#wc: 94

[party-pri3st]

🎄 yaaayy

Alright. Pandreo's done with the games. He's done getting ambushed by this silly shrub - he's gonna beat it on its own turf. He's gonna find the mistletoe first, and the first handsome gentleman that happens to be standing under it is probably gonna get made out with.

And blessed be, he is handsome, tall and blue-eyed with the stature of a seasoned knight, like the ones he used to daydream about from his childhood fairy tales.

"Hi there," he says warmly, batting his eyes at the handsome knight just once. "I'm Pandreo. Are you waiting for someone?"

[spookyfoxdreamer]

[kerosenee-kisses]

Afternoon Delight | Itoshi Rin

summary: rin gets home from practice a little earlier than usual, only to find you in the middle of your afternoon cat nap.

cw: 18+, afab reader, no pronouns, proplayer! rin, established relationship, somno, dubcon, briefest mention of suicide (rin would rather die than break your trust, essentially), spit, choking lite

a/n: i didn’t think i would write anything else about rin but he seems to be my muse!! this was a lot of fun to write and i hope you enjoy!

I have so many ideas i want to bring to life, here’s hoping that I'm able to do just that. banners by @cafekitsune

wc: 1.8k

tags: @rroxii

It wasn’t every day that Rin got to leave practice early. Especially not three days ahead of a major game. But the summer hasn’t been particularly forgiving as far as the weather is concerned. Apparently, conducting practice amid one of the worst heatwaves in recent history is considered, as you so aptly put it this morning, “A human rights violation.” 

“I’ll kill your coach for not cancelling practice,” you’d hissed while you both had an especially early breakfast – his coach wanted to get as much done before the heat became unbearable. 

So, home is exactly where Rin finds himself when he’d normally be in the middle of grudge match scrimmages. It pisses him off that the weather is screwing with his conditioning, but at least he can spend the afternoon with you for once. You’d begged and pleaded with him to stay at home with you from the time you woke up until you begrudgingly kissed him goodbye. At least he knows you’ll be thrilled to see him. A small smile quirks up his lips, but he schools his features at once.  

A blast of glacial air greets Rin when he opens the door to the apartment. It’s a much-needed respite from the scorching afternoon sun. Rin drops his duffel and removes his shoes at the entryway. He tries not to feel too disappointed that you haven’t launched yourself at him in greeting. In fact, you haven’t acknowledged his arrival at all.  

Rin calls out to you as he moves through the empty living area. There’s no sign of you in the kitchen or dining room. You’re not in the home office either, even though you had promised to lock yourself in there and write all day. Thankfully, he finds you sleeping soundly in the bedroom, tucked under your favorite blanket. It’s even colder here than in the rest of the apartment.  

“What the fuck is your problem, you hate the cold,” he mutters as he raises the temperature a few degrees. He’ll never understand why you insist on turning the room into an ice box just so you can sleep with that garish, fuzzy blanket you’ve had for forever. You rarely sleep without it, though there’s nothing special about it other than it being fucking hideous. So much so that Rin had almost thrown it away when he was helping you pack ahead of your moving in. You’d nearly cancelled the move altogether. Nearly cancelled his life, too.  

Even with such a hideous blanket on, Rin regards you fondly. You’re so lovely when you sleep, so serene. He strips down to his underwear so he can join you for your nap. He doesn’t make a habit of sleeping in the middle of day, but he is easily seduced by the idea of holding you close. Considering you normally wrap yourself in this blanket like it’s your sarcophagus, Rin removes it easily enough. But his mouth dries upon his success. You lay in bed fully naked, body soft with sleep and glistening with a sheen of sweat.  

It’s difficult for him to think straight. There’s something darkly erotic about your bare body, presented to him so enticingly. Blood rushes to his cock so suddenly that he’s left lightheaded. You’re too beautiful, you’re too vulnerable. He wants to kiss and bite all over your pliant skin, wake you with his cock, and he’s mortified about it.  

Rin settles into bed beside you despite the warring thoughts battling through his head. He’s 94% certain that you won’t mind him doing this. In fact, he thinks you’ll be entirely too pleased, smug even, to see what you’ve reduced him to. But what if he betrays your trust? What if you hate him for it? He’d have to kill himself. 

Rin grazes your already pebbled nipple with his finger; each swirl around the pert bud draws it even tauter.  

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he whispers against the skin of your breast. “You should take responsibility for that.” 

Rin lowers his mouth to your nipple and sucks. The taste of sweat on your skin, the scent of your perfume, your shaky breathing, overwhelms his senses. You overwhelm his senses. If he didn’t love you so damn much, he would resent you for making him feel so out of control. 

Rin skates his hand along the slick skin of your stomach, supple satin beneath his palm. The feel of it is addictive. He needs to touch even more of you. Eager, Rin eases his middle finger into your cunt and your breath hitches. He looks up at your face and is equal parts relieved and aroused by the relaxed expression decorating it. Why does he find you so irresistible always?   

You squirm when he pushes his ring finger into your wet heat too. He finds a rhythm that pulls a sleepy moan of his name out of you. It goes straight to his foggy head, and he sucks on your tit even more earnestly in the hopes that you’ll say his name again. 

Rin’s not sure what siren song your sleeping body is serenading him with, but he is helpless against it. Each of his movements is dictated by a lust he has never known.  His own breathing speeds up when your arousal gushes out with each pump of his fingers inside you.    

Rin sits up so he can push your legs apart, enough for him to kneel between them. Your pretty cunt is dripping wet for him. While he’s desperate to have a taste, his cock, strained and throbbing in his shorts, is too hard to ignore. He taps the head of it on your clit and you both jolt at the contact. Rin slicks himself with your arousal before he nestles his cock between the glistening lips of your pussy. His entire body runs even hotter now that he’s inside you. Maybe he should’ve left the AC blasting after all.  

He rocks into you so deep that the headboard knocks into the wall. More of your arousal gushes out of you with each determined thrust. Your hips lift to meet his and Rin grits out a swear. He can’t believe the way you’re unconsciously reacting to him. 

He takes hold of your waist and fucks into you hard. Your pussy clenches down on him so tight he feels white hot pleasure sear down his spine. You’re so pretty like this, fucking yourself on him in your dreams. You whimper and moan until a focused thrust into your sweet spot makes your eyelids flutter. Rin grips your waist even tighter, intent on waking you up now. He needs your eyes on him. He slows his pace to deep, languid thrusts of his hips into yours.  

“Rin, what’s going on?” you ask sleepily. 

Rin cradles the back of your head in his hand and lifts it so you can see where you two are joined. Your body tenses, your brow dips as you come hard on his cock. Each scream of his name sends shivers down his back. He slows his movements so he can watch the pleasure surge through you.  

You lift yourself onto your elbows and kiss him like you would much rather devour him instead. He groans when you take his bottom lip between your teeth and tug.  

“Oh, my fucking god,” you moan into his mouth. “Fuck me again. Want you deeper, baby.” 

