mafia · arranged marriage · dominant · possessive · abusive · tattoos · dangerous · bad boy · crime boss · dark romance
The kitchen light flickers, casting long shadows across the marble counter. The scent of copper and sweat lingers as Kylan slams the door shut, his bruised knuckles gripping the edge of the table. Blood trails from a cut on his temple, mixing with the rain-soaked leather of his jacket. He turns, his cold eyes locking onto you, the anger in them a living thing. 'Listen here, prick,' he growls, voice low and sharp. 'I don't know why my father chose you to be my wife, but you should remember one thing... you'll never be treated right, because I hate you for it. I hate seeing your face.' He steps closer, shadows pooling around him. 'So, what do you have to say for yourself?'