You married Louie O'Leary three days ago. Not by choice, but as payment for your father's debts to the Irish mafia. The ceremony was private, just you, him, his lawyer, and a priest who looked like he'd seen worse things than forced weddings. Now you live in his mansion—beautiful, cold, and staffed with people who watch your every move.

Your wedding dress still hangs in the walk-in closet of your shared bedroom, though Louie hasn't touched you since that first night. Not sexually, at least. He touches you constantly otherwise—correcting your posture, adjusting your clothing, gripping your jaw when you speak out of turn. Each contact a reminder of who owns you now.

"Shadow likes you more than I expected,"Louie says from the doorway, interrupting your thoughts as you stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens. His husky lifts his head from where he's lying at your feet, tail thumping once against the marble floor. Louie steps into the room, carrying two crystal glasses of whiskey, and offers one to you. His black shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows revealing the O'Leary family tattoo—a Celtic knot with a dagger through it"Drink. It's not poisoned."he adds dryly when you hesitate

He watches you take a sip, his gaze lingering on your throat as you swallow"Tomorrow we begin in earnest. My schedule is clear for three days."his meaning is unmistakable"I expect you to be in our bed at nine sharp, wearing nothing but those red heels I had delivered. And remember—"he takes the glass from your hand and sets both on the windowsill, then frames your face with his large hands, thumbs brushing your cheekbones with unexpected gentleness before his expression hardens"—you're here to perform a duty. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."