 Rin pulls away from you abruptly, leaving you gasping as he moves to stand up. You look about 5 seconds away from cursing him when he takes hold of your hips and pulls them to the edge of the bed. He sinks his cock back into you and really fucks you into the mattress. The way you’re looking at him in awe, with unshed tears shining in your eyes, makes him feel like he’s your god. Like he means everything to you.  

He needs to show you that you mean everything to him, too. 

Rin hooks his arms under your knees and pushes them back until they’re nearly flush against the bed. You whimper as he fucks against your sweet spot more sharply than before. He’s focused on making you scream his name again and again and again, until it’s the last word on your lips.  

Rin kneels onto the bed and bends you in half. He grunts at how soft and hot your tight walls feel around his cock. They draw him closer to your core so you can melt into each other. 

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” you whimper tearfully. You grab onto his lower back to pull him deeper still.  

Your lips part on a heated cry of his name, and you stick your tongue out for him. He’s turned on but confused by the sight beneath him until he realizes that drool is dripping from his panting mouth. Rin lets it drip between your parted lips, then he spits onto the center of your tongue. You sound absolutely debauched beneath him as you groan his name and it shuts down his brain completely.  He lowers himself onto his elbows and kisses you again. Rin licks along the length of your tongue and you jerk up into him. 

“Fuck,” he grunts as your pussy pulses around him. Rin reaches between your trembling bodies to play with your clit as his thrusts slow. He kisses and licks your neck, and you tighten around him. The snug fit of you wrapped around him is almost too much. He hisses again and sinks his teeth into your frantic pulse point.  

“Rin!” you shriek as pleasure washes over you. He’s never seen you more satisfied. And it’s all because of him. 

He shivers when you run your fingers through his hair. You drag your nails along his scalp and Rin moans. He feels your touch everywhere, down to the soles of his feet. His rhythm stutters as you pet along either side of his neck, stroking from under his ear to his shoulder. Gentle caresses that burn him up inside. He’s so close, and you being so affectionate with him is fanning the flames. 

You rest your hands on either side of his neck and press your thumbs into it. Rin’s mind goes blank. He drops his full weight on top of you, his heart beating out of his chest, desperate to reach yours. He presses into you sloppily, near delirium as he cums for you. 

He gulps in a lungful of air when you release him, and he kisses you boneless into the bed. You push at his chest so you can both steady your breaths. Wonder sparkles in your gaze.

“Wow...Just when I thought you couldn’t get any sexier,” you sigh into his mouth.  

Rin’s entire body heats up and he buries his face into your neck again. He grows even hotter when your carefree laughter reaches his ears, as embarrassing as it is captivating.  

“Don’t worry, baby,” you say into Rin’s hair. “I’ll be sure to return the favor.” 

[sungbites]

1:06 A.M ━ mark lee

pairing : mark x fem!reader. genre : fluff, est relationship warnings : kissing synopsis : your bf loves singing to u wc : 0.9k a/n : pls listen to 200 by mark while reading this its CRUCIAL!!! if u enjoyed like n reblogs are always appreciated

you were leaned up against the foot of the couch on the floor, sitting on the living room carpet. on your lap, you had your laptop, typing away your final submission for your digital portfolio. next to you, mark sat, scribbling something in his notebook. you were too caught up in your own work to even notice him. but all he was doing was staring at you. 

he stared at every feature of yours, the way your lips curved to fit perfectly on your face. or the way the light of the candle hit your face, highlighting some of his favorite features, creating a golden shadow. the light in your shared apartment was romantic, the two of you had the main lights off and just relied on the lamp along with the candle that was lit on the coffee table. 

you sighed softly, leaning back against the couch to rest your back a little. you turned to mark who was just looking right at you. “what?” you smiled, making him smile as well. his cheeks turned up and he shook his head, writing in his notebook again. “what are you writing?” you scooted closer to him, reaching over to push some of his hair out of his face. 

usually, mark had his hair styled but right now it was a little messy since he was home all day. it suited him well, looked so cute on him. “just a song” he hummed in response, reaching over to pick up his guitar and place it on his lap. he played some notes, trying to feel out the vibe of the song, then started playing the main part. you watched as his fingers moved along the guitar, smiling as he played. 

he stopped playing and looked to you, as if trying to get approval. you nodded and smiled, making him smile. “sing it for me” you mumbled, your portfolio being long forgotten now. “it’s only a couple lines babe” he said, looking down at the notebook. “i don’t care baby, your voice is pretty i wanna hear it” you said, looking at him. he loved when you looked at him like that, like you held all the love in the world for him and only him. 

mark sighed, smiling softly. he began playing that same part again and on the 2nd beat he started singing. mark had a way of singing, laid back and a little bit raspy. his voice was sweet to you, smooth as well. almost like maple syrup in a weird, ironic way. you rested your arm and head on the couch, listening to him sing to you. 

some of the lyrics you couldn’t understand, but there was one that stuck out to you. “you’re 106 and i’m 94” he sang, holding out that last note. he continued strumming even after the lyrics were done and stopped. he looked to you, smiling. “did you like it?” he reached over, playing with some stray locks that sat on your shoulder, twirling your hair around in his fingers. “it was so good babe” you said, sitting up straighter now. 

he smiled at you, kissing your forehead. he leaned back now, going back to scribbling some lyrics down. you stared at him and smiled, tilting your head softly. “what did that lyric mean, you’re 106 i’m 94?” you hummed, now head propped up by your arm that was once again resting on the couch cushion. mark looked to you, his cheeks a little rosy, he did that when he was shy. “god babe, it's embarrassing,” he confessed, looking down at his guitar. you giggled softly and shook your head. “cmon baby just say it” you smiled at his antics. 

he sighed out, changing his position to mimic your own, his own elbow propped up on the cushion and his hand holding his head. “it’s like.. you’re 106 and i’m 94.. so we both make 200” his free hand reached over to your own, holding it. you smiled at the feeling of his fingers against your own but furrowed your brows as well. “why aren’t we both 100?” you said, making him smile a bit bigger. 

“because to me, you’re more than just 100. and because of that a part of me, the 6, is with you.” he confessed, feeling a bit embarrassed now. he sighed at your expression and shook his head, his head no longer propped by his hand and sitting up straighter. “it’s corny i know” but you only smiled. you smiled because that was the sweetest thing he had ever told you, and to think that it was in a song? that was even sweeter. 

“thank you” you mumbled, now it was marks turn to furrow his brows. 

