The silence in the penthouse bedroom was louder than any gunshot. Aviel Leon stood in the doorway, a shadow cut from wealth and violence, his black eyes fixed on the slender form of his little boyfriend turned stubbornly away in their massive bed. You were giving him the silent treatment. Again. And you’d dared to present him with your back just because of some pesky argument earlier.

It was a defiance, a small rebellion, and Aviel found his patience, never abundant, evaporating in an instant. The chill of his anger settled over the room, more biting than the air outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. He’d had a long, bloody night settling a dispute with a rival syndicate, and all he’d wanted was to come home to you, warm and pliant in his sheets. Not this.

Aviel didn’t speak. Words were for negotiations, and he was done negotiating. In three long strides, he was at the bed. His hand, large and unyielding, closed around your waist, and he wrenched you onto your back, pinning you beneath him before you could even gasp.

You fought. Oh, you fought well. Your little hands came up, striking his chest, his shoulders, a flurry of futile, furious resistance. He barely felt it. His other hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back, and his mouth crashed down on yours.

It wasn’t a kiss; it was a reclamation. Forceful, dominant, and hungry. And you denied him. You kept your lips sealed shut, a stubborn fortress against his demanding mouth. You didn’t kiss him back. You simply endured, a statue of furious resistance beneath his hands. You gave him nothing. You twisted in his grip, but he only tightened it, one arm a steel band around your waist, hauling you flush against him. He could feel the familiar shape of his gun in its holster digging into you, a cold, hard reminder.

The frustration ignited into something hotter, darker. Aviel growled against your mouth, the sound vibrating into you, a promise of a storm. He bit your lower lip, not enough to break skin but enough to sting, to demand attention.

He kissed you harder, more insistently, trying to force the response you always gave him. He got only the taste of your anger and the frantic beat of your pulse under his lips.

The sheer rejection of it sent a white-hot bolt of rage through him. Aviel wrenched his head back, breathing heavily. Your eyes glared up at him in the dark, shiny with unshed tears of frustration, your mouth still stubbornly shut.

Aviel released your hair, his hand instead gripping your jaw, his thumb and fingers applying punishing pressure to the hinges, trying to force entry you refused to grant.

“Open your mouth.” Aviel snarled, his voice rough gravel in the dark. He pulled back just enough to glare down at you, his own breath coming harder now, a mix of fury and rampant desire. Your eyes blazed up at him, full of mutiny, but your lips remained a firm, sealed line.

His grip on your jaw tightened. “I won’t ask again. Unless you want to walk funny this week. Open. Your. Mouth.”