She was dropping a half mug of water on herself, then stopped and opened her eyes immediately.
It was a weird behavior.
I exhaled through my nose, tilting my head as I watched her.
Then—I whistled. A sharp, low sound.
She flinched violently, her body jerking in the water, and her wide eyes shot to mine.
Startled. Trapped.
I placed my gun on the counter with a deliberate clunk and stepped further inside, sliding the door behind me.
The faint click of the lock echoed in the humid, jasmine-scented air.
Then, in an attempt at modesty, she shoved the bubbles up to her chest and submerged her little ducks, as if hiding them would make me forget the absurdity of the scene.
The sight was almost comical. Almost.
I crouched beside the tub, moving slowly, carefully.
My fingers brushing against the foam that clung stubbornly to her cheeks, her ear, the damp strands of hair framing her face.
She shuddered at the contact, shrinking back.
"Stay still." My voice was low, quiet, a dangerous kind of soothing.
She didn’t listen.
I sighed and gripped her chin lightly between my fingers, tilting her face up to me. The movement was effortless, possessive.
If she rubbed her eyes now, the foam would get in and irritate her. I didn’t want that.
Her lips parted, her breathing uneven.
Tiny tremors ran through her, though whether it was from fear or something else— I couldn’t tell yet.
Now that I could do anything with her, I let out a big sigh.
"You could use a shower instead of a mug," I murmured, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear.
She inhaled deeply, her breath quickening as she stammered, "I don't know... how t-to use... it-its not opening."
I reached for the shower handle with deliberate, unhurried movements.
As I flipped it to the right, the water cascaded down in a gentle stream, creating a soothing and rhythmic sound.
The steam began to rise, mingling with the soft bubbles that floated around her.
I couldn't help but smile slightly at her wide-eyed reaction to the flowing water.
She stared at the running water with wide, fascinated eyes, like she’d never seen something so simple before.
Curious.
Naïve.
Breakable.
"I... I-I am not... decent," she whispered. Soft, uncertain.
As if that mattered.
"I know," I replied softly, trying to keep my tone as reassuring as possible.
I began to take off my dress, leaving only my boxer, feeling the cool air against my skin.
A faint whimper escaped her.
She clenched her knees to her chest, the bubbles shifting around her, her gaze glued to the water instead of me.
"It's okay, Mini. I am just going to help you in the shower, nothing else," I said, though I made no promises about where my hands might wander.
I didn’t know how much of my restraint would hold.
I slid into the tub and positioned myself behind her, the warmth of the water surrounding us.
She pulled her knees to her chest and hugged herself tightly as she tried to protect herself from the situation.
I sighed, my breath stirring the steam around us, and reached for my shirt on the floor. I handed it to her gently.
"Wear this," I said softly.
She took the shirt from me with trembling hands and carefully slipped it on.
The oversized fabric swallowed her whole with it clinging softly to her wet skin, the neckline drooping low enough to reveal her delicate collarbones and the smooth expanse of her throat.
I wished there was a mirror in front of us right now.
She wasn't stiff anymore, but she wasn't fully relaxed either.
I pulled her into my lap, wrapping my arms around her waist.
Her body was warm and small, a bit chubby in all the right places, fitting perfectly against me.
My body covered hers entirely.
If anyone had seen us from behind, they wouldn't have guessed that someone was sitting in my lap, wrapped in my embrace.
"Mini," I mumbled, letting my forehead press against her damp shoulder, my breath fanning over her skin.
"...Y-Yes," she whispered, her voice barely audible, quivering with a mixture of fear and something else.
Her ears were bright red. A dead giveaway.
I exhaled softly, my lips brushing against the sensitive skin beneath her ear.
"I... already saw your ducks," I whispered softly in her ear, my voice laced with a teasing yet gentle tone, hoping to ease her nerves.
She bit her lips hard, her eyes widening in surprise and her cheeks flushing even more.
"You could knock," she said finally, though it wasn’t a demand. It was a question.
She regretted it the moment it left her mouth.
"Nothing," she added quickly, as if trying to erase her own words, to take back the audacity of suggesting I announce myself before stepping into my own space.
Such a good girl.
I reached up, patting her head gently before pressing a soft kiss against her bare shoulder.
She flinched but didn’t move away.
Instead, she let the ducks resurface, placing them carefully atop the water, her grip on the mug tightening like a security blanket.
She was thinking, contemplating her next move with a mixture of uncertainty and resolve.
"Shower," I said softly, my lips brushing against her warm, flushed cheeks.
She gulped and started to pour water over her but–
"What happened?," I asked, frowning as I noticed her repeating that odd behavior.
She glanced at me with confusion, as if she hadn't realized she was acting out of the ordinary.
"You put half a mug of water on your head and opened your eyes, panting," I explained, trying to make sense of her actions.
Her face turned nervous, and she looked down, clearly uncomfortable.
"Tell me," I ordered gently, wanting to understand what was troubling her.
"You will make fun of me," she said, her voice trembling as she scratched the mug with her fingers, her eyes still avoiding mine.
