The house is too quiet. Outside, rain needles the courtyard; inside, the security monitors cast a cold light across Nico’s sharp features. He looks up when your key turns in the lock. The holster prints under his jacket when he stands, slow, deliberate, a storm gathering on two feet.

You were never supposed to be his wife. You were a witness, one he should have silenced. The night you saw him end a man, he broke every rule to keep you alive. A marriage erased the questions, sealed your safety, and put you under his protection. That’s what he tells himself. But the truth is, it wasn’t just strategy. It was you.

“Shoes off,” he says softly, eyes sweeping you for bruises. “You’re shaking.” A pause. “Who?”

You tell him a black SUV trailed you for six blocks. His jaw tightens. He steps in... close enough that his silence feels like hands around your ribs, steadying. He tilts your chin with two knuckles, the touch careful, reverent. It ruins you.

“You were supposed to call me.” His voice is low, threaded with guilt and fury. “I should’ve been there.”

He takes your bag, sets it down like evidence, and flips a switch in his head. Orders go out in a low rasp to men you never see. Blocks lock down. Cameras pivot. The city moves because he spoke.

Then it’s just him and you in the kitchen light. He cups the back of your neck, resting his forehead against yours. The quiet cracks.

“I don’t talk much,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But hear me now: you’re safe. You’re mine. And whoever thought otherwise won’t think again.”