“for what babe?” he asked, head tilted slightly. you fixed your position, taking your now free hand and hold him by the back of his neck, looking in his eyes. “for saying that, it’s so sweet baby” and he smiled, feeling himself melting to your touch. his thumb rubbed against your hand, your hands still intertwined. “i love you” you said, still looking his eyes. 

mark smiled and nodded, “i love you more” he mumbled back, leaning in to place a kiss on your lips. he let go of your hand to hold your waist, lips moving against yours. you pulled back, your hand on his chest now. he smiled down at you, moving some hairs away out of your face. “should we get some sleep?” he mumbled, you nodding in response. he smiled, kissing your forehead before getting up from the living room floor, holding your hand to help you up. the two of your picked up your things, setting it on the couch. 

mark placed the lid over the candle and turned to you, gesturing for you to lead the way to your shared bedroom. you smiled, hand still holding his as you walked to your bedroom, cheeks flushed and hearts full. 

taglist : @kisseudoll @hyuckworld @lqfiles @cupidhoons @ronniee-26

dream taglist

© all rights to sungbites 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost my works

[jayparked]

56 and 94 with Sunghoon

warnings: f2l, oral (m.rec.), dirty talk, impatient hoon, hair pulling, money shot,

wc: 532

"do whatever you want with me."

those were simple words you had spoken not long ago. simple words that you hadn't expected to hold such intense weight. the sentence was said casually, a phrase of comfort you threw out to your best friend who's pent up emotions were getting the better of him. you didn't even know why he was so annoyed or upset. all you did know was that you were tired of him sulking. so, the words were said carelessly. and you were not expecting him to make use of them.

so now, here you are, knees red and sore as you feel sunghoon's cock hit the back of your throat over, and over, and over again.

"you're such a good friend letting me use your mouth like this," sunghoon grunts, his thrusts becoming slopping and off beat. "d'you offer head to all your friends? hmm?"

you pull yourself off him with a gasp, a long string of saliva connecting your bottom lip to the underside of his thick cock. "jus' you." you lick your lips and bring up a hand to wipe away the saliva from your chin.

"fuck, good. i'm not done with you yet, c'mere." sunghoon pushes your cheek against his cock, marveling at the way you nestle against him without any shame.

taking him back in your mouth, you try to go slow; swirling your tongue around his tip and watching him with big doe eyes just to see his reaction is fueling you more than you care to admit.

he's having none of that, though. grabbing your hair into a tight fist, sunghoon straightens your face until you're eye level with his pelvis, pistoning himself in and out of you at a speed you're not used to. you gag around him, only causing him to coo unreadable praises at you. sunghoon's hips stutter again and with the only warning being a broken moan, he releases, shooting his warm load down your throat. thinking he's done, you pull yourself off of him only for more cum to shoot out onto your face. some dangerously close to your eyes, but you don't care. you take a digit to your face and scoop up the leftovers, wrapping your tongue around your finger and licking yourself clean.

"had no idea you were this nasty," sunghoon chuckles, leaning down until he's eye level with you. you remove your finger from your mouth and you're about to reply to him when his lips are brushing softly against your own. eyes fluttering shut, you let yourself get lost in his kiss, wondering for years now what it would be like to be in this exact position with him.

sunghoon groans against your lips, deepening the kiss and pulling you into his lap.

"i can taste myself on your lips and it's messing me up real bad," sunghoon whines, hands roaming over your body carelessly. you feel his member twitch against your skin and look down to see him hardening up again.

"i'm never gonna be able to get enough of you, sweetheart." with that said, sunghoon lifts your body until the tip of his cock is lined up with your dripping hole.

for part of my 1k follower celebration send me a member and a number from this list and i'll write a short drabble about it ♡ masterlist

[pit-and-the-pen]

Please go to sleep.

Summary: your mate forces you to stop working and take some time for yourself.

Wc: 1k (short and sweet)

Written for this request: Hey, Could you do prompt no.94 for Azriel?❤️✨

Also hi, I’m alive. Just getting my butt kicked by a very busy work schedule right now. Sorry this is so short but work is slowing down again so I’ll actually have more time to write. Also I wrote this on my phone.

I sat up at the desk, the words in front of me swimming as I forced my eyes to focus on them. Hands still stained blue from the last pot of ink I had clumsily knocked over with my sleeve. I just had to get this recipe written down. The healing potion that neutralized faebane, the one thing I had been working on for months. I needed to get this test run written down because it was the closest I had been to figuring it out. I knew it was right in my grasp and I could sleep once I was done.

At the thought of sleep, I could feel my eyes growing heavier. My traitorous body demanded I crawl into my soft bed that would smell like my mate. I shook my head again, like I could displace the need. It worked for a second, a deep breath left me as I struggled to recall just how much bittergreen I added to this batch.

The creek of the door had my eyes flickering up slowly before I pulled my focus back to the book in front of me. I fought back a sigh as shadows swirled around my wrists attempting to pull me up.

“You should be in bed, sweetheart.” Azriel’s voice carried from the door.

“I will in a little bit.” Was all I responded with.

“It’s three in the morning. You woke up early to start working and I know you didn’t take a break to eat dinner.” He huffed, his shadows wrapping tighter around my arms to drive home is irritation. A wave of shock went through me at his words. Had I really been at this for that long?

“I didn’t realize…”

“You’re half asleep right now. This will still be here in the morning.” I didn’t hear him walk behind me. His hand ran lightly down my neck and over my shoulders and I couldn’t fight the urge to lean back into him. His hand went to my hair, strong fingers rubbing the tension around my temples. The careful attention made my sleepy eyes burn as I tried to blink them open.

“Az, I need to-“

“No. You need to sleep. I’ll help you with this tomorrow. After you’ve gotten enough sleep.”

I didn’t want to fight with him over this. It was like he could feel his victory. “Plus, you’re not going to be able to read that anyways.” He looked over my head at the book in front of me. I followed his eyes and saw the illegible chicken scratch my handwriting had devolved into. I fought the urge to cry as I noticed the hours of hard work I had wasted.

Azriel held out his hand and with a defeated groan, I took it. When I stood up my legs screamed in protest. Not noticing how heavy my body suddenly was. I tried to take a step and would have collapsed into a pile if it wasn’t for my mates strong arms holding me to him.

He didn’t waste a second in sweeping my body off the floor and into his arms. His shadows swirling around me, clearly concerned for me.

I closed my eyes as I nestled further into his chest. Breathing in his comforting scent as he carried us to our room. I think I fell asleep before he could put me down or maybe I lasted a little longer than that but I barley felt the warm blankets before sleep overtook me for good.

I woke up the next morning burning up. Azriel was fully laid on top of me. Still sound asleep. I wiggled slightly, trying to sneak out from underneath the furnace that was Azriel when he slept. A small huff left his lips as he wrapped and arm around my waist. I waiting for him to wake up but he still seemed to be out for the count. I sighed and decided to close my eyes again. Realizing I had no chance in moving him.

When I woke for the second time, I was noticeably cooler. Azriel was laying across from me, fingers tracing small patterns along my bare stomach. His soft touch immediately making goosebumps rise in their wake.

“Good morning.” He said as I rolled over to face him. I smiled and moved over until my face was against his chest.

“Good morning. Care to tell me why I’m not wearing any night clothes?”

“Well someone wouldn’t let me put them down long enough to get them on. But I had to get your corset off of you at least.” His eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief and I couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’m sure you tried very hard.” He chuckled and continued his earlier patterns along my skin. “Thank you.” I said, moving closer to press a small kiss to his lips.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I know we would both work ourselves to death if the other didn’t stop it.”

“You’re not wrong.” I gave him another, longer, kiss. His hands paused to wrap around my waist.

“I just want to see you happy.”

“And naked.” I finished for him. He shrugged and gave me a boyish smile that made me want to do anything but get up. I kicked my leg free of the thick blanket and wrapped it around his waist.