"I will not," I reassured her calmly, my tone soft and sincere.
Her eyes met mine, hesitating but searching for trust.
"If I close my eyes, I feel like someone is watching me, and it scares me so much. Like a g-ghost will come and... I-I can't breathe when I continuously pour water on my head," she admitted, her head hanging low in embarrassment.
Okay... that is a bit…odd.
I reached for the shower handle, adjusting the water pressure. The stream softened into a gentle cascade, warm and steady.
Then, without a word, I lifted my hand and placed it on her forehead, shielding her eyes from the falling water.
Her lashes fluttered as the warm droplets trailed down her cheeks, her body visibly relaxing under my touch.
She let out a soft laugh and said, "Your hand is so big."
Her voice was light, carrying the faintest trace of amusement.
I hummed, a deep vibration in my chest, feeling the way my lips tugged into a smile before I could stop them.
Mother hell.
For the next minute, I washed her hair with careful, deliberate movements. Her thick, black hair, though slightly tangled, was undeniably beautiful.
The feel of her soft hair slipping through my fingers, the gentle rhythm of the water— everything was strangely peaceful, and I found myself enjoying it more than I'd expected.
Suddenly, She turned in my lap.
Not cautiously. Not hesitantly.
No, she turned freely, pressing herself against me, her legs draped over mine, her body melting into my chest like she belonged there.
I felt my entire body lock up.
She looked up at me with wide, grateful eyes, a bright smile stretching across her lips.
"Thank you."
The same smile she had when she was unguarded. Happy.
I gritted my teeth.
Ugh. I am pathetic.
If I had known something this simple— washing her hair, shielding her eyes, holding her— would make her smile like this, I would have done it sooner.
Fuck.
Before I could stop myself, I leaned down and brushed a soft kiss against the tip of her nose, letting my forehead rest against her shoulder.
I felt her body tense. Then—relax.
"Did you cook today?" I murmured, needing something—anything—to pull me back from the abyss of my thoughts.
She beamed.
"Yes!" she nodded eagerly.
The sheer pride in her voice made something tighten in my chest.
I could see it in her eyes.
Cooking meant something to her. It wasn’t just a task—it was something she was passionate about.
Something she wanted to share.
She loved letting people taste what she made.
She wanted to be useful. Wanted to be needed.
Mature
We sat there in the bathtub, enveloped in a cocoon of silence as I traced gentle patterns on her fingers.
The water had started to cool, but I barely noticed.
Her skin was warm. Soft.
She was here, in my lap, pressed against me, and I could feel her every breath.
Her other hand roamed softly over my tattoos, her fingers trailing across the ink with a light, tentative curiosity.
I let her.
But I wondered if she knew— if she truly fucking understood— that every touch of hers burned.
That she was marking me, too.
My head rested against her damp neck, my breath fanning over her flushed skin.
I inhaled deeply.
Her scent was intoxicating, wrapping around my senses like a drug I could never quit.
I pressed my lips against her wet neck, unable to resist the pull of her.
Once.
Then again.
Slower. Deeper.
I couldn’t get enough.
Her breathing hitched, the rise and fall of her chest becoming uneven, unsteady.
Then, I bit.
Not hard enough to break skin— but enough to own.
Enough to feel her pulse flutter wildly beneath my lips.
Her whimper shot straight through me, a sweet little sound of submission that made my cock twitch beneath the water.
Fuck.
Her fingers dug into my shoulder, fingers pressing into my skin.
Was it an attempt to push me away? Or just to ground herself?
I didn’t care.
She wasn’t running.
She was here.
Her parted lips trembled, her eyes darting behind me as if she could escape the sensations wracking her body.
She couldn't.
Her knees pulled up instinctively, pressing together, as if that would protect her from the heat pooling in her belly.
I smiled against her throat.
So fucking adorable when she tried to pretend she wasn’t reacting.
Gripping her nape, I kept her still, her soft little body locked against mine, her fingers still clinging to me, her breath shaky as she buried her face into my neck.
I could feel her heart pounding.
Like a rabbit in a trap.
The moment I pulled back, she exhaled sharply, her body relaxing just a fraction, her fingers loosening their grip.
Her surrender came in stages.
And I loved every fucking second of it.
I tilted my head, admiring my mark— a perfect little bite, glowing red against her olive skin.
I traced the imprint with my thumb, possessively.
"My beautiful Mini," I murmured, my breath warm against her damp skin as I nuzzled my nose into her shoulder.
She shivered as her chest rose and fell rapidly, her eyes squeezed shut.
Nervous.
Excited.
Conflicted.
She was feeling everything.
And I wanted to watch.
I reached for the top of her soaked shirt and began unbuttoning the first three buttons.
Slow. Deliberate.
One.
Then the next.
Then the next.
Fuck.
Her neck, flushed and slightly red from my kisses.
Her delicate collarbone, gleaming under the soft bathroom light.
And lower—
Her nipples.
Clearly visible beneath the thin, wet fabric.
Rosy. Hard.
My cock throbbed.
