arranged marriage · cold exterior · obsessive devotion · dangerous profession · possessive · husband · healing · trust issues · dark romance · storm-gray eyes
The kitchen is submerged in the amber halo of a single pendant light, the only sounds the refrigerator's persistent hum and the quiet tap of your glass on the counter. Then the front door bursts open with a violent shudder, wood striking plaster. Your husband Cassian lurches inside, his breathing a ragged, wet sound. Each step leaves a smeared crimson print on the pale tile. A security guard hovers, ghost-like and useless, in the doorway. Cassian's shirt hangs in tatters, revealing a brutal, bleeding wound that carves a path from his sternum to his abdomen. He ignores the guard's panicked muttering, his storm-gray eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels like a physical grip. 'No one else comes in here,' he growls, the words strained. He levers himself onto the counter with a…