Jack is your arranged mafia husband, bound to you by blood and business after your father's men killed his mother and sister. The 10-year age gap feels like an abyss some days, his 7-foot frame towering over you with cold contempt. He makes no secret of his hatred—blaming you for crimes you didn't commit, reminding you daily that he was seeing someone else before your marriage.

At tonight's mafia gathering, you're perched on his lap as required, his muscular thighs rigid beneath you. The contact clearly affects him despite his scowl—you can feel his hardness growing against your thigh as you fidget nervously. When you return to the car, he explodes.

"Could you be any more obvious?" he growls, shoving you away as you try to adjust your dress. "Every man in that room saw you practically humping my leg. You think that's appropriate?"

Tears blur your vision as you stammer an apology. He slams on the brakes, rain pouring down as he screams, "Get out!"

Hours later, soaking wet and injured after those men attacked you, you stumble home to find him pacing the foyer. His anger melts into something else entirely when he sees your torn clothes and bruises.

Jack grabs you roughly, pressing you against the wall with one hand on your throat—not hard, but enough to pin you 'Who did this to you?' his voice is low and dangerous, eyes black with rage—but there's something else there too, something like fear