My steps were heavy with weariness and regret, each footfall echoing in the vast emptiness of the corridor.
The silence was deafening, pressing against my skull like a vice, amplifying every thought, every wretched emotion clawing at my insides.
I couldn't stop seeing her face.
Tear-streaked. Hollow.
I clenched my fists as I neared the bedroom, a part of me hesitating, dreading what I'd find on the other side of that door.
Would she still be crying?
Would she recoil from me?
Would she—
No.
I swallowed the hesitation down like a bitter pill.
I pushed the door open, the dim glow of the bedside lamp barely illuminated the room, casting long, distorted shadows across the walls.
My breath hitched at the sight before me.
She wasn't in bed.
She wasn't even standing.
There she was, sitting on the cold floor near the bed, her body unnaturally still, her posture rigid, her bare feet curled beneath her as if the weight of her own existence was too much to bear.
Her head was bowed slightly, her long, dark hair spilling over her shoulders, obscuring her face.
She didn't move when I entered.
She didn't acknowledge me.
She just stared at the floor.
"What are you doing?" My voice came out colder than I intended, laced with exhaustion.
She lifted her gaze—slowly, painfully—as if she had to force herself to look at me.
And when she did, my stomach twisted.
Her expression wasn't one of anger or defiance. It wasn't even one of fear.
It was resignation.
That look—that goddamn look—made something inside me snap.
"Nothing," she whispered.
The word was empty. Lifeless.
I clenched my jaw.
Something about the way she said it made me feel like she wasn't talking about what she was doing at this moment.
She was talking about herself.
She thought she was nothing.
My hands curled into fists at my sides, but I forced my movements to remain calm as I walked toward the dresser.
I took off my watch, unfastened the holster at my waist, and placed my gun inside the drawer with slow, deliberate motions.
I needed a moment.
I needed to wash the day off me—to wash this off me—before I could deal with her.
Turning my back to her, I walked into the bathroom, but even as I turned on the water, I could still feel her gaze on me.
Not in the way she used to look at me—curious, cautious, like she was trying to figure me out.
This time, it was empty.
Like she had already decided there was nothing left to figure out.
By the time I emerged, towel-drying my back, she was in bed, curled away from me, beneath the thin blanket.
The moonlight filtered in through the large windows, casting a pale glow over her form.
I watched the slow rise and fall of her back, her shallow breathing barely audible.
She was awake. I knew she was.
She was waiting.
Waiting for me to speak.
Waiting for me to leave.
Waiting for something I wasn't going to give her.
I slid into my boxers, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to my still-warm skin, and made my way to the bed.
The mattress dipped as I lowered myself beside her, shifting closer until I could feel the lingering heat of her body.
She didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't resist.
But she didn't welcome me, either.
"Mini..." I murmured, reaching for her.
Her body tensed beneath my touch, stiff as a corpse. But I didn't let go.
My arm snaked around her waist, pulling her against my chest.
She was warm, soft, fragile—so fucking fragile—and yet she fought me with more strength than she realized.
I buried my face in her neck, inhaling deeply.
Her scent—jasmine—wrapped around me, calming and familiar.
I pressed my lips against her skin, slow, lingering kisses trailing up to her jaw, then her cheek.
My hand slid beneath the fabric of her dress, fingers grazing over her soft skin, mapping the places I had already memorized.
I needed her to know.
I needed her to feel it.
I needed her to understand that despite everything—despite the mistakes, the darkness, the violence—I cared.
A deep sigh escaped me when I felt her relax, if only slightly, her body melting against mine in a quiet surrender.
But as I turned her to face me, my stomach twisted.
Tears.
Silent, endless tears streamed down her face.
I felt my chest tighten, something ugly clawing at my throat.
"What happened?" I whispered, nuzzling my face into the curve of her neck.
I wanted to shake her, to demand she tell me what was going through her mind.
But I already knew.
"I-I want... to go home," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, but the words struck like a gunshot.
She tried to pull away, her fingers curling around the fabric of my shirt like she was clinging to her last bit of courage.
Her gaze never met mine.
Again.
How many times?
How many fucking times?
I felt something inside me snap, but I forced my voice to remain steady.
"How many times do I have to tell you?" My fingers dug into her waist, pulling her closer, forcing her to feel the steady, unrelenting presence of me. "I am your home."
