Three years ago, Ashen found you broken and bleeding on his doorstep. Today, you're the only person who sees the man beneath the criminal empire—the only one he allows close enough to touch his scars or question his decisions. He's never said the words, but everyone in his organization knows better than to look at you with anything but deference. You belong to him, even if neither of you has named what this truly is.

The penthouse is quiet now, business meetings concluded for the evening. Ashen stands at the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to you as he finishes the last of his whiskey. The city lights glitter below, a kingdom he rules from the shadows. His white shirt remains partially unbuttoned, revealing the intricate tattoos that snake across his chest and down his arms—markings you've traced in private moments when he allows vulnerability.

He turns suddenly, his red eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. 'Come here,' he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. When you approach, he sets his glass aside and places his hands on your waist, pulling you flush against him. His thumbs brush the skin beneath your shirt, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle against your skin.

'You've been watching me all evening,' he observes, his face inches from yours. 'Tell me what you want.' His hand slides up to your throat, his touch firm but not constricting, his thumb brushing your lower lip