“Well I know what would make me extremely happy…”

The thought trailed off as he pulled me closer to him. His hands and lips tracing all thoughts of work far away.

[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 12) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main @peaceiswonderful @scorpiobleue @deeziee @krystiana @maximofflove @palefacestudentlove @justagirlwho-believes13 @fadedintime @theoriginalgirll

# wc: long af...

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

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Three days after Hernandez, the nightmares still came. You'd wake gasping, the sound of gunshots echoing in your mind, the feel of the trigger beneath your finger replaying in endless loops. The first kill was supposed to change you—that's what you'd always heard, at least. Your father's men spoke of it in hushed tones, this crossing of a threshold that separated those who could survive in your world from those who couldn't.

What disturbed you wasn't that you felt changed, but how natural it had felt. How right. How justified. Shouldn't there be more guilt? More hesitation when you remembered how easily you'd pulled that trigger three times?

Morning light filtered through the pool house curtains, casting warm patterns across the bed as you blinked away the remnants of another restless night. Lewis was already up—you could hear the quiet sounds of movement from the adjoining bathroom, the precise routine he maintained regardless of circumstances.

You pulled yourself up against the headboard, running fingers through your tangled hair as Lewis appeared in the doorway, already dressed in slacks and a cashmere sweater despite the early hour.

"Nightmares again?" he asked, his perceptive gaze missing nothing.

You nodded, not bothering to hide it. "Same one."

Lewis crossed to the bedside, setting down a steaming mug of tea on your nightstand—the perfect temperature, with the exact amount of honey you preferred. This small domestic ritual had become part of your mornings in the days since Hernandez, Lewis providing wordless comfort in his characteristically practical way.

"It gets easier," he said, perching on the edge of the bed beside you. "Not because you become callous, but because you learn to compartmentalize."

"Is that what you do?" you asked, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. "Compartmentalize?"

Something flickered across his features—a brief glimpse behind the controlled exterior he maintained so effortlessly. "It's the only way to function in our world. To separate the necessary violence from the rest of life."

His hand found yours, fingers intertwining with casual intimacy that still sometimes caught you by surprise. In the seven weeks since your wedding, these small gestures of connection had gradually increased, accelerating since Scotland and even more since the night you'd killed Hernandez. As if that final proof of your capability had removed some last barrier between you.

"Does it bother you?" you asked, the question that had been circling your mind for three days finally finding voice. "What I did?"

Lewis studied you, his dark eyes holding yours with unexpected warmth. "No," he said simply. "Should it?"

"Most husbands probably wouldn't want to see their wives kill someone."

The corner of his mouth lifted in that almost-smile that had become increasingly familiar. "I think we established quite some time ago that this isn't a typical marriage."

You couldn't help but smile in return. "I suppose we did."

A knock at the door interrupted the moment, Miles's voice calling from outside. "Lewis? Naomi's here with those reports you asked for."

Lewis's expression shifted seamlessly back to business mode, though his hand lingered on yours a moment longer. "Tell her I'll be right there."

"You should go," you said, taking a sip of the perfectly prepared tea. "I'm fine, really."

Lewis studied you for a moment longer, as if assessing the truth of your statement, before nodding once. "We'll talk more later. My mother called again yesterday—apparently Roscoe is driving her mad. She says he misses you."

The mention of the bulldog brought a genuine smile to your face. "I miss him too. When do you think it'll be safe to get back to him?"

"Soon," Lewis promised, rising from the bed with that fluid grace that made even simple movements seem deliberate. "Once the Suarez situation is fully resolved."

You nodded, understanding the reality beneath the simple statement. Until Suarez was killed, no one in your orbit was truly safe—not even a wrinkly-faced bulldog who'd claimed your affection during those first uncertain weeks in London.

"Go," you urged, settling back against the pillows. "Don't keep Naomi waiting. I'll meet you at the main house later."

With a final assessing look, Lewis departed, leaving you alone with your tea and the lingering warmth of his presence.

An hour later, showered and dressed, you made your way across the snowy grounds to the main house. Security personnel nodded respectfully as you passed—a subtle but significant shift from the polite dismissal they'd shown before Hernandez. Word had spread quickly, the details likely embellished with each retelling, your status within both your father's organization and Lewis's permanently altered by three bullets and unflinching resolve.

You found Lewis in your father's study with Miles and Naomi, their voices low but tense as you approached the partially open door.

"—make sense given what we know about his movements," Naomi was saying, her pragmatic tone carrying that edge of frustration it always held when her insights were being questioned. "The timing of his communications with Suarez coincided too perfectly with separate information breaches."

"We've been through this," Miles countered, fatigue evident beneath his usual easy manner. "Hernandez had access to all the compromised systems. We've run full security audits on everyone else in the organization."

"And found nothing," Naomi acknowledged. "Which either means we're missing something, or—"

"Or someone is hiding their tracks very well," Lewis finished, his voice carrying that quiet authority that commanded attention without volume.

You pushed the door open fully, drawing all three pairs of eyes to you. Lewis's expression softened fractionally, an almost imperceptible shift that few would notice but which you'd learned to recognize as his version of a welcome.

"Sorry to interrupt," you said, though the apology was mere formality given your position.

"Not an interruption," Lewis replied, gesturing you into the room. "Naomi was just updating us on her continuing investigation into Hernandez's contacts."

Naomi nodded, her professional demeanor never wavering despite the circumstances. "I still think there's more to this than just Hernandez."

"Have you discussed this with my father?" you asked, moving to stand beside Lewis's chair with natural ease.

"Not yet," Lewis replied, his hand finding yours with casual possession that still occasionally surprised you with its openness. "I wanted more concrete evidence before bringing it to him."

"Wise," you acknowledged, understanding the delicate politics involved.

"If I may," Naomi continued, her focus unwavering despite the subtle shift in the room's dynamic with your arrival, "I'd like permission to conduct a more thorough investigation of this."

Lewis glanced at you, a silent exchange passing between you.

"Do it," you said, the easy authority in your voice sending a flicker of surprise across Miles's face though Lewis merely nodded in agreement. "But discretely."

"Understood," Naomi replied, the barest hint of approval crossing her usually impassive features before she gathered her files and departed with professional efficiency.

Miles followed a moment later, leaving you alone with Lewis in the study that had once been the exclusive domain of your father's business. The change wasn't lost on you—how naturally you now occupied this space, how easily you'd stepped into partnership with Lewis.

"Your sisters were looking for you earlier," Lewis mentioned once the door closed behind Miles. "Something about plans for the afternoon."

You smiled, grateful for the change in topic from security breaches to family matters. "Probably another scheme to get Gabriella out of her pre-Milan panic. She's been reorganizing her closet daily since finalizing her study abroad arrangements."

"Nervous about leaving home?" Lewis asked, his perceptiveness extending even to your sisters' emotional states.

"More excited than nervous," you replied, settling into the chair Miles had vacated. "But you know how it is with Italian families—leaving, even temporarily, is treated like some grand tragedy in the making."

The corner of Lewis's mouth lifted. "I've noticed."

"Will you join us?" you asked, the invitation spontaneous but genuine. "The girls were talking about watching movies in the theater room, maybe ordering in from that Italian place down the road."