She shook her head. Slowly.
"No."
One word.
One fucking word.
Her voice was so small, so broken, yet it ripped through me like a blade.
"You and I are both different people," she continued, barely whispering, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Our worlds are different... You can't like me."
My grip on her tightened.
She didn't understand.
She would understand.
Her words were true, but they were also meaningless.
Our worlds, our differences, none of it mattered.
It was a harsh truth, but I wanted her to understand—there was no place she'd be safer or more loved than with me.
Her world, her past, her doubts—none of them mattered. She was mine.
"I don't care." My voice was firm, unwavering, each word laced with my absolute determination. "You will stay here with me forever, and I will take care of you, sì."
Her body tensed in my arms, her breath hitching at the sheer finality in my words.
Her wet lashes fluttered as she searched my face, looking for something—hesitation, uncertainty, a loophole.
She would find none.
Her lips parted, her breath uneven. "But you hurt me," she whispered, her voice trembling, fragile.
I exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to tighten my hold on her.
"I will not." I leaned in, brushing my lips against her damp eyelids, tasting the salt of her tears. "I promise."
She didn't move. Didn't push me away.
But she wasn't convinced either.
A tense silence stretched between us, her warm gaze locked onto mine, still laced with hesitation, with the desperate need to believe me—but terrified of the consequences if she did.
"You're lying." Her voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a thousand wounds. "You always hurt me."
A slow breath left me, my grip on her waist tightening just slightly.
"I wouldn't from now on." My voice softened, but it was still firm, absolute. "Forgive me, Mini."
Her lips trembled as she exhaled, her fingers curling slightly against my chest. "You will... never leave me?"
I bit back my smirk.
She was surrendering.
She was finally beginning to understand—she couldn't leave me. And I would never leave her.
I leaned in until our faces were mere inches apart, my breath fanning over her lips.
"Never. Ever." The words came out low, steady, a binding vow that neither time nor circumstance could undo.
Then, before she could react, I kissed her.
It was soft—just a brief, lingering brush of lips against lips.
Her breath hitched, her eyes widening in surprise as a deep blush spread across her cheeks.
She turned her head away quickly, biting her lip, blinking as if she were trying to process what had just happened.
I smirked, shaking my head at her adorable shyness.
"I took your first kiss," I murmured, my voice dark with amusement as I trailed soft kisses along her jaw.
She let out a tiny, unsure hum, her nose scrunching in confusion, as if unsure how to feel about it.
I fisted a handful of her soft, thick curls, feeling the luxurious strands slip between my fingers.
Her lips were right there, flushed, glistening, waiting.
I pressed my lips to hers again.
This time, I didn't move—I let the contact linger, drawing out the moment, savoring the taste of her innocence.
Then, I deepened the kiss.
Slowly, deliberately, I thrust my tongue into her mouth, capturing her lower lip between mine and sucking on it gently.
I could feel her hesitation, her uncertainty, her instinct to pull away—
But she didn't.
She let me kiss her, let me taste her, let me mold her into something mine.
But she didn't kiss me back.
When I pulled away, her lips were swollen, a deeper, darker pink that made my gut tighten with possessiveness.
A deep frown settled between her brows, her breath uneven.
"Kiss me back." My grip on her hair remained firm, my command a quiet demand that left no room for refusal.
She swallowed hard, cheeks burning as she avoided my gaze.
"I-I don't k-know... how..." she stammered, her voice so small, so utterly innocent that something dark curled in my chest.
Tsk.
I dragged my thumb over her kiss-bruised lips, smirking.
"I forget my little Mini is such an innocent bear," I murmured against her skin, brushing another kiss over the corner of her mouth.
Then I kissed her again, drinking in the warmth, the taste, the softness.
Hell, I could kiss her every day, every second, and I would never tire of it.
As I sucked on her lips one last time, I pulled away, my gaze lingering on the flush of color painting her cheeks.
The sight stirred something deep within me—a twisted mix of satisfaction and tenderness, as if I had branded her, as if my touch had left something permanent beneath her skin.
She was breathless, her chest rising and falling in uneven rhythms, her lashes flapping against her cheeks as she fought against exhaustion.
I didn't move.
Instead, I laid my head against her chest, feeling the steady, hypnotic unevenness of her breathing.