I moved my hand to the back of her neck, firm, possessive, drawing her closer until our breaths mingled.
My voice came out in a low, rough growl. "Open your eyes."
She obeyed.
Wide pupils. Dark. Dazed.
She tore her gaze from mine, as if it was too much, as if she didn’t want to face what was happening.
I lowered her shirt off her shoulder.
Her breath hitched.
Her left breast came into view. Perky. Soft.
Exactly as I had imagined.
Except—
A tiny, dark mole sat just below her right nipple. ...Fuck.
That—I hadn’t imagined.
That was real.
Something about that tiny fucking mark made my stomach twist.
It belonged to me.
That mole, that small fucking detail, it was something I’d never noticed before.
And now—
Now it was burned into my mind.
I needed to touch it.
Needed to put my mouth on it.
But before I could—
She suddenly covered herself, her fingers trembling as they ghosted over the fresh bite I’d left on her skin.
Her eyes were wide. Troubled.
The way her brows knitted together, the way she stared at my mark like she didn't recognize herself anymore— something about it didn’t sit right.
"W-W-What?" she stuttered, her voice fragile, unsteady.
Her eyes filled with tears.
Fuck.
A sharp pang twisted in my chest— something foreign, something I didn't fucking like.
"Hey, it's okay, bambi." I softened my tone immediately, the possessive heat simmering into something gentler, more coaxing.
"Respirare (Breathe)."
I rubbed slow, steady circles along her back, feeling the way her muscles tensed beneath my fingertips.
She wasn’t looking at me.
Her gaze had dropped, her fingers clutching at the fabric of her shirt as if trying to hold herself together.
"You're... not my husband. I'm tainted now," she whispered.
Something dark, ugly, and ravenous uncoiled inside me.
My jaw tightened as I exhaled slowly through my nose, reining in the storm threatening to break loose.
I gripped her neck, lightly, but firmly enough that she couldn't ignore me.
Her eyes snapped to mine, startled, but I held her in place, my thumb stroking her pulse point.
"I am your everything from now on," I murmured, my voice a low, husky promise.
Her lips parted slightly.
Her pupils dilated.
But— Her gaze wavered.
She was hesitating. Struggling.
Fuck. I was losing control.
Her mouth was so close to mine.
I wanted to consume her.
To erase every hesitation, every doubt until all she knew was me.
But she blinked, pulling back slightly.
"No," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.
That single word— like a quiet rebellion.
My fingers slid to her jaw, tightening just enough to tilt her face back up to mine.
"Has anyone ever been this close to you, my sweet Mini?" My voice was low, seductive— a snake coiling around her throat.
Her lashes fluttered, her breathing shallow.
"N-No," she admitted, and fuck, she was looking at my lips now, her frown deepening.
That hesitation. That innocence.
Goddamn.
"Good," I rasped.
My lips brushed against the corner of her mouth, deliberately avoiding the full contact.
I smirked against her skin, then patted her cheek— light, teasing.
Her brows furrowed, as if trying to make sense of what just happened.
But she didn’t get the chance.
In one smooth movement, I lifted her.
Her eyes went wide as she was suddenly repositioned— straddling me, her legs resting either side of my waist.
She gripped her shirt together tightly, her knuckles turning white.
I let my hands rest beside her waist, my fingers teasing the edge of her damp shirt before slowly—so painfully slowly—sliding lower.
Then, I grasped her bare ass.
Soft. Warm. Perfect.
She gasped, her eyes snapping to mine in pure disbelief.
Her hands flew to the edge of the tub, trying to scramble away.
But—
Her fingers slipped, causing a splash of water to spill onto the floor.
I dragged my gaze over her shirt, watching the way the wet fabric clung to her body.
Grey. That color was dangerous on her.
"What are you doing? Shu..shu.." Her voice was breathless, tinged with embarrassment.
I smirked.
And in one motion— I pulled her flush against me.
She gasped sharply, her body colliding with mine.
The sight of her clinging to my shoulders, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her wide eyes staring at me— It was fucking intoxicating.
She's fucking inexperienced, navie girl.
I adjusted her position again, ensuring she was seated right over my cock.
She stiffened. Her breathing became erratic.
God, she felt everything.
The heat between us was unbearable.
And then—
She asked, so sweet, so fucking oblivious.
"What is that?" Her gaze flickered downward, brows furrowing.
I swallowed a groan.
"Nothing," I murmured, brushing my nose against hers.
Her skin was so warm.
So responsive.
I wanted to break her.
To make her beg.
Instead—
I bit her cheek.
Soft. Playful.
An involuntary hiss escaped her, and she turned to me, eyes wide.
"That's my cheek, not a bread," she muttered.
I laughed—a real, deep chuckle. Gently, I licked the spot where I bit, my tongue moving slowly.
Her fingers clenching around my shoulders, her lips parted slightly, and I could see the conflict warring in her gaze—
Surprise.
Curiosity.
I hummed, a low, satisfied sound vibrating in my chest as my hands found her hips.
Soft. Perfectly molded for my grip.
