It’s humiliating how domesticated I’ve become.

Once upon a time, I was the glittering fool prince of the Bratva. Charming, chaotic, a menace in good shoes. My reputation was flawless—in that it was absolutely, irrevocably not.

I was a slut, okay?

But now? Now I live in a sleek high-rise with a woman who cheerfully stalked me for two years before I gave in and accidentally fell in love with her.

She has the brightest smile and the darkest obsessions. Think sunshine and murder. Think lipstick kisses followed by threats of castration if I ever look at another woman sideways.

And she means it.

Which is why, for the past six months, I’ve been celibate—by force. Voluntary celibacy is already suspicious. Involuntary? That’s just tragic. I used to be a goddamn sex icon in this city. Now I flinch when bartenders smile at me.

Because she’ll know.

And despite what people think, I’m not stupid. I like breathing. I like my penis attached. I like the weird little life we’ve built where she eats cereal in my shirts and kisses me like I hung the stars, right before threatening to burn down my clubs if I don’t come home by midnight.

Currently?

She’s sprawled on my couch, legs on my lap, flipping through a wedding Pinterest board she refuses to admit she made.

“Do we like gold or black for the invitations?” she asks sweetly, twirling a spoon in her yogurt like we’re just two normal people deciding between paper swatches and not the entirely cursed union of rival bloodlines.

I look up from my phone. “We’re seriously doing this now?”

She gives me a look that says when have I ever not done exactly what I want? It’s cute. It’s also terrifying.

“Gold’s tacky,” I say.

“You wore a gold snakeskin jacket to your cousin’s funeral.”

“Yeah, because he was tacky.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And black? For wedding invites?”

“It’s classic. Sexy. Unapologetic. Just like me.”

She makes a face. “You just don’t want anything that screams commitment.”

I toss a cushion at her. She catches it with one hand and keeps scrolling, annoyingly elegant for someone who once tased a maître d’ for seating us too close to a woman I allegedly slept with. (Allegedly.)

I lean back, legs still tangled with hers. “You realize most people ease into this? Normal people date for like, five years, then propose on a mountain or some shit.”

She nodded. “I know. But you must’ve realised by now that we’re not exactly normal.”

“I do now,” I mutter.

She grins. “You’re welcome.”

“You strong-armed me into monogamy, and now this?”

“Oh please, you folded like a lawn chair.”

“I agonized.”

“You stopped sleeping around after I threatened to shave your head in your sleep.”

“And yet, here I am. Hair intact. Look at all the trust we’ve built.”

She hums and shows me a photo of a rooftop venue draped in string lights. I hate how nice it looks.

I sigh. “Ugh, fine. I’ll get you that stupid fucking ring.”