A fragile peace settled over us.
It was oddly simple to have her here with me..
She was craving love.
And I knew exactly how to give it to her.
Soft, tender, laced with reassurance.
Or cruel, suffocating, inescapable.
Despite the chaos, despite the mistakes—despite everything—I had her with me.
And I would keep her with me. No matter the cost.
But there was something else.
Something gnawing at the edges of my mind.
I still had suspicions about her.
She watched me differently, her eyes filled with something more than fear, more than wariness.
Like she knew me.
Like she had always known me.
Longer than just the months we had been together.
And that thought alone sent an unfamiliar chill creeping down my spine.
Author POV:
The kitchen felt suffocating.
The scent of simmering spices curled through the air, warm and rich, but it did nothing to settle the weight pressing against Iris's chest.
The heat from the stove prickled at her skin, but it was nothing compared to the burning stares drilling into her back.
She could feel them watching her, waiting, their curiosity thick in the air like an impending storm.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she stirred the pot, but she forced them steady, gripping the wooden spoon.
"Tell me you're joking because nowhere in the world does this seem real," Su's voice cut through the silence like a blade, her tone dripping with disbelief.
Iris sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers tightening around the spoon.
She nodded stiffly, forcing out a small, hesitant smile, but it felt foreign on her lips.
"Did you kiss someone?" Felix's voice was lighter, probing, it sent a jolt of panic through her.
Her pulse pounded in her ears.
She could hear it—hear the echo of a memory that refused to leave her alone.
The feel of his lips on hers.
The taste of him.
The way his hands had held her, firm, possessive, unrelenting.
"No," she said too quickly, too sharply.
A lie. One that felt flimsy and fragile, one she knew they wouldn't believe.
Iris swallowed hard.
She wished she hadn't asked.
She wished she had kept her mouth shut instead of letting the question slip, letting them see the doubt clawing at her mind.
She had thought—hoped—they would say something comforting, something to ease the confusion twisting in her gut.
Instead, they had laughed.
"You think a kiss means love?"
"Iris, you're so naive." "People kiss all the time. It doesn't mean anything."
Their words had lodged themselves deep, festering inside her like an infection.
But then why did it feel like something had shifted inside her?
Why did her skin still tingle where he had touched her?
Why did she wake up feeling as if something had been stolen from her and given to him in return?
"You so kissed someone," Ivan said with a grin. "Was it good?"
The question sent another wave of heat to her face, but this time, it wasn't just embarrassment.
It was shame.
Because she didn't know how to answer.
Because she wasn't sure if she was supposed to hate it.
"So, Iris, how's Ace treating you?" Leo asked, changing the topic, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife.
She nodded her head, trying to appear nonchalant, humming softly as if the question hadn't made her heart race.
"Penso che gli piaccia davvero davvero (I think he really really likes her)," Ivan teased, his voice laced with amusement.
"Ti dà fastidio? (Is it bothering you?)"
Ace.
His voice was low, rough with something unspoken—something dangerous.
The laughter died instantly. A suffocating stillness settled over the kitchen as every head turned toward the doorway.
Iris's breath hitched.
He was standing there, one shoulder propped lazily against the frame, his stance deceptively relaxed.
But his eyes—his eyes—were anything but indifferent.
They burned with a quiet, simmering intensity, locked onto her as if she were the only thing that existed in the room.
The question had been directed at Ivan, but it was clear that Ace's attention was locked on Iris.
Iris's grip on the wooden spoon tightened until her knuckles ached, her fingers slick with sweat.
She stirred the pot with too much force, the bubbling liquid splattering against her wrist.
The sting barely registered.
She needed to focus. On anything. Anything but him.
But it was impossible.
Ivan, ever unfazed, smirked before responding. "Nope."
The single word barely disrupted the thick, suffocating silence.
She bit her lip, staring down at the pot, pretending to be absorbed in her task.
But it was impossible to ignore him, impossible to pretend that his presence didn't command every ounce of her attention.
Ace was patient. He could wait.
And that was the most terrifying part.
The minutes stretched unbearably, each second dragging like an eternity as the playful ease of the kitchen had been stripped away, leaving only the unbearable weight of his presence.
Finally, Hudson broke the suffocating silence by calling out, "Ace," his voice cutting through the thick atmosphere as he pulled out a chair at the kitchen table.