Something like surprise flickered across Lewis's features—not at the invitation itself, but perhaps at how naturally it had been extended, how easily you'd included him in these casual family moments.

"If you want me there," he said simply.

"I do," you confirmed, meaning it more than you might have expected even a week ago. Since Hernandez, something had shifted between you yet again—the partnership deepening beyond strategic alliance into something neither of you had fully defined but which felt increasingly necessary.

The afternoon unfolded with surprising normalcy, you and your sisters sprawled across the plush couches in the estate's theater room while debating movie choices with the passionate intensity only Ricci women could bring to such trivial matters.

"Not another superhero movie, Sophia," Maria groaned, tossing a handful of popcorn at her youngest sister. "If I have to watch men in spandex punching each other one more time, I might actually lose my mind."

"It's not just men in spandex," Sophia protested, dodging the popcorn with practiced ease. "It's art. Cultural commentary. Right, Lewis?"

All eyes turned to Lewis, who had settled beside you with characteristic composure despite the chaotic energy of three Ricci sisters in full debate mode. He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused despite his neutral expression.

"I'm afraid I haven't kept up with the current superhero cinematic universes," he admitted, earning dramatic groans from Sophia.

"You're useless," she declared with typical teenage dismissiveness. "What about you, Gabby? Back me up here."

Gabriella, curled at the other end of the couch with her phone perpetually in hand, barely glanced up. "Don't care. As long as it's not another one of Maria's depressing European films where everyone dies at the end and we're supposed to feel enlightened by the experience."

"That was ONE TIME," Maria defended, throwing more popcorn that Gabriella dodged without looking up from her screen. "And it won at Cannes!"

"Which should have been your first warning," Gabriella muttered, her thumbs flying over her phone in what appeared to be an intense text conversation.

You leaned against Lewis's shoulder, these familiar sisterly dynamics creating a strange bubble of normalcy in the midst of everything else happening in your world. His arm settled around you with casual intimacy, his body a solid presence beside yours as the debate continued around you.

"They're always like this," you explained in a low voice, watching as Sophia physically wrestled the remote from Maria while Gabriella continued ignoring them both. "Wait until family dinner tonight with the cousins. It's going to be complete chaos."

Lewis's thumb traced small circles against your arm, the gesture absent-minded but comforting. "I'm beginning to understand why your father spent so much time in his study."

You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. "Strategic retreat. The only defense against Ricci women in full force."

The afternoon passed in a blur of movies (Sophia won the first selection, Maria the second), take-out containers from your favorite local Italian restaurant ("It's not as good as Nonna's, but it'll do," was Sophia's ringing endorsement), and the kind of easy banter that only siblings could maintain without causing permanent offense.

What surprised you most was how naturally Lewis integrated into these moments—not fully relaxed, perhaps, but present in a way you hadn't witnessed before. Offering dry commentary on plot holes that sent Sophia into fits of laughter. Listening with genuine interest as Gabriella described the business program she'd be studying in Milan. Observing it all with that careful attention he brought to everything, but without the calculating edge that usually accompanied it.

By the time evening approached and preparations for the extended family dinner began, you found yourself watching Lewis with renewed curiosity. The man who had entered your father's study as potential husband less than two months ago continued to reveal unexpected layers beneath his controlled exterior.

"Earth to big sis," Sophia's voice broke through your thoughts, her finger poking your arm incessantly. "You've been staring at Lewis for like, five straight minutes. It's getting weird."

Heat rushed to your face as you swatted her hand away. "I was not staring."

"You absolutely were," Gabriella confirmed without looking up from her phone. "Major heart-eyes situation happening. Very embarrassing for all of us, honestly."

"Shut up," you muttered, throwing a decorative pillow that Gabriella dodged with irritating ease.

Lewis, who had stepped away to take a call from Miles, returned in time to catch the tail end of this exchange. His eyebrow raised in silent question, amusement evident in his eyes despite his composed expression.

"Ignore them," you advised, rising from the couch with as much dignity as you could muster. "We should get ready for dinner. Vinny and the others will be here soon."

"Vinny's bringing his new girlfriend," Sophia announced with gleeful anticipation of drama. "Aunt Claudia is going to hate her."

"Aunt Claudia hates everyone Vinny dates," Maria corrected, gathering empty takeout containers with uncharacteristic tidiness. "It's her default setting."

"Yes, but this one has tattoos," Sophia countered, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "And she's a bartender at that club in the city. You know, the one Uncle Paolo pretends he doesn't go to."

"This dinner is going to be a nightmare," Gabriella predicted, finally looking up from her phone with something like anticipation. "I can't wait."

************************************************

Two hours later, the formal dining room buzzed with the controlled chaos that defined Ricci family gatherings. Your father sat at the head of the table, your mother at the opposite end, with extended family filling the spaces between—Uncle Paolo and his wife Claudia, their son Paolo Jr., Uncle Paolo's daughter Gia from his first marriage, and your other cousins Vinny and Carmine.

Lewis had taken his place beside you with the calm assurance that had marked his presence in family gatherings since the De Garza situation solidified his position. If the boisterous energy of your extended family bothered him, he showed no sign, his composed demeanor providing an interesting counterpoint to the theatrical Italian dynamics playing out around him.

"So, Gabriella," Vinny said through a mouthful of pasta, his gesture with his fork sending a flicker of disapproval across your mother's face. "When do you leave us for the sophisticated European life? Uncle Sal's already talking about how we'll need to find you an Italian husband while you're there. Keep it in the motherland, you know?"

Gabriella rolled her eyes with such force it seemed physically painful. "I'm going to study business, not husband-hunting. And if Papa thinks I'm letting him arrange my marriage like it's 1950, he's completely delusional."

"Worked out okay for your sister," Vinny countered, his gaze shifting meaningfully between you and Lewis. "Arranged marriages are making a comeback, cugina."

"I think one strategic alliance is enough for this generation," you replied dryly, feeling Lewis's hand settle on your knee beneath the table.

"Besides," Vinny continued, turning his attention to Maria, "you're probably next in line anyway. Unless you've already got someone picked out, Uncle Sal?"

Your father made a noncommittal sound, too focused on his osso buco to engage with Vinny's needling. "Maria has time yet."

"Shut up, Vinny," Maria muttered, her fork stabbing with unnecessary force into her salad.

"Gabby already has a boyfriend," Paolo Jr. announced with the gleeful obliviousness of a seven-year-old dropping conversational bombs. "I saw them kissing near the playground!"

The table fell silent for one perfect, crystallized moment before erupting into a cacophony of overlapping reactions.

"What do you mean, a boyfriend?" your father demanded, his fork clattering against his plate as his full attention snapped to his middle daughter.

"Paolo doesn't know what he's talking about," Gabriella insisted, her face flushing despite her attempt at casual dismissal.

"Are you calling my son a liar?" Claudia's grainy New Jersey accent cut through the noise, her expression sharpening as she leaned forward. She was only eight years older than Gia, a fact that created perpetual tension between the two women seated across from each other.

Gabriella gave her a look that clearly communicated 'chill, lady' without saying the words aloud. "I'm saying he's seven and probably confused about what he saw."

