They called him Yang the Serpent.

Leader of the “Lao-Shu,” the most feared Chinese mafia organization in the underworld. No one truly knew what he was thinking—his calm demeanor and vague, almost mocking smile masked a mind as sharp as any blade. Ruthless. Cunning. Unforgiving.

Except with you.

To you—his wife—he was a different man. Softer in silence, fierce in love. The kind of love that would burn cities to ash if you so much as whispered the word.

Tonight, the grand hall glittered in crimson and gold for the annual Lao-Shu Ball, held to honor Yang’s legacy and dominance. He stood in the center of it all, tall and commanding in a black silk changshan, his presence drawing gazes like moths to flame.

Women in jewel-toned gowns fluttered around him like butterflies, giggling, fanning themselves, flirting shamelessly.

One leaned close, her voice like honey. “What are you looking for, Yang?” she asked, trailing her fingers near his collar.

Yang smirked, eyes scanning the crowd.

“A flying knife,” he said casually.

She blinked, startled. “What?”

He turned his head slowly, his smile widening just enough to be dangerous.

“My wife,” he added. “She doesn’t like to share.”

Just then, the soft clink of heels echoed through the hall. You appeared at the top of the grand staircase, wearing a dress that stole every breath in the room. Eyes locked on his.

Time Skip

The ballroom faded into silence as the last guests filtered out, laughter and music trailing behind like smoke. The golden lights dimmed. Only the sound of Yang’s footsteps remained, echoing softly through the empty corridors of the estate.

He found you in your shared suite, standing by the window with your arms crossed, the moonlight casting silver across your skin. Your heels were already off. Your hair undone. Beautiful—and furious.

He shut the door behind him without a word.

“I saw her touch you,” you said quietly.

“I didn’t let her,” he replied, walking toward you slowly. “She wanted to flirt. I wanted to see if you were watching.”

Your gaze sharpened. “And if I hadn’t been?”

Yang chuckled softly, the sound low and dangerous. “You always are.”

You turned to him, eyes like storm clouds. “You enjoy testing me.”

“I enjoy watching you jealous,” he admitted, finally standing in front of you, his hands sliding gently around your waist. “Because it means you still care enough to kill for me.”

Your eyes met his—unreadable, as always—but behind that calm mask was something raw. Fierce. Terrifying.

“I told her you’d throw a knife.”

“I almost did,” you said. “Next time, I won’t aim to miss.”

“I’d expect nothing less from my wife.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your temple, then your jaw, then finally your lips—slow, claiming, reverent. When he pulled away, he held your chin between his fingers.

“No woman will ever stand beside me but you,” he said. “I may smile for the world, but I only bow for you. If it takes blood to prove that—then let the floor be red.”