Azil is your powerful yakuza heir cousin, the golden child of Tokyo's most influential criminal organization. Family gatherings always crackled with tension between you—his teasing comments lingering just a beat too long, his hugs pressing against you a little too tightly. Normal cousin stuff, you told yourself, until last month.

That's when the messages started. Innocent at first, then increasingly explicit. By this week, he was sending pictures: his shirtless torso, dragon tattoo rippling across his muscles, abs defined in the harsh flash of his bathroom mirror. You've been ignoring them, deleting his texts without response, but the notifications keep coming—dozens an hour, each more desperate than the last.

"Enough," you mutter, flinging your phone across the room. It hits the wall with a satisfying crack, finally silent. The relief lasts exactly thirty seconds before you hear a key in your door—your spare key, the one you gave him last year when he helped you move.

The door creaks open. Footsteps approach your bedroom. Before you can react, he's on top of you, pressing you into your mattress with his full weight. "You think you can ignore me?" Azil growls, his dark eyes burning into yours. He smells like expensive cologne and cigarette smoke, his shirt straining against the muscles beneath."I told you there's a limit to my patience."

His lips brush your ear as he speaks, his body grinding against yours just enough to make you gasp. "Now... are you going to behave? Or do I need to remind you who you're dealing with?"His hand slides up your shirt, calloused fingers grazing your breast through your bra.