"I'm not confused!" Paolo Jr. protested indignantly. "You were kissing that boy with the black hair and glasses!"

You squinted at this description, something tugging at your memory. Black hair and glasses sounded remarkably familiar—specifically, like Giovanni Castellano's son, Marco. The same Castellano boy whom you exaggerated was still communicating with Gabriella while you were talking to his father in Geneva. You'd never thought that that little white lie was indeed the truth.

Another perfect silence descended, this one heavier than the first.

Your father's eyebrows had practically disappeared into his hairline. "Gabriella, is there something you want to tell us?"

Gabriella maintained a stubborn silence, pushing food around her plate with studied concentration.

"Come on, Gabby," Vinny pressed, clearly enjoying the drama he hadn't even needed to create. "You can tell us. Who's the mystery man Paolo caught you with?"

After a long moment, Gabriella sighed dramatically, setting down her fork with precise control. "It's no big deal. We've only been seeing each other for a few months."

"A few months?" your father repeated, his tone suggesting this timeline was somehow the most offensive part of the revelation.

"Who is he?" Sophia demanded, practically vibrating with curiosity. "And why didn't you tell me? I thought we told each other everything!"

Gabriella shrugged, maintaining her mysterious air despite being clearly cornered. "You'll see."

"Is he Italian, at least?" Carmine asked, his expression suggesting this was the bare minimum requirement for family approval.

Gabriella nodded slowly as she continued eating, offering the smallest concession to the interrogation.

"That's good then," Vinny declared with obvious relief. "A nice Italian boy. We don't need any more Brits here." He glanced at Lewis with a smirk. "No offense, pal."

Lewis returned the look with a steel-like glare that had Vinny's Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "None taken," Lewis replied, his tone carrying that subtle edge that never failed to remind people exactly who he was beneath the polished exterior.

"How's he going to feel about you going to Milan for a year?" Maria asked, skillfully redirecting the conversation away from Lewis's intimidating stare and back to Gabriella's revelation.

Gabriella's lips curved into a knowing smile. "He'll be fine."

Something about her confident tone suggested there was so much more to the story, but before anyone could press further, Marco appeared at your father's shoulder, bending to whisper something in his ear.

Salvatore's expression darkened immediately. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he muttered, throwing his napkin onto the table. "It's always something happening! Can't even have a nice dinner with family these days." He looked at Marco with barely contained irritation. "Tell him I'll meet with him shortly."

As Marco departed, your father turned to your mother with an apologetic shrug that didn't quite mask his underlying tension. "I have to handle some business with Tommy V and the guys," he explained. Your father's gaze shifted to Lewis, something calculating entering his expression. "Lewis, come join us. We have to handle business in AC."

Atlantic City. The destination alone told you what kind of "business" this would be—the strip clubs there served as neutral meeting grounds for certain negotiations that required distance from New York territories.

Lewis glanced at you, a silent question in his eyes—would you be alright without him, given the nightmares and the lingering aftermath of Hernandez?

You nodded slightly. "I'll see you later."

With that subtle permission granted, Lewis leaned in to place a kiss on your cheek, then turned back to your father. "Of course." Your father nodded approvingly before Lewis addressed Miles, who had been sitting quietly near the door as was his custom during family meals. "Miles, stay with my wife. Make sure Naomi and Jensen maintain security protocols while we're gone."

Miles didn't look pleased with the assignment—clearly preferring to accompany Lewis—but nodded his agreement without protest.

As your father, Uncle Paolo, and Lewis prepared to depart, the remaining family members exchanged knowing looks. Business in Atlantic City meant not just meetings but the inevitable distractions such establishments offered—beautifully appropriate for the men who had just been interrogating Gabriella about her love life to now disappear to a strip club for "business."

"Be safe," your mother called after them, her tone suggesting she was well accustomed to these sudden departures despite the tension that never quite left her eyes when your father headed into potentially volatile negotiations.

The door had barely closed behind them when Sophia turned to Gabriella with renewed determination. "Okay, spill. Who is this Italian boyfriend and why is it such a big secret?"

As Gabriella deflected with practiced ease, you found your thoughts following Lewis. The contrast struck you suddenly—how naturally he had fit into your family dinner, how easily he now moved between your world and his own. The man who had entered your father's study as potential husband less than two months ago had somehow become an integral part of your reality, his presence no longer foreign but necessary.

Miles caught your eye from his position near the door, his professional manner not quite masking his obvious concern about Lewis heading into negotiations without him. You offered a small, reassuring smile—both of you knowing that whatever business awaited in Atlantic City, Lewis was more than capable of handling it.

*******************************************************

The Atlantic City strip club pulsed with muted bass and strategic lighting, designed to flatter both the dancers and the clientele while maintaining enough shadow for private conversations. Lewis followed Sal and Paolo through the main floor, his expression betraying nothing despite the performances happening on elevated platforms around them.

Tommy Venucci waited in a private room toward the back, his slight limp evident as he rose to greet Salvatore with exaggerated deference. "Don Ricci," he said, the formality deliberate in the presence of others. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

Sal's nod was barely perceptible as he took his seat at the head of the small table. "This better be worth interrupting my family dinner, Tommy."

"It is, I promise," Tommy assured him, his gaze shifting nervously to Lewis before returning to Sal. "The Colombians are here. They want to renegotiate distribution terms."

Lewis maintained his position slightly behind Sal's right shoulder, the traditional place for a trusted lieutenant—or in this case, son-in-law, who had proven his loyalty. From this vantage point, he had clear sightlines to both entrances and could observe everyone's expressions without being the direct focus of attention.

The door opened again, admitting three men whose expensive suits and careful movements marked them as something other than ordinary club patrons. The leader stepped forward, his face breaking into genuine surprise as he caught sight of Lewis.

"Hamilton," he said, his Colombian accent wrapping around the name with familiar ease. "I didn't expect to see you here."

Lewis stepped forward, extending his hand with the confidence of established connection. "Alejandro. It's been a while."

Salvatore's eyebrows rose slightly, his gaze shifting between the two men with newfound interest. "You know each other?"

"We've done business for years," Alejandro confirmed, his handshake with Lewis lingering with the weight of shared history. "Hamilton's weapons have helped us maintain certain competitive advantages in disputed territories."

Salvatore's expression shifted from surprise to satisfaction, as if Lewis's connection further validated his choice in arranging the marriage. "Small world."

"Getting smaller every day," Alejandro agreed before turning back to Lewis. "Congratulations are in order, I hear. Marriage suits you."

Lewis nodded, accepting the comment with characteristic restraint. "Thank you."

"And to a Ricci daughter, no less," Alejandro continued, genuine admiration in his tone as he glanced at your father. "You chose well, Don Ricci. Hamilton's reputation for loyalty is legendary in our circles."

Sal couldn't quite hide his pleasure at this endorsement, his chest puffing slightly with pride as if he'd somehow discovered Lewis rather than simply selecting from options presented to him. "My daughter deserves the best."

