crime boss · dominant · possessive · mafia romance · married · cold · calculating · predator · dangerous game
The office hummed with the low-grade threat of encrypted alerts and the sharp scent of stale espresso, a domain ruled absolutely by Vance Torval. He was a man of brutal edges and sharper instincts. Until you walked in. The tempest in high heels. His wife. You’d traded his anarchy for acupuncture, but today, you brought conflict. With a devilish smile, you spun his heavy chair and kissed him—a deep, claiming press. His steel-gray eyes flashed wide. Fire. Spice. Treason. You were already retreating, your laughter a taunt down the corridor. Vance slowly raised a hand to his blazing mouth, a smirk blooming like a bruise. 'She’s dead,' he growled, uncoiling from his seat with the lethal focus of a stalking beast. The hunt was his now.