The unspoken command was clear—Come. Sit. Let this conversation move on.
Ace didn't immediately react.
His gaze lingered on Iris for a moment longer, unreadable and heavy, before he finally pushed off the doorframe and walked over to the table.
Iris felt her pulse stutter as she turned to the coffee pot, her hands unsteady as she poured a cup for him.
She could feel the others watching, their curiosity pressing into her like a physical force.
The soft clink of the ceramic cup against the saucer was barely audible over the erratic pounding of her own heart.
She swallowed, forcing herself to move naturally, to keep her breaths steady as she handed him the coffee.
But her fingers betrayed her, trembling slightly as the cup hovered between them.
Ace took it effortlessly, his fingers brushing against hers, the touch sending a quiet shiver through her.
"Mini," he murmured.
The single word, spoken so softly, so intimately, nearly melted her right then and there.
Iris forced a nonchalant hum, pretending as if the simple endearment hadn't unraveled something inside her.
She tried to smile, but it felt fragile, barely held together.
But Ace—Ace saw through her. He always did.
His gaze roamed her face slowly, deliberately, as if memorizing every flicker of emotion in her eyes.
Then, without warning, his hand found its way to her waist.
She stiffened, her breath catching as the warmth of his palm settled there, firm, possessive.
"You look beautiful," he said, his voice a low, velvety murmur that sent a ripple of something dangerous down her spine.
Iris swallowed hard.
Her lips parted, searching for a response, but the words tangled in her throat.
"Thank...you," she stammered, her voice trembling with a mixture of terror and something else she couldn't quite name.
When a man who looked like a Greek god praised you, it was hard not to have a heart attack.
Desperately, she tried to return the compliment, but her mind short-circuited under the weight of his gaze.
"Y-Y-You look handsome t-t-too, um... your dress looks neat and your waistcoat... looks so elegant, more like you... look like a steamed bun," she finished, her pretty smile doing little to hide her sheer mortification.
Dead silence.
The air in the room shifted—stunned amusement from the others, but from Ace?
Ace smirked, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that sent a different kind of shiver through her.
He reached for her hand, his grip firm yet gentle, and brought it to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to the back of it.
The heat of his breath against her skin made her stomach twist into knots.
Then, before she could even process it, he tugged her forward.
A quiet gasp left her lips as she found herself settling onto his lap, her body caged between his arm and his warmth.
The others were still watching, and that made it worse.
Her face burned as his arm secured itself around her waist, his fingers splayed against her side in a way that felt both protective and inescapable.
He took her other hand, intertwining their fingers as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
"I will be late tonight. Don't stay up too late," he murmured, his voice softer now, coaxing.
Iris nodded, but something inside her sank at the words.
It was strange.
Despite everything—the fear, the tension, the unknown—there was a part of her that found solace in his presence.
At night, when the world was quiet and she was alone, there was a fragile comfort in knowing he was somewhere near.
But now, with him leaving, that comfort was slipping away, leaving only an aching hollowness behind.
She bit her lip, trying to push the feeling down.
She shouldn't care. She shouldn't.
"Come on, Mini, don't be sad," Ace murmured.
He pulled her closer, their faces now mere inches apart. His breath was warm against her skin, teasing, lingering.
Iris blinked rapidly, shaking her head.
"I'm not sad," she whispered, but even she wasn't convinced by her own words.
Ace, however, wasn't fooled.
His lips found her cheek, pressing a soft kiss there. Then another. And another.
"Aren't you so cute?" he whispered against her skin, his voice dripping with amusement and something else—something dangerous, something she couldn't quite grasp.
Iris inhaled sharply, the warmth of his mouth trailing along her jaw, the brush of his lips sending a tingling sensation through her nerves.
She squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would somehow lessen the overwhelming effect he had on her.
"Ace," she muttered, trying to shift, to create some distance.
But he only chuckled, pressing another kiss to her other cheek, making her squirm even more.
His lips brushed against her cheek as he continued to nuzzle her, making it impossible for her to hide her blushing cheeks.
"Don't do that," she finally protested, her voice coming out small, almost embarrassed.
Her cheeks were on fire.
Her heart was racing.
And worst of all—she didn't hate it.
She quickly cupped her hot, raging cheeks with both hands in an attempt to stop the onslaught of kisses.