As the men settled around the table to begin their negotiations, Lewis resumed his position behind Sal, his attention divided between the business discussion and the subtle dynamics playing out between old and new alliances. What had begun as Sal's strategic arrangement had evolved in unexpected ways, creating connections that benefited not just the Ricci organization but Hamilton operations as well.

The thought of you waiting back at the estate crossed his mind briefly—your strength in executing Hernandez, your natural command with his people, your easy integration of him into family moments. Not at all what he had expected when entering that study seven weeks ago to negotiate for your hand, but increasingly valuable beyond any strategic calculation.

"Hamilton," Alejandro's voice pulled him back to the present moment. "Your thoughts on this distribution proposal?"

Lewis stepped forward, seamlessly joining the negotiation with practiced ease. "The percentages are fair, but your timeline needs adjustment. Three shipments in the first quarter creates unnecessary risk with the increased Coast Guard presence."

Alejandro nodded thoughtfully, clearly valuing Lewis's input. "What do you suggest?"

"Two larger shipments instead of three smaller ones. Same volume, lower profile," Lewis explained, his tone carrying that quiet authority that commanded attention without force. "I can provide additional security measures for the increased payload."

The discussion flowed smoothly after that, the Colombian's trust in Lewis clearly easing tensions that might otherwise have complicated negotiations with Salvatore. Within an hour, terms had been agreed upon, papers signed, and handshakes exchanged with the practiced formality of men accustomed to sealing deals in unconventional locations.

As Alejandro and his associates departed, Salvatore leaned back in his chair with evident satisfaction. "Good work, Hamilton."

Lewis nodded his acknowledgment, already calculating how long it would take to return to the estate. To you.

But Salvatore had other ideas. His attention had shifted to the main stage where a new dancer had appeared—tall and statuesque with mocha skin and long, flowing hair that cascaded down her back. Her movements were hypnotic, a practiced sensuality that commanded the attention of every man in the room.

"No rush to get back, is there?" Salvatore said, his expression shifting to something more relaxed, more indulgent. "Let's enjoy the entertainment for a while. It's been a successful night."

Lewis maintained his neutral expression despite his growing unease. This aspect of business negotiations had never appealed to him—the objectification, the performance of masculinity, the expected participation in rituals he found unnecessary at best, distasteful at worst.

Salvatore gestured toward a booth with a clear view of the stage, clearly interpreting Lewis's silence as agreement. With no graceful way to refuse without potentially offending his father-in-law, Lewis followed, taking a seat with calculated composure.

The dancer moved with fluid grace, her routine clearly well-rehearsed yet performed with an artistry that elevated it above mere exploitation. Salvatore watched with unabashed appreciation, while Lewis maintained his stoic demeanor, his thoughts elsewhere despite his physical presence.

Noticing Lewis's evident discomfort, Salvatore leaned over with a knowing smirk. "What she doesn't know won't kill her," he said, the implication clear in his tone.

Lewis kept his expression neutral, neither agreeing nor openly disagreeing with his father-in-law's philosophy. The tension in his jaw was the only indicator of his discomfort, a tell so subtle most would miss it entirely.

A server approached their table, offering a tray of expensive cigars with practiced deference. Salvatore selected one immediately, while Lewis hesitated before eventually taking one as well. The server leaned down to light it for him, her low-cut top providing a deliberately provocative view of her breasts as she did so. Her eyes met his with calculated invitation, a silent offer of more than just service.

Lewis didn't react beyond a polite nod of thanks, taking a slow draw from the cigar as the server moved away, clearly disappointed by his lack of response.

Salvatore chuckled, clapping Lewis on the shoulder with unexpected familiarity. "Look at you, finally letting loose a little," he commented, misreading Lewis's acceptance of the cigar as some kind of concession to the environment.

"Your daughter is waiting for me back at the estate," Lewis replied simply, the statement both explanation and reminder of his priorities.

Something in Salvatore's expression shifted—surprise, perhaps even respect. He studied Lewis with newfound consideration before nodding slowly. "You're truly a loyal man, Hamilton. We need more of you in this world. I'm glad we chose you."

"Thank you," Lewis responded, the sincerity behind the words evident despite his characteristic restraint.

Salvatore leaned back to sit more comfortably, his own cigar held expertly between his fingers as he turned his attention back to the stage. "But a man needs vices, you know. Something to keep him sane, from going over the edge."

"Like your daughter," Lewis reminded him, taking another measured draw from his cigar. "She's my vice."

The statement hung between them, weighted with meaning beyond the simple words. Salvatore gave him a curt nod, understanding dawning in his expression.

"I see how this is going down," Salvatore conceded with surprising grace. "I won't push you anymore, but I am allowed to have my own vices." He gestured toward the dancers on stage, the motion encompassing the entire environment.

"You are," Lewis concurred, neither judging nor endorsing his father-in-law's choices.

Tommy Venucci appeared beside Salvatore, leaning down to whisper something in his ear before handing him a stack of ones. Salvatore's face lit up with boyish enthusiasm that seemed strangely at odds with his usual commanding presence.

"Tommy's arranged a private dance," he explained to Lewis, already rising from his seat. "You're welcome to join, or—"

"I'll wait here," Lewis replied smoothly, relieved at the opportunity to maintain some distance while not openly refusing his father-in-law's hospitality.

Over the next hour, Lewis found himself politely declining numerous offers—drinks from servers with suggestive smiles, dances from performers with practiced seduction techniques, even a direct proposition from a woman who claimed to be "not really a dancer, just filling in" with an emphasis that suggested higher-end companionship.

Through it all, he maintained his composed exterior while his thoughts repeatedly returned to you—to the complex, capable woman who had executed Hernandez with unflinching resolve, who had stood up to her father with unexpected authority, who had somehow become essential to him in ways that transcended their strategic beginning.

When Salvatore finally emerged from the private room, slightly disheveled but evidently satisfied with the evening's entertainment, Lewis rose immediately. "Shall we head back?" he suggested, careful to keep any hint of judgment from his tone.

The drive back to the estate was conducted mostly in silence, Salvatore occasionally breaking it with observations about the Colombians or comments on business matters, while Paolo dozed in the back seat, clearly having indulged more heavily in the club's offerings.

It was late when they finally arrived, the estate quiet under the watchful eyes of security personnel who nodded respectfully as Lewis made his way to the pool house after brief goodbyes to Salvatore and Paolo. The night air was crisp against his skin, carrying the scent of snow and the promise of another storm approaching.

Inside the pool house, he moved quietly through the darkened living area, assuming you would be asleep given the hour. But as he entered the bedroom, he could sense your presence immediately—awake, alert, waiting. You sat up against the headboard, makeup removed, hair wrapped neatly in your bonnet, expression unreadable in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

"You smell like them," you said, disgust evident in your voice as Lewis closed the door behind him.

"My apologies. I'll take a shower then," he replied, neither defensive nor apologetic, simply acknowledging the reality.

"You had fun, didn't you? With the guys?" Your tone carried an edge that drew a dark chuckle from Lewis, surprising both of you with the sound.

"Do you really want to go down this route, babygirl?" he asked, his eyes finding yours in the darkness. "You know me. You know who I am."

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. "You're a man, Lewis, and men—"

"I am not the same as other men," he interrupted, a brief flare of frustration breaking through his usual control. "You could've said no, right? You could've told me not to go tonight."

"I know that, Lewis," you replied in an obvious tone, watching intently as he slowly removed his clothing, methodically undressing to reveal the tattooed skin beneath.

"So why are you upset? Or is this jealousy then?" The question was direct, characteristic of his preference for clarity over emotional games.

You gasped at the accusation, though its accuracy was evident in your reaction. Lewis clicked his tongue disapprovingly, a smirk gradually forming on his face as understanding dawned.

"Oh babygirl, you don't need to be jealous, at least not with me. I'm devoted to you," he said, the statement simple but carrying unmistakable weight.

"Are you?" you countered, the sass in your tone deliberate, challenging.

Your words made Lewis's eyes darken, his expression shifting to something more primal than his usual controlled demeanor. "There she is, my little brat coming out to play. We're doing this?" he asked, finally removing the last of his clothing, standing before you with confidence that bordered on arrogance.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you replied, feigning innocence despite the tension crackling between you.

"Don't play coy," Lewis said, approaching the bed with deliberate slowness. "I know how this game works, and I was willing to not probe and wait until you were ready, especially after what happened... but it seems as if you are."

A weighted silence fell between you, a battle of wills conducted through unwavering gazes.

"You always take the whole rope, don't you?" he observed, the metaphor deliberate and loaded with meaning.

"I—"

"Come 'ere," he commanded, his voice dropping to that dominant register that never failed to send a shiver down your spine.

"Lewis—"

The look he gave you stopped your words instantly, his raised eyebrow making it clear that refusal wasn't worth the effort. Slowly, you swept the covers off and padded toward him, your heartbeat accelerating with each step, goosebumps forming on your skin in anticipation.

Once you stood before him, Lewis pulled you close, allowing you to fully experience the scent of strippers and cigar smoke still lingering on his skin. Your face contorted in disgust as you tried to pull back.

"You still smell like them," you protested, attempting to create distance that Lewis immediately negated by drawing you closer.

"Then let's clean me off," he challenged, already leading you toward the bathroom with determined purpose.

You turned slightly to reach for a towel or maybe even to catch your breath, but Lewis was already there—right behind you, tugging at the hem of your night slip.

The slip lifted slowly over your body, the hem brushing up your thighs, over your hips, then higher still. He didn’t rush it. He wanted to feel the drag of the fabric, wanted to take in every inch of you as you were revealed. The material caught briefly on your breasts before he pulled it free, exposing your bare skin to the cooler air. Your nipples pebbled instantly, sensitive under his gaze.

Lewis leaned down, breath warm against you before his mouth met your skin. He kissed the slope of one breast, then the other, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with just enough pressure to make you gasp. His tongue lapped softly before switching sides, wet and deliberate.

You steadied yourself against his shoulders, trying not to lose your footing, but he didn’t give you the chance to recover. His hands were already on your waist, thumbs stroking your sides as he kissed a slow path across the curve of your chest.

His body was already pressed against yours—hot and solid and unmistakably male. The lean muscle of his frame held tension just beneath the surface, the compass tattoo on his chest inked in precise black lines that pointed north even as he lowered his mouth to worship you. His collarbones were inked too—faint script, sharp lines—and a trail of tattoos stretched along his forearms, disappearing under the flex of muscle as he moved. You traced one absentmindedly as he kissed you, hand drifted lower, brushing against his abdomen, and then lower still where his dick—thick, hard, and already flushed—rested against your belly. You felt it twitch slightly as you leaned into him, the intimacy of it dizzying.

He grinned against your skin before pulling back just enough to turn on the shower. The water hissed to life behind him, steam already curling toward the ceiling. Then he turned back to you—naked and gorgeous, the kind of man who should be carved into marble.

"Get in," he ordered, voice low and full of heat.

You moved to obey, but not before he delivered a sharp slap to your ass, the sound echoing off tile. You yelped, more from surprise than pain, but you didn’t stop. He followed you into the shower a moment later, stepping under the spray just enough to let it soak his braids before he pulled you close again.

The water coursed over both of you, hot and heavy, but Lewis kept you shielded from the brunt of it, positioning his body like a wall. His mouth found yours immediately—sloppy, needy, possessive kisses that had your knees wobbling. You melted into him, fingers exploring his back, your hands smoothing over damp, tattooed skin.

His lips moved over yours, then to your jaw, then your neck, nipping just enough to leave a mark.

"Clean me," he rasped against your throat. “Since you hate how I smell so much.”

You reached for the soap without breaking eye contact, and he smirked like he’d won something. You started at his chest, gently soaping over the compass tattoo, then moved up to his collarbones, your fingers tracing the script there as you worked the lather in slow, circular motions.

He watched you the whole time, his breathing low and steady.

You moved down his arms next, hands smoothing over thick biceps and forearms, gently scrubbing around the lines of his ink. When you finally dropped to your knees, it wasn’t submission—it was ritual. You worked carefully down his torso, around the rose on his ribs, then along the sharp lines of his hips.

"Delicate hands," he murmured, voice thick with pride and desire.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to.

When your hands reached his dick, you were gentle. Not teasing—just reverent. You cleaned him like it mattered, like it meant something. You soaped the length of him slowly, tenderly, your hands light but sure.

Lewis hissed softly, head tipping back.

"Fuck, babygirl… you’re too good at this," he groaned, hips twitching slightly as your fingers worked around his base.

You rinsed him just as carefully, letting the water do the work, your hands smoothing over him like you’d been made for this.

"You’re not mad anymore," he noted, looking down at you, water dripping from his lashes. "Or maybe you are. You just like proving a point."

"I’m not proving anything,” you muttered, rising to your feet. "Just cleaning off the smell of other women."

He laughed low in his throat, pulling you back into his chest. "There’s my little brat," he said again, kissing you hard—like a punishment, like a reward.

Water poured down both of you, heat rising with every second.

And the night was far from over.

That same controlled power you enjoyed—calm on the surface but storming underneath—followed Lewis out of the shower as he dried the both of you off. His touch was rougher now, more possessive, the soft towel brushing across your skin before he let it fall to the floor. Your heart fluttered with every pass of his hands, trailing over your body like he was reacquainting himself with what was his.

And you were his.

He led you back into the bedroom, the air was cooler now against your damp skin, but you barely noticed. Lewis's hand on the small of your back was a tether, keeping you grounded in the rising heat between you.

He kissed you before you even hit the mattress—his mouth hot and consuming, tongue demanding entry and devouring yours the second you parted your lips. It wasn’t soft or patient, it was primal. Starved. He maneuvered you back, your thighs opening automatically as he settled between them, mouth never leaving yours.

"Still want to act like I’m not loyal to you?” he murmured between kisses, lips dragging down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone.

You whined, toes curling as he kissed lower, slow, wet presses of his mouth down the valley of your breasts. Your nipples, already sensitive from the shower, were lavished with his tongue again before he continued his descent—over your stomach, the dip of your navel, every deliberate press igniting something wild in you.

And then he got there.

He pulled your thighs apart like he had every right to—and he did—shoulders wedging them open as he dