And yet the image of another man leaning close—invading her space, daring to exist in proximity to her—made something savage claw at my insides.
I wanted to storm into that club.
Wanted to wrap my hand around his throat and feel his windpipe collapse beneath my boot. Wanted to remind the world, violently, that Elena belonged to me—even if I intended to destroy her.
Instead, I gave orders.
“Keep him at a distance,” I said coldly. “If he touches her—end him.”
“Yes, boss.”
The reports assured me boundaries were maintained. The man never crossed the line.
But the damage was done.
The storm inside me didn’t pass.
It grew.
Because hatred alone didn’t explain why the thought of losing her—of someone else claiming even a fraction of her attention—felt like annihilation.
Night after night, I waited.
The living room remained dim, lit only by a single lamp and the cold glow of my laptop screen, which I kept open more as camouflage than necessity.
Reports scrolled past—numbers, shipments, names—but I absorbed none of it. My attention was trained elsewhere, every nerve tuned to the house itself, to the faintest change in its breathing.
I listened for the front door.
When it finally opened, the sound was always quiet.
Elena never slammed it. She slipped inside like someone afraid of waking a sleeping animal, footsteps careful, almost apologetic.
Sometimes she stumbled slightly—whether from exhaustion or liquor, I never asked. Her eyes were always shadowed, ringed with a sadness so deep it twisted something sharp and unforgiving in my chest.
Never happy.
Never at peace.
“I’m home,” she would murmur softly, as if the words were meant more for herself than for me.
I never looked up.
My gaze stayed fixed on the screen, jaw set, posture deliberately indifferent.
But every fiber of my body tracked her movement with ruthless precision. The subtle sway of her hips as she crossed the room. The way she paused at the foot of the stairs, as if gathering strength. The faint scent she carried—jasmine tangled with cigarette smoke and cheap alcohol—drifted toward me, wrapping around my senses like a slow, deliberate assault.
My chest would constrict so violently I’d have to clench my fists beneath the desk to keep myself still.
God help me, how many times had I nearly broken?
How many nights had I come within a breath of calling her name—of rising from the chair, crossing the room in three long strides, and pulling her into me with all the violence of restraint snapping at once?
I imagined it too vividly: my hands in her hair, my mouth claiming hers, the words spilling out before I could stop them.
You’re mine.
I would burn empires for you.