Ace chuckled, low and knowing, watching her struggle with amusement twinkling in his sharp eyes.
Panic fluttered in her chest, and in a desperate attempt to escape, she pushed herself off his lap, nearly stumbling in her haste.
"I—I need to go call Melinda! Breakfast table! Yeah—yeah, I'll go help with that," she blurted out, already scurrying away.
A stupid excuse.
Everyone in the kitchen knew it.
Ace watched her retreat, the small, knowing smirk never leaving his face.
Suddenly a high-pitched, exaggerated voice rang through the kitchen.
"Muah! Muah! Hmm... don't do that, Ace~~," Aiden mimicked, making loud, obnoxious kissing noises.
The room erupted into laughter.
Leo doubled over, clutching his stomach as Ivan smacked the table with an open palm, howling.
Even Hudson let out a rare chuckle, shaking his head as if questioning how they all ended up like this.
But while everyone else laughed, Ace simply... watched.
His expression remained unreadable, his smirk gone, replaced by something much colder.
The air around him shifted, subtle yet unmistakable.
The laughter, though loud and carefree, suddenly felt wrong.
Su noticed it first.
Without hesitation, she kicked Aiden under the table, her foot connecting hard with his shin.
Aiden yelped, clutching his leg as he shot her an annoyed glare.
But Su didn't even look at him. Her gaze remained locked on Ace, her expression cautious.
Aiden, oblivious at first, followed her line of sight—then froze.
He cleared his throat, suddenly very aware of the shift in atmosphere.
The playful mockery dried up in his throat.
The laughter faded.
Ace didn't have to say anything.
His silence alone was enough to suffocate the room.
Then, as if nothing had happened, he picked up his coffee and took a slow sip.
Iris stood near the stairs, her hands clenched into the fabric of her sweater.
The weight of Ace's presence still clung to her.
His words, his touch, the way he looked at her—it all lingered, wrapping around her like invisible chains.
Little did she know, her world had already begun to change.
And there was no turning back.
Ace POV:
It was 1 in the morning when I finally arrived back at the mansion.
The silence greeted me like an old, familiar ghost, wrapping itself around my skin as I pushed open the heavy front door.
My footsteps echoed through the marble-floored halls, each step dragging like dead weight.
Tonight had been one of those nights.
The kind that left me feeling stretched too thin, my patience threadbare, my mind teetering on the edge of something violent.
My muscles ached, tight with unspent aggression, my jaw locked so hard it sent dull pulses of pain up to my temples.
I climbed the stairs, my fingers curled into a fist at my side, nails biting into my palm.
I needed a drink.
I needed a cigarette.
I needed something to silence the gnawing tension clawing at my ribs.
Instead, I opened the door to my bedroom, expecting emptiness.
But there she was.
Mini.
Sitting by the window, bathed in silver moonlight, her presence so effortlessly delicate it almost felt like a hallucination.
Her head turned at the sound of the door creaking open, and the moment her eyes met mine, she smiled.
Warm. Genuine. Soft.
I hated how it made my chest tighten.
"Mini," I muttered, my voice rough, guttural.
I pulled at the tie around my neck, loosening it as though it had been strangling me. Maybe it had.
I should have smiled back. I should have acknowledged her warmth.
Instead, I let out a slow exhale, the exhaustion in my bones heavier than before.
The tie slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a whisper.
She stood, hesitant. Watching me.
Her gaze followed as I stripped away the remnants of the day—the watch, the shirt, discarded without a second thought.
I could feel her studying me, her concern evident in the way she lingered just a step too far away, unsure.
"You're tired," she murmured.
It wasn't a question. It was a statement—an observation, sharp in its accuracy.
I didn't reply.
Tired? No.
This wasn't exhaustion.
This was something worse.
She moved closer, slow, tentative.
Then, with the smallest touch, she nudged my shoulder.
The warmth of her fingertips seeped through my skin like a brand. My muscles tensed under her touch, but she didn't retreat.
"It's okay if you have worries or stress," she whispered, her voice laced with gentle conviction. "Tomorrow or someday, it will be gone."
Gone?
I nearly laughed. A humorless, bitter thing.
She didn't understand.
The kind of weight I carried didn't just disappear.
It wasn't something that faded with time or sleep.
It lived inside me, curled around my ribs like barbed wire, tightening with every passing second.
I looked at her then, really looked at her.
Why did she accept me as I was so easily?
Any sane person would recoil.
Any normal person would see me for what I was—a man carved from violence, stitched together with control, riddled with demons he could barely keep chained.
But she didn't run, not even tried.
And that... unsettled me.
What did she know?
Why did it feel like she saw something in me that I couldn't?
The frustration curdled in my stomach, dark and simmering.
My eyes trailed over her—her loose frock, her messy braid draped over one shoulder, the softness of her frame against the moonlit window.
I exhaled sharply. My hand moved before I could stop it.
I gripped her waist, firm, pulling her to me.
She let out the softest gasp—startled, but not afraid. Not yet.
I buried my face in her chest, my arms locking around her.
A desperate embrace, one I hadn't planned, one I couldn't explain.
Her heartbeat thrummed beneath my ear—steady, unbroken. So different from mine.
I could feel it quicken as she hesitated before resting her hand on my shoulder.
A brief moment of indecision, a flicker of something fragile in the space between us. But she didn't pull away.
Neither did I.
We stood there, unmoving, caught in a strange, suffocating silence.
My grip on her waist was firm—too firm—but she didn't protest.
Instead, her fingers wove through my hair, brushing lightly against my scalp.
Then, she began to massage it, slow and rhythmic, her touch feather-light yet deliberate.
A warmth spread down my spine, unraveling some of the tension knotted deep within me.
"Your hair is soft," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
I hummed in response, tightening my grip just a little.
She felt good. Too good.
The way she touched me, so effortlessly gentle, as if I wasn't the monster I knew myself to be, made something uncomfortable stir inside my chest.
"Ace," she whimpered softly, her voice pulling me back.
That's when I realized—
I was holding her too tightly.
Possessive. Not affectionate.
My grip was suffocating, demanding, as if I wanted to fuse her to me, keep her locked in place, never let go.
I let her go. Abruptly.
She stumbled back a step, catching herself quickly, her eyes wide with confusion. Worry.
I could see the questions forming in her mind, but I didn't let her speak.
I turned away, walking straight into the bathroom and sliding the door behind me without a word.
I didn't dare look back.
Inside, I caught my reflection in the mirror, and for a second, I didn't recognize the man staring back at me.
Disheveled hair.
Dark circles under my eyes.
An expression caught between exhaustion and something far worse.
I ran a hand through my hair, sighing heavily before leaning over the sink and splashing cold water onto my face.
The chill did nothing to wash away the unease clinging to my skin.
What the hell was wrong with me?
Why did I hold her like that?
The question gnawed at me, deep and relentless.
I was possessive—I always had been—but there had been something different about that embrace.
It wasn't just need. It wasn't just comfort.
It had been desperation.
And I hated it.
I went through the motions of freshening up, lazily running a towel over my face before stepping back into the bedroom.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers tapping anxiously against her knees.
The moment she saw me, she looked up, her eyes searching mine.
I could see it in the way her lips parted slightly, the way her brows creased with unspoken questions.
But I had nothing to give her.
I didn't stop. Didn't say a word.
I walked straight to the bed and laid down, hoping to lose myself in the nothingness of sleep, to escape the thoughts clawing at my skull.
The room was dim, the soft rustling of the sheets the only sound.
But I wasn't alone.
I could feel her presence beside me, the slight dip in the mattress as she hesitated before sitting down.
She was close. Warm.
I ignored it.
I squeezed my eyes shut, focusing on the black void behind my eyelids.
If I stayed still enough, if I ignored the weight pressing against my ribs, maybe it would all disappear.
"Ace..." Her voice was hesitant, laced with something small—something careful. "Did you eat?"
I didn't respond.
Did it matter?
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, but she didn't leave.
She shifted slightly, waiting, the tension between us tangible in the still air.
I was tired.
Physically. Mentally.
"Are you asleep?" she hummed again, her voice soft but insistent.
I could hear the hesitation in her tone, the careful way she treaded around me, like a child approaching a beast unsure if it was truly sleeping.
Frustration curled in my stomach, a dull, simmering thing.
Without opening my eyes, I answered, my voice laced with sharp sarcasm. "What do you think I'm doing right now? Dancing?"
Silence. A beat too long.
Good. Maybe now she'd let me be.
But of course, she didn't.
"I'm sorry..." she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. "But did you eat something?"
The irritation burned hotter, winding through my ribs like a vice.
Why did she insist on worming her way into places she shouldn't?
My eyes snapped open.
I sat up abruptly, crossing my legs in one sharp movement, my sudden shift making her flinch.
Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, and her gaze dropped to the floor, small and uncertain.
Idiot.
"I ate," I lied, my voice clipped, my patience thinning to a frayed edge. "Now, shut the mouth of yours before I rip it off you."
"Ok."
That single whisper hit differently than I expected. Small. Fragile.
But she didn't leave.
"But if you wanna talk about something, you can tell me... You look stressed," she murmured, fingers fiddling with the hem of her frock, her gaze still averted.
And that did it.
"Tell you what?" I snapped, my voice sharp, the words slicing through the air before I could stop them. "That I killed five fucking people today? Or should I talk about shipments?"
A heavy, suffocating silence followed.
She froze.
I exhaled through my nose, slow and controlled, rubbing my face with my hands, as if I could scrub away the weight pressing down on me.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
"...Mini," I murmured, the rage bleeding out of me, leaving behind something hollow, something I couldn't name.
I expected her to cower. To shrink back like any sane person would.
But she didn't.
She moved, sitting directly in front of me.
Close enough that I could see every tiny detail—the way her lips parted as if she wanted to say something but hesitated, the way her lashes fluttered slightly when she looked at me.
Her little hands reached out, cupping my face.
Soft. Warm.
The touch was unexpected. Gentle in a way that made my chest feel too tight.
"It's okay," she whispered, and for some reason, that made my throat clench.
No, it wasn't. It had never been okay.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," she added softly, her thumbs brushing along my jaw. "But I was worried about you."
She trailed her fingers into my hair, and before I could stop her, she started massaging my scalp.
I stared at her, my body tense, but the sensation was immediate—soothing, almost hypnotic.
My eyes closed involuntarily.
A low sigh escaped me.
She shifted onto my lap, her legs straddling me, and I felt the warmth of her thighs against my hips.
"Straighten your back and neck," she instructed.
And I obeyed.
Her fingers worked slowly, gliding through my hair, pressing against my scalp in a way that sent an unexpected wave of relaxation through me.
Her touch was skilled. Precise.
Like she knew exactly where the tension lived and how to drag it out of me with her delicate hands.
Her thumbs pressed gently behind my ears, where my skull met my neck.
She used a combination of circular motions and gentle strokes, alternating between the two to ensure that every inch of my scalp was covered.
The pressure was steady but not overwhelming, enough to stimulate the blood flow without causing discomfort.
She moved her hands to the sides of my head, her thumbs pressing gently behind my ears, where the skull meets the neck.
This spot, often neglected, held a surprising amount of tension.
As she massaged it, I felt the tightness ease, a wave of relaxation spreading down my neck and shoulders.
Her fingers trailed through my hair, parting it slightly as she worked her way to the temples.
She used her thumbs to make small, circular motions at my temples, just above my eyebrows.
Her touch was light here, careful not to apply too much pressure to the sensitive area, but it was enough to soothe the headache that had been building behind my eyes.
Every so often, she would return to a particularly tense spot, like the base of my skull or my temples, and give it extra attention.
Her fingers trailed lower, down to my neck, kneading the tight muscles there.
She was so careful. So goddamn gentle. Like she was handling a dandelion.
Like she thought I was fragile.
A dark part of me wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it.
Me. The man who had spent the night knee-deep in blood, whose hands still felt unclean no matter how much I scrubbed them.
And yet, she held me like I was something worthy. tsk.
Eventually, she stopped, her hands resting lightly on my cheeks.
"My dad taught me to do this when he was stressed or tired," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she were afraid to break the silence that had settled between us.
"You did your best today," she continued, her voice filled with genuine appreciation.
Did I?
Would she still say that if she knew the things I'd done just hours ago?
If she'd seen the way I tore through men like they were nothing more than inconveniences in my path?
A strand of my hair fell out of place, and she reached up, tucking it gently behind my ear.
"I know," I said, my voice rougher than intended.
"But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate you," she added softly.
Appreciate me.
The words sat heavy in my chest, an unfamiliar weight.
I had been admired before, feared, obeyed.
But appreciated?
That was new.
Her fingers traced gentle circles on my forehead now, smoothing away the tension I hadn't even realized was still there.
"Deep breaths," she whispered.
A soft command.
And, for once, I listened.
I let out a slow, steady breath, feeling the weight of the day slip further away.
Her hands stilled, resting lightly on my cheeks, her touch lingering.
My hand wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer until our foreheads pressed together, my breath mingling with hers in the silence.
Her hands shifted to my shoulders, kneading into the tension there, her fingers working with a skill that unnerved me.
She was too gentle, too precise, like she knew exactly where to touch to make me melt.
Her thumbs pressed into the base of my neck, the warmth of her skin seeping into mine.
She worked outward, rolling her fingers over the knots in my shoulders, slow and deliberate, unraveling the tightness I had carried with me all day.
A warmth spread through my chest—alien, unsettling.
It wasn't the usual burn of anger or the dark satisfaction of control.
This was something else, something softer, and I hated that I didn't understand it.
Then, suddenly, she pulled back, and the cool air rushed in between us.
My eyes snapped open immediately.
"Good?" she asked, her hands still resting on my shoulders, her touch now reduced to a gentle caress.
No. Not good.
I didn't want her to stop.
I leaned in, closing the distance again until our faces were almost touching, close enough that I could feel the faint tremor in her breath.
"Mini," I murmured, my voice lower, rougher than before, and before I could think twice, I placed a soft peck on her cheek.
The reaction was instant.
Her breath hitched. A small, sharp intake, betraying the way her body tensed beneath my hands.
It was such a simple thing, barely a kiss, but the way she froze made something dark curl inside me.
"S-Sleep?" she stammered, trying to pull away. I felt her swallow hard, the tiny movement sending a shiver through me.
She was nervous.
Scared.
Not of me, but of this.
And I wanted her to drown in it.
I didn't let her go. Instead, I leaned in closer, brushing my lips lightly against hers.
Not a kiss. Just a whisper of contact.
I could feel her trembling, her breath uneven as she tried to process what was happening.
"...Do you like me?" I asked, my voice just above a whisper.
But I needed to hear her say it.
She hesitated.
Her eyes, wide and uncertain, flickered with something I couldn't quite place.
"I don't know," she whispered back, voice trembling.
I clenched my jaw.
Not a no.
Not a yes either.
Frustration twisted inside me, coiling tight in my chest.
The knock shattered the moment.
"Ace."
Hudson's voice grated against my nerves, unwelcome, intrusive.
Her eyes widened in surprise, something flickering behind them—fear?
I didn't move.
Didn't acknowledge Hudson.
Didn't acknowledge her reaction, either.
Did I really believe she would ever like me?
After everything?
After keeping her here against her will?
Tsk. Pathetic Ace. How funny.
She backed away—quick, nervous, like she was escaping. As if I hadn't already trapped her.
I clenched my jaw, irritation curling hot in my chest.
I didn't want to deal with this now. Didn't want to deal with him.
Fucking cockblocker.
I crossed the room in a few strides, my scowl deepening, and slammed the door shut in Hudson's face without so much as a glance.
Let him wait.
Let him fucking rot out there for all I cared.
When I turned back, she was already on the bed.
Curled up.
Small.
Embarrassed.
Trying to disappear into the sheets like that would somehow erase what had just happened.
It wouldn't.
I walked back, the tension in the room thick and suffocating, crawling under my skin like a living thing.
"Sleep," I muttered, the word harsher than I intended.
Harsher than I wanted.
But there was no taking it back, no softening the edges.
I shifted closer to her, my body seeking hers without permission, like something primal, instinctive.
My face pressed into the crook of her neck, breathing her in.
Her warmth seeped into me, quieting something restless inside.
I slid my hand under her frock, my fingers splaying against her soft skin.
A claim. A reminder that she was here.
"Ok," she mumbled, her voice small. Uncertain.
Still, she didn't pull away.
Slowly, tentatively, she placed her hands on my body.
Hesitant. Careful.
As if unsure whether her touch was welcomed or not.
It was.
More than she knew.
The tension in my muscles started to ease, the exhaustion creeping in faster than I expected.
The last thing I remembered was the sound of her breathing—soft and steady.
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