The world had long whispered one name in fear - Astra. An empire cloaked in power, its operations spread like a bloodstain beneath the polished surface of society. Drugs, surveillance, blackmail, death—everything ran through Astra's veins. And at its heart, its sole owner, Theodore Black.

He had inherited it young. Too young, by most standards. In his early twenties, when men are usually still fumbling with identity, Theodore took over the organisation. His eyes, cold and unreadable, watched empires rise and fall, families disintegrate, men lose their lives and women lose their pride. He felt nothing. That was the way of things. That was survival.

He never thought he'd love. Love was irrational, sloppy, and always ended with someone bleeding. Theodore preferred precision. Control. Power. But fate rarely asks permission.

It was four years ago. A club in Berlin—one of those high-end places where business overlapped with pleasure, where secrets spilled in dim corners and names changed with every drink. She had walked in, far too young for that place, clearly a university student playing dress-up.

He'd watched her that night, studied her like a puzzle he didn't know he wanted to solve. She had no idea who he was, or worse, she didn't care. That irritated him. Intrigued him. Hooked him.

Her presence had been like spring breaking into his cold, blood-augmented world. Where his days were filtered through drones and armours, where trust was a myth and loyalty bought in blood—she was untouched. Clean. Real.

He married her a year later. He was thirty-seven then. Too old for innocence, too jaded for softness. But for once, the thought of keeping something untainted didn't feel foolish. It felt necessary.

Now, four years later, he had no regrets.

None.

---

The warehouse in northeast Scotland reeked of rust, motor oil, and fresh blood. The kind of place where people came to disappear—permanently. It was nearly empty, save for the warm body at Theodore's feet, still twitching. A trail of red splattered across his knuckles, soaking through the cuff of his black dress shirt.

Nikolo stood nearby, arms folded, watching with his usual manic grin. A cigarette dangled from his lips, unlit. His boots crunched over broken glass as he approached, tossing a towel at his brother.

"You should've let me handle it," Nikolo muttered, voice half-mocking. "He'd have lasted longer. I was just getting started."

Theodore ignored him. Nikolo always wanted to make things messier than they needed to be. Unhinged was a polite word for it. Most people didn't know they were brothers—same blood, different beasts. Nikolo burned too hot. Theodore froze too deep.

From the far side of the room, Giovanni approached, phone in hand. "Boss," he said respectfully, "Madam called."

Theodore stilled.

He took the phone, wiped his hands first on the towel, then gestured for something else. "The vanilla-scented handwash," he said. "And the perfume."

Nikolo scoffed. "You're fucking joking."

"I'm not," Theodore replied calmly, scrubbing at his palms. "She's pregnant. The smell of blood makes her sick. What kind of husband would I be?"

"That's a stretch," Nikolo muttered, lighting the cigarette this time, flame flickering like his sanity. "You're a literal butcher, Theo. You wear blood like it's cologne."

Theodore didn't rise to the bait. He rarely did. "Get the car ready," he told Giovanni, already rolling his sleeves back down.

---

The estate loomed like a forgotten fortress at the edge of the highlands—beautiful in the cruel way winter is beautiful. Lights were dimmed. Curtains drawn. The silence inside was thick enough to taste. He removed his coat, handed it to one of the house staff, and stepped into the hall.

No sound.

His feet moved automatically, past the grand staircase, toward the eastern wing. A light glowed under the nursery door—soft, warm.

Of course. She was in there.

He paused at the threshold, hand on the doorknob for a moment longer than necessary, before slowly pushing it open.

She stood in front of the cradle, back to him, one hand gently stroking the edge of the mobile. The glow from the lamp touched her hair like halo light, casting her in gold. She didn't turn. She didn't have to.

Theodore stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. His nose buried itself in her hair. She smelled like bergamot and sleep. Like home.

"Shouldn't you be resting?" he murmured, voice low, rough from smoke. His hand slid over her stomach. The bump had grown. Five months now. Twins. "Staying up late isn't good for you. Or them." His hand lingered, firm and steady. "You know that, flower."

The nickname slipped out, easy, natural. He didn't care that it sounded soft. She was his softness. The only thing in this cruel, calculated life that he hadn't destroyed or dirtied.

His flower.