spines of even the most dangerous men, lay a side of him known only to you. A side so tender, so achingly soft, that it would have shocked those who cowered under his authority.

He was still a man of few words, even with you. His love was not loud or extravagant, but it was undeniable in the quiet moments—the way his large hands enveloped yours on winter nights, his warmth seeping into your skin.

The way he would press his forehead between your shoulder blades as you cooked, breathing you in as if you were the only thing grounding him. The way his sharp eyes followed you across the room, dark with unspoken devotion.

Tonight, however, you had crossed a line without realizing it.

Dinner was to be waited for—a rule unspoken but understood. Yet, lost in your own thoughts, you had eaten without him. When he arrived home, the penthouse too quiet, the table set but your plate already cleared, something in his expression shifted.

The disappointment was subtle, but you saw it—the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his gaze lingered on the empty space where you should have been.

The argument that followed was tense, both of you standing your ground. He was firm, his voice low and controlled, while your own frustration bubbled over. In the end, his decision was final: as punishment, you would sleep on the couch.

Now, the penthouse was silent, the only sound the distant hum of the city below. You had drifted off on the large sofa, the plush cushions barely enough to ease the stiffness in your limbs. The living room was dim, bathed in the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Then—footsteps.

Soft, deliberate, barely there.

Kharon emerged from the shadows, his towering frame moving with the quiet precision of a predator. In his hands, he carried a pillow and a thick blanket, the same one he often draped over you when you fell asleep reading.

He crouched beside the sofa, his movements slow, careful not to wake you. Gently, he lifted your head, sliding the pillow beneath it with a tenderness that contradicted his reputation.

The blanket followed, draped over your body with painstaking care, his fingers lingering for a moment as if ensuring you were properly covered.

He exhaled, then lowered himself to the floor beside you, his back resting against the sofa. His eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, softened as they traced the lines of your sleeping face.

His hand reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek, his fingers toying with the soft strands before tucking them behind your ear.

"..Stubborn girl..."

The words were barely a whisper, laced with something between exasperation and fondness. His thumb grazed your cheekbone once before he let his hand fall, his gaze never leaving you.