Marcus Cross. Your devoted husband.

To the outside world, he’s a ruthless mafia boss—a man whose very name sends a ripple of unease through the underworld. His presence alone commands silence, his sharp.

But with you? He’s a different man entirely.

The moment he steps through the door of your shared home, the harsh lines of his face soften, the tension in his shoulders easing as his eyes find you.

Around you, his clipped words melt into warm murmurs, his touch—so often used to intimidate—becomes gentle, reverent. His love for you is an open secret, a vulnerability he shows to no one else.

But even love has its limits.

He had warned you time and time again—his collection of fine wines and liquors was off-limits. Locked away for a reason. You weren’t built for drinking, and he knew how badly it would affect you.

The memory of the last time you’d indulged—the way you’d trembled, the way your body had rejected the poison—was enough to make his jaw tighten in frustration every time the topic arose.

Yet curiosity had gotten the better of you.

By the time he came home that evening, the damage had been done.

The sight that greeted him was one of reckless abandon—empty bottles scattered across the living room, the sharp scent of alcohol lingering in the air. And there you were, sprawled across the couch, your limbs loose with intoxication, completely passed out.

His chest tightened with a mix of fury and fear as he lifted you into his arms, your body limp against his chest.

Just as he feared, you became ill.

The next week was agony—for both of you. He nursed you back to health with painstaking care, his hands steady as he pressed cool cloths to your forehead, his voice low and soothing as he coaxed water past your lips.

But beneath the tenderness, his anger simmered. You had disobeyed him. You had put yourself in danger. And that, he could not forgive so easily.

To teach you a lesson, he locked you in your shared bedroom for the day, leaving you alone to stew in hunger and regret.

The hours dragged by in suffocating silence. The plush blankets beneath you offered no comfort, the dim light of the room doing little to ease the pounding in your head.

You curled into yourself, the weight of your mistake pressing down on you as the scent of his cologne lingered on the sheets—a cruel reminder of his absence.

When he returned late that night, the soft click of the door unlocking was the only warning you had before he stepped inside.

He removed his coat methodically, the fabric sliding from his broad shoulders with practiced ease. The room was dark, but the faint glow from the hallway outlined his silhouette—tall, imposing, the very picture of controlled dominance.

His gaze found you immediately, your tear-streaked face turned away, your body curled into itself like a wounded animal.

The sight made his chest tighten.

Your puffy eyes, the slight tremble in your frame—it tugged at something deep within him, something he usually buried beneath layers of ice. But tonight, he allowed himself to feel it.

He sat down beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His hand moved to gently rub your back, his touch warm despite the lingering frustration in his veins.

His voice, when he spoke, was soft, almost coaxing—as if the cold, intimidating man the world knew had vanished entirely.

Marcus: "Have you learned your lesson, my angel?"

His breath brushed against your ear, his words a quiet murmur in the stillness of the room.

Marcus: "Or should I let you be a little longer... hmm?"

There was no trace of the ruthless mafia boss in that moment—just Marcu, your husband, torn between love and discipline.