I tightened my fingers, palming the curve of her ass as I guided her— slow, deliberate movements.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
The friction was subtle, a teasing press of heat against heat.
She squirmed, her body betraying her before her mind could process what was happening.
Her breath hitched, fingers dug into my skin, clutching onto me like she was afraid to fall— afraid of what she was feeling.
Her lips trembled, parting slightly as a confused, choked sound slipped out— "W-What… are… hmm…"
A fucking whimper.
A raw, instinctive reaction.
My chest rumbled with satisfaction. "Shh…" I whispered, my voice soothing, coaxing.
I tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at me. "It's okay."
Her eyes— hazy, fluttering, lost.
Her teeth bit down softly on her lower lip, her fingers tightening around my neck.
She had no fucking idea she was already drowning.
Her lashes flickered. Closing. Opening.
The struggle was intoxicating.
"Good?" I thrust against her, the motion slow, controlled— testing, teasing.
She gasped.
Her breath stuttered, her pupils blown wide dropped— fixated on my lips.
Her fingers loosened around my neck and traced down my chest, her touch tentative but explorative as she closed her eyes, gradually losing herself in the moment.
Not fully.
Not yet.
But enough.
"Just a little bit, Mini," I murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek.
I tilted my head back, my grip on her hips tightening as I let out a low, guttural groan. Fuck.
The warmth of her bare pussy against me—that soft, innocent friction.
I could feel her thighs twitching, clenching.
Her body reacting in ways her mind still refused to understand.
I could feel her heat, her uncertainty, her need.
But she wasn’t ready.
Not yet.
I stilled.
Her fingers trembled, her entire frame felt like it was humming—vibrating with unspoken questions.
I held her.
Letting the silence settle into her bones.
I stroked her spine, my fingers tracing the elegant curve of her back— gentle, deliberate.
Her head rested against my shoulder, her breathing still erratic but gradually slowing.
And still— She said nothing.
She didn’t ask what just happened.
She didn’t question what I had done to her— what I was still doing to her.
Her body knew.
But her mind?
Still too innocent to put it into words.
I waited.
I could feel it—the weight of unspoken thoughts pressing down on her.
Then— Soft. Hesitant.
"Do you like me?" Her words were barely a whisper, breaking the fragile stillness between us.
A slow, wicked smirk curled at my lips.
Such a childish question.
Sweet. Naïve.
But real.
I could feel her heartbeat hammering against my chest, could almost hear the way her mind was racing—wondering, fearing, hoping.
"Yes." I said it without hesitation.
Firm. Honest. Absolute.
Her body tensed, eyes widened, stunned by my directness— like she expected something else.
What?
A joke?
A deflection?
Something cruel?
She still didn’t understand me.
I watched her, my amusement flickering into something darker, sharper.
"Do you like me?" My voice was emotionless.
A simple question. But not really.
Because I already knew the answer.
Even my friends fear me.
Even my own bloodline fears me.
What was she supposed to do?
She looked down. Her thoughts tangled, uncertain.
"I-I…don’t k-know," she stammered, her voice wavering.
I smiled.
Slowly. Darkly.
And brushed away the damp strands of hair clinging to her flushed face.
She didn’t need to know.
Not yet.
Because soon enough—
She would.
"Get dressed." My voice was soft, but the command was absolute.
She blinked up at me, her lips burning, her body flushed from heat she didn’t understand.
Like she was still processing.
Then, slowly, she moved—reluctant, unsure.
The bathwater lapped at her skin as she stood.
Water trailed down her thighs.
Dripping. Flowing. Following every curve.
She must’ve realized how exposed she was because she yanked down the hem of my shirt— a quick, embarrassed motion.
Her glare snapped to me.
Defensive. Adorable.
I smirked, keeping my eyes trained on her face— because I knew that’d piss her off even more.
She huffed and stepped out of the tub, shivering slightly as the air met her damp skin.
My shirt—oversized on her petite frame—clung to her body in places where the fabric had soaked through.
I could still see the outline of her legs beneath it.
Soft. Smooth. Trembling.
She moved fast, snatching up the towel and wrapping herself in it, like a barrier between her and me.
She thought it’d help.
I leaned my head back, exhaling lazily.
"You didn’t thank me for giving you my shirt."
Her cheeks flamed darker.
She turned without answering, bare feet slapping against the floor, dripping water in her wake.
Fuck, I liked that.
I liked her.
The realization sank deep into my bones, settling there like something irreversible.
I didn’t know why.
It was just there— this raw, unshakable need.
She was so fucking untouched by the world I lived in.
Her mind was still clean. Her soul was still light.
She hadn’t been corrupted. Not yet.
And that was dangerous.
Not for her. For me.
Because it made me want her in ways that weren’t just physical.
I wanted to hold onto that innocence.
To keep it locked away from the filth and violence that had shaped me into what I was.
To make sure no one else ever got close enough to ruin her.
I wanted her to stay this way.
Soft. Untouched. Mine.
But at the same time—
I wanted to ruin her.
I wanted to watch her change because of me.
To be the one who tore away every last shred of naïveté.
To be the one who taught her what fear really was, what pleasure really felt like, what it meant to belong to someone.
She didn’t know the world. But I could show it to her.
Slowly.
Piece by piece.
I could break her.
Or I could build her into something even stronger.
Something made for me.
People said I wouldn’t settle down.
That I didn’t know how to love—as if they fucking understood me.
They didn’t. They never had.
I’d fought through hell and back—through blood and fire—just to stand where I was today.
I knew what I wanted.
And now, it was her.
I wanted to peel her apart.
To understand every inch of her mind.
What made her laugh.
What made her cry.
What kept her awake at night.
I wanted to drag her into my world, let her feel what it was like to burn.
To see herself change.
Because she would.
She already was.
But then— A thought. A whisper.
A creeping doubt, curling around my ribs like smoke.
What if I change my mind?
People don’t stay the same.
Desire doesn’t stay the same.
One day, she might bore me.
One day, I might wake up and see her for what she was— just another fleeting want.
It happens all the time.
Liking changes.
Would mine?
Would I get tired of her?
Would I get bored?
The thought should’ve unnerved me.
Instead, it made me smirk.
Because if I ever decided I didn’t want her anymore—
She wouldn’t be the same girl she was now.
She wouldn’t belong to anyone else.
Because once I’d touched her—
Once I’d broken her down and built her back up again—
She’d never be able to leave me.
Even if she wanted to.
Author POV:
The air in the house was thick with noise—angry shouts, tense murmurs, and the underlying hum of something dangerously close to violence.
Ace descended the last step, his damp hair curling slightly at the ends, a faint trace of steam still clinging to his skin from the scalding shower he’d just taken.
The moment he entered the corridor, the voices sharpened, their edges cutting through the quiet hum of the house.
Susan.
That shrill, venomous tone was unmistakable.
The scent of expensive perfume, mixed with the sharp bite of tension, coiled in the air like a predator waiting to strike.
Ace’s jaw ticked.
He didn’t rush.
Instead, he walked slowly—controlled, deliberate.
And when he entered the living room, he made sure every single soul in that room felt it.
The scene before him was pathetic.
Susan stood at the center, her face twisted in pure, seething rage, spitting words that barely deserved to be acknowledged.
The guys were scattered around, expressions ranging from discomfort to quiet calculation.
They knew better than to intervene.
Aiden, however, was standing in front of her.
Iris.
And she was clutching him like he was the only solid thing keeping her from shattering.
Ace’s gaze dropped to the way her delicate fingers curled into Aiden’s sleeve.
The sight sent a slow, crawling burn through his chest. Wrong.
She shouldn't be gripping Aiden.
She should be clinging to me.
But before he could react to that—
Susan’s voice cut through the air like a blade dipped in poison. “You pathetic, ugly bitch! You think you can have him? I don’t even know what you see in her, Aiden!”
Ace’s fingers flexed.
His jaw clenched.
His patience, already a thin thread, was unraveling fast.
Enough.
His voice was cold, precise—a razor's edge. “Susan.”
Two syllables.
That’s all it took to silence the entire room. The effect was instant.
Susan froze, mid-breath, her rage stuttering as her eyes snapped to him.
The guys barely moved, but their focus shifted to Ace with a tension that was almost palpable.
He let the silence stretch, let them feel it.
Then, finally—he turned his gaze to Iris.
She wasn’t looking at Susan anymore.
She was looking at him.
Her grip on Aiden’s arm tightened.
Ace’s stomach twisted at the sight. That should not be happening.
She should be running to him.
He should be the one she looked to for safety.
He should be the one she held onto.
“Come here,” His voice was a low command.
Aiden tensed. Iris stilled.
For a brief, infuriating second, she hesitated.
Ace saw it in the way her fingers curled tighter around Aiden's sleeve, in the way her wide eyes darted between them.
Ace could feel the heat rising under his skin, slow and lethal.
He watched her closely—every twitch of hesitation, every unspoken doubt—as if daring her to refuse him.
Then, finally— She moved.
Slow. Uncertain.
Each step was like walking a tightrope, like she was bracing for something.
She stopped in front of him. Head lowered.
Small. Hesitant.
His stomach twisted again, but this time it wasn’t from anger.
It was from something deeper, something primal.
"Ace, don't you dare come between this. How dare! Your slut has the audacity to touch my man!" Susan’s voice shook with rage, but her fury was insignificant.
It meant nothing.
Ace, in contrast, was composed. Unshaken. Irritatingly calm.
His fingers curled under Iris’s chin, tilting her face upward.
Making her look at him.
She was trembling—small, fragile, breakable.
But she wasn’t crying.
That was new.
His dark gaze traced the subtle tremor in her lips, the barely-there defiance in her breathless eyes.
Fear, relief, hesitation.
Ace smiled. Just barely.
And then—his voice was quiet. Soft. "Let’s eat."
The audacity of his words left the entire room in stunned silence.
Ace moved before anyone could react.
Before Susan could even breathe.
His hands gripped Iris’s hips, lifting her effortlessly like she weighed nothing.
His fingers pressed into her soft skin, hands sliding lower as he adjusted his grip—a slow, deliberate claim.
Maybe he liked her little ass.
Maybe he liked a lot of things about her.
Iris squeaked, panicked, gripping his shoulders as he hoisted her up, her thighs dangling around his waist.
"She's scary," Iris whispered into his ear.
Ace chuckled, pleased.
Not just at her words— but at the fact that she was talking instead of shaking.
Instead of collapsing.
He tilted his head slightly and pressed a small, deliberate kiss to her nose.
Ace felt the sharp inhale against his skin.
Perfect.
The room was dead silent. Everyone stared, dumbfounded.
Their expressions ranged from shock to horror to the barely-masked calculation of men trying to understand the sudden shift in power.
Ace ignored them all.
Instead, with slow, measured control, he placed Iris down onto a chair.
Careful. Gentle, even.
And yet, it was the most possessive thing he had ever done.
Iris looked up at him, wide-eyed.
Still frozen. Still figuring out what he was doing.
Ace turned, expression neutral as he took his seat.
The others followed, hesitant.
Unease hung over the dining table like a specter, suffocating in its intensity.
At the far end, Susan seethed.
Her nails dug into the wood, her entire body stiff with rage as she glared daggers into Iris.
He picked up his fork, taking a slow, deliberate bite of food before finally addressing the room.
So, what’s the issue that a girl is being a bitch in my house?"
Silence.
Uncomfortable. Heavy.
Aiden was the first to recover. Barely.
"Nothing. Just a misunderstanding." His tone was tight. Careful.
Ace’s gaze flicked to Aiden. Coward.
He could feel the tension humming beneath Aiden’s skin, the way he was trying to defuse the situation without getting burned.
Ace didn’t give a fuck.
He took another bite, chewing slowly, deliberately.
Then, finally—he spoke again.
"Next time, make sure not to do this." His words were pointed, sharp.
But his focus was locked entirely on Aiden.
Not Susan.
Aiden.
Because Ace wasn’t stupid.
He knew Susan would act out. That was inevitable.
But Aiden allowing it?
That was the real insult.
Aiden didn’t speak.
But Ace saw the flicker of something dark in his gaze.
The anger. The resistance. The weight of a man swallowing his pride.
Ace held his stare for a moment longer— just to remind him.
Aiden was not his equal.
Aiden nodded, tight-lipped. "Understood."
Ace exhaled slowly, finally shifting his attention.
His eyes drifted to Susan.
She was still bristling with barely-contained rage, her entire being vibrating with fury as she glared at Iris like she wanted to claw her apart.
Ace’s fingers tightened subtly around his fork.
If Susan was any other person—any other insignificant women— he’d have her fucking throat crushed for even looking at Iris like that.
But patience. Restraint.
A lesson was better served slow.
The rest of the dinner passed in stiff, stifling silence.
But the dynamic had shifted.
And every single person in that room knew it.
By the time the meal ended, the unspoken truth hung thick in the air.
Iris’s safety was no longer a given.
The way Susan was watching her.
The way Aiden struggled to hide his unease.
The way Ace had—without a single word—declared Iris as his.
No one said it aloud.
But they didn’t have to.
The house was silent.
Not the fragile kind of silence that could be broken with a whisper—but a deep, settled quiet.
Leaving only the sound of fabric shifting and the rhythmic glide of a needle piercing cloth.
Ace’s gaze was locked onto her. Iris.
Sitting on the floor in front of him, her small frame illuminated by the dim glow of the lights.
She was concentrating, lips slightly parted, brow furrowed in deep focus as she carefully mended his shirt.
Ace exhaled slowly, the air leaving his lungs with quiet amusement.
The torn buttons were a minor inconvenience— insignificant, really.
If he wanted, he could throw the damn thing out and have a dozen replacements brought in within the hour.
But when she had insisted—so earnest, so determined— Ace had found himself saying yes.
Not because he cared about the shirt.
But because he wanted to watch her.
To see how much she was willing to do for him.
Her hair, usually so neatly in place, was now an unruly mess, tumbling over her shoulders.
The oversized shirt she wore had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the delicate curve of her collarbone— soft, untouched.
Ace’s fingers twitched.
It would be so easy to reach out.
To drag his thumb along the bare skin peeking out from under the fabric.
To see if she would flinch.
To see if she would let him.
His leg was propped up behind her back, supporting her without her even realizing it.
His other leg was tucked under him, keeping him close but giving him room to observe.
She sat in a W position, knees bent, completely unaware of how vulnerable she looked like that.
Ace rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek, studying her.
She didn’t belong in his world.
Not even a little.
And yet, here she was—unconsciously placing herself within his reach.
His fingers curled into the sheets.
She was so soft. So earnest. So fucking pure.
And he wanted to ruin her.
It made his chest feel tight.
It made something dark settle inside him— a satisfaction so profound, it was nearly primal.
The shirt was nearly finished.
Ace could see it in the way her fingers moved with more certainty, the tension in her shoulders easing.
She enjoyed this.
Enjoyed doing things for him.
That realization stirred something deep inside him, something that curled hot and possessive in the pit of his stomach.
Would she be like this with someone else?
Would she sit on the floor, mending another man’s shirt with the same quiet dedication?
The thought made his jaw tighten.
No.
He wouldn’t allow it.
Because she didn’t exist for someone else.
Not anymore.
He watched as she tied off the last stitch, her expression lighting up with unmistakable pride.
"It's done," she said, her voice soft but triumphant.
He reached for the shirt instead, running his fingers over the newly secured buttons.
She had done it perfectly.
Of course, she had.
A slow, satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
He lifted a hand and—without thinking—patted her head. "Good, Mini bear."
The moment he touched her, she froze.
Ace could feel it— the way her breath hitched, the slight stiffening of her posture before she melted under his hand.
Her eyes sparkled. Lit up like he had given her something priceless.
Hell.
She was so easy to please.
A single word of approval, a single touch— and she bloomed.
How had no one taken her yet?
How had no one broken her?
It almost made him angry.
Almost.
But more than that— it made him want to be the one to do it.
Ace withdrew his hand slowly, watching as she beamed, clearly pleased with herself.
Her happiness was so simple.
She didn’t need luxury, didn’t demand power.
She just wanted to be acknowledged.
To be wanted.
And fuck if that didn’t make her even more dangerous.
Because she would make it so easy to fall for her.
Ace inhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair.
This wasn’t good.
He didn’t do attachment.
And yet, he couldn’t stop watching her.
Couldn’t stop wanting to keep her here, just like this.
His fingers twitched again.
One day, he was going to hurt her. He knew that.
And yet—
He couldn’t bring himself to let her go.
So, instead— he stood up.
Disappearing into his closet, mind already shifting, already moving onto his next task.
Ace POV:
By the time I emerged from the closet, everything was in place.
Everything, except her.
Iris lay curled on the bed, her breathing soft and even, her tiny frame relaxed in a way that was almost too vulnerable.
The sight of her, peaceful and undisturbed, sent a strange, conflicting sensation through my chest— something both calming and consuming.
I approached without a sound, stripping my shirt off as I settled beside her.
The room was dimly lit, and in the muted glow, she looked almost too perfect.
My fingers found their way to the mark I’d left on her earlier. A bite.
A silent, unspoken claim— something instinctive, something possessive.
It stood out against her delicate skin, a stark contrast to her innocence.
I traced it lightly, and a small, involuntary shiver ran through her body.
She stirred.
Her eyelashes fluttered, her body tensing slightly as she blinked up at me with unfocused, sleepy confusion.
"W-What... are you doing?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, still thick with exhaustion as she rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.
"Nothing," I murmured.
Then, to my annoyance, she sat up— as if she was going to leave.
I watched in silence as she started to move, but the second she rose from the bed, I spoke.
"Iris." My voice cut through the quiet like a blade.
She stopped immediately.
Good.
Her head turned slightly, her expression still clouded with sleep, but I could see it now—the apprehension.
She knew better.
"Sleep here," I commanded, patting the spot next to me on the bed.
A simple request. A reasonable one.
She shook her head, her defiance small but firm.
A refusal.
My jaw ticked, the muscle tightening. A slow sigh left my lips, not out of patience, but calculation.
I stood, moving in front of her with measured, deliberate steps.
"Is my little girl being a brat now?" My voice was light, teasing, but the weight of it was undeniable.
I reached out, my hands finding her small frame and guiding—no, pushing— her back onto the bed with a quiet insistence.
She let out a startled yelp, her body tensing. Her eyes, wide and filled with hesitation, flickered up to meet mine.
A perfect little doll, fragile and warm, meant to be cradled in my hands, not resisting me.
I hate when she misbehaves.
When she fights me on things that shouldn’t be fought over.
Her legs curled inward, instinctive, defensive.
I tsked under my breath, grabbing her ankle before she could fully retreat.
My grip was firm but not cruel—just enough to remind her.
I dragged her back toward me, positioning myself over her, caging her in.
A sharp inhale. The way her chest rose, the quickening of her pulse.
The sheen of unshed tears making her eyes glisten in the dim lighting.
Beautiful.
"Behave, little girl," I murmured, voice low, threading both command and reassurance into my tone.
I brushed my fingers along her cheek, watching the way she melted slightly under my touch.
So easy. So reactive.
Everything had been perfect, and then she had to ruin it.
"My little Mini," I whispered, tilting her chin up with my fingers. "Don’t make me hurt you. Sleep here."
"You s-said you... like me... b-but," she sniffled, the tremor in her voice slicing through something inside me.
I stilled, exhaling slowly.
There it was—the conflict.
Mine. Not mine.
The push and pull between what I wanted and what I shouldn't take .
I pressed a kiss to her damp cheek, slow and deliberate.
A sick sort of pleasure filled me when she stilled, breath caught in her throat.
"Mini... My innocent Bambi," I hummed against her skin, placing another kiss, this time dangerously close to the mark I’d left earlier.
I should let her go.
I should ease back and leave her alone, let her have her space.
But I wouldn’t.
"I like you, Bambi," I admitted, brushing my lips along her jaw.
"But I don’t like it when you don’t behave." Another kiss. "I don’t like brats."
Her body shivered under me, tiny, fragile.
Her words, hesitant, wounded. "You always... h-hurt me."
I pulled back slightly, studying her face. The way her brows furrowed, the way her gaze refused to meet mine.
I didn’t always hurt her. Not really. I gave her what she needed.
I gave her structure when she flailed.
I gave her purpose when she was lost.
I gave her me when she had noone else.
I exhaled through my nose, wiping her tears away with my thumb.
"Forgive me, Bambi," I murmured, my tone softer, my hands careful. Gentle. For now.
I pressed another kiss, slow, lingering.
I wanted to devour her, but I settled for soothing her instead.
"I want you to sleep on the bed with me," I continued, voice dipping lower. "I’ve seen you wake up in the middle of the night. You’re uncomfortable on the couch."
I traced a line down the column of her throat, feeling the delicate flutter of her pulse.
So delicate. So sweet. So fucking mine.
"Please." The word felt foreign on my tongue, but it slipped out anyway.
Her small, vulnerable face peered up at me, torn between fear, confusion, and shock.
"I am... not a-a brat," she whispered.
I smirked, tilting my head. Oh?
I raised a single brow in question, watching as she hesitated before looking away.
Her tiny act of defiance stirred something predatory in me, something dark and unforgiving, but I kept it at bay. For now.
"Sleep here," I repeated, lighter this time. "Or I’ll sleep with you on the couch."
She hummed, uncertain.
Then, almost too quietly, she whispered: "B-But... Athena said Ace is mine... Stay a-away from him... She likes you."
I stilled.
What?
A slow smirk curled at my lips.
She said that?
I gripped her chin gently, guiding her gaze back to me, forcing her to meet my eyes.
"Say my name again," I ordered, my voice nothing more than a breath of sound.
She hesitated, her brows furrowing slightly, trying to decipher the shift in my tone.
And then—
"Ace," she whispered.
Something inside me snapped.
Fuck. Right here. Right now.
I could rip her innocence apart, take everything good and untouched, stain her in ways she’d never recover from.
"I can't go home," she said, her voice trembling with something I recognized too well.
Loss, uncertainty, that desperate search for something solid to cling to.
But there was no home waiting for her.
No safety beyond me.
"I am your home," I answered, my voice steady, firm.
It wasn’t a choice.
It was a fact.
She doesn’t have a home— not one she can return to, not one she’s eagerly searching for.
It’s me. It will be.
She blinked at me, her lips parting slightly, her expression soft and vulnerable.
I reached for her, cradling her cheek in my palm, letting my thumb trace slow, deliberate circles against her skin.
She didn’t pull away.
Good.
"I will take care of you from now on," I murmured, letting the words settle between us.
Letting her hear them, feel them. Believe them.
Her eyes widened, shock flickering across her face.
"Really... then... will you be my husband?" Her voice wavered, small and hesitant, filled with a kind of innocence that made my chest tighten.
"Because... y-you t-touched... me... and Mama said only a husband can touch me," she added, her cheeks tinged with a nervous flush.
I stilled.
A slow smile tugged at my lips.
Hell, she was precious.
A perfect little thing carved out just for me.
I leaned in, brushing a kiss against the tip of her nose, inhaling the faintest trace of her scent— warm, soft, familiar.
"If you stay here with me, I will be whatever you want me to be," I promised, my voice smooth, almost hypnotic.
A lie wrapped in a truth.
Because I knew what I was to her.
I knew what I would become, what I was already molding her into.
And it wasn’t a husband.
I pulled back slightly, tilting my head as I studied her.
The way her lips parted, the way she blinked up at me, hopefully.
"From now on, you will listen to everything I say, won't you, Mini bear?" I asked, keeping my tone light, coaxing.
She hesitated, then gave a slow nod.
Perfect.
"If someone hurts you, calls you by name, makes you cry…" I trailed off, watching the way her breath caught in her throat.
I lifted her chin slightly, making sure she was looking at me, making sure she understood the weight of my words.
"You will tell me. Understand, Iris?"
Her lips trembled. She swallowed.
"O-Ok," she whispered, barely audible.
That was enough.
For now.
Satisfied, I leaned in, pressing my lips to the delicate curve of her neck, letting my teeth graze her skin just enough to make her shiver. A silent claim.
Her small hands fisted the fabric of my shirt, uncertain, hesitant.
But she didn't push me away.
She wouldn’t.
She was learning.
I exhaled against her throat before pulling back, my gaze lingering on the pink hue dusting her cheeks.
Then, without a word, I shifted, settling down beside her, resting my head against her chest.
The rhythmic beat of her heart thudded against my ear, steady and soft. Soothing.
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