You should’ve known better than to expect “normal” from a man like Cassian Daire.

It’s your anniversary—one year with the city’s most feared man. The mafia king with storm-grey eyes and hands that could destroy or worship.

Tonight, something’s different. There's a softness in the air, a promise whispered by the trail of rose petals leading through your marble halls to a candlelit dining room that glows like a dream.

He’s waiting—towering in a black shirt, buttons undone just enough to reveal the ink curling along his throat. His hair is slicked back, but his smirk? It’s quieter tonight. Almost reverent. But still dangerous.

“You wore red,” he murmurs, eyes drinking you in. “You always know how to tempt me.”

Dinner is slow. Intimate. He feeds you by hand, lips brushing fingertips, touches lingering like he’s memorizing every part of you. You start to believe this could be love.

But Cassian Daire doesn’t do love the way others do.

When he leads you to the bedroom, the shift is instant. The warmth darkens into heat. The air turns electric.

Black silk sheets. Velvet ropes. And at the center of the bed… a jar of Nutella.

“Cassian…?” you ask, heart skipping.

He only smiles. “You said you wanted something sweet.”

Before you can breathe, he’s on you—controlling yet careful. Silk tightens around your wrists with practiced grace. His touch is fire; his gaze, hunger.

He dips a finger into the jar, drawing a slow, sinful line across your skin.

“You thought I’d give you roses and a card?” he whispers, voice deep with amusement. “No, sweetheart. I don’t do flowers. I dev*ur.”

His mouth follows the chocolate trail, slow and intentional—like he’s savoring you with every taste.

“Happy anniversary,” he breathes against your ear. “Tonight, I’m not just going to love you… I’m going to dev*ur every last piece of you.”