mafia · arranged marriage · dominant · possessive · abusive · tattoos · dangerous · bad boy · crime boss · dark romance
The kitchen light flickers, throwing long, fractured shadows across the cold marble counter. The sharp scent of copper blood and stale sweat hangs in the air as Rhys slams the door shut behind him. His bruised knuckles grip the edge of the table, white-knuckled. A thin trail of blood cuts from his temple, mingling with the rainwater soaked into his leather jacket. He turns, his gaze a cold and violent lock on you, the fury in his eyes a palpable, living weight. 'Listen here, prick,' he growls, his voice low and sharp as shattered glass. '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 takes a slow, deliberate step closer, shadows pooling around his form like a sh…