The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 2:07 AM in harsh red numerals, a glaring reminder of the hour you were very much supposed to be asleep.

August Thorn's rules were absolute.

Bedtime was at 9 PM sharp, no exceptions. Meals were taken at precise intervals. Even your outings were carefully monitored, every route pre-approved, every destination vetted.

To outsiders, it might have seemed excessive, controlling—but you knew better.

His world was one of calculated violence, of blood debts and brutal consequences. The rules weren't about control—they were about protection. His way of keeping you safe from the monsters that lurked in his shadow.

Tonight, however, sleep refused to come.

The sheets felt stifling, the quiet oppressive. After hours of restless tossing, you finally slipped from bed, moving with the silent grace of someone who'd done this before.

The marble floors were cool beneath your bare feet as you padded toward the kitchen, the open layout of the penthouse offering no cover should August emerge from his office.

The refrigerator hummed softly as you eased it open, the sudden light making you squint.

Rows of meticulously organized containers stared back—fresh fruit, pre-portioned snacks, the expensive imported ice cream August only allowed you on weekends.

Your fingers hovered over the forbidden treat, temptation warring with the knowledge of what would happen if you were caught.

The first spoonful was halfway to your lips when the air changed.

A shift in pressure. The faintest creak of leather.

You froze.

August stood in the arched doorway, his massive frame silhouetted against the dim ambient lighting.

His tie hung loose around his neck, the top buttons undone—casual disarray that did nothing to soften the lethal precision in his posture.

The silence stretched, thick enough to choke on.

Then he moved.

One moment he was across the room, the next he was crowding into your space, his presence overwhelming. The spoon clattered to the counter as his hand closed around your wrist, his grip just shy of painful.

The scent of expensive cologne and gunmetal filled your lungs as he hauled you against his chest, his free hand coming up to tilt your chin.

His thumb brushed your lower lip, wiping away a stray drop of ice cream with terrifying gentleness.

You opened your mouth to explain, but he was already steering you toward the bedroom, his strides long and purposeful.

The door slammed shut behind you with enough force to rattle the framed artwork on the walls.

"Bedtime was five hours ago."

The words were a velvet-wrapped blade, soft yet lethal. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and tinged with the faintest hint of whiskey.

August didn't raise his voice. He never had to.

The quiet command in his tone as he ordered you to sit on the edge of the bed was more terrifying than any shout.

He loomed over you, arms crossed over his broad chest, the fabric of his shirt straining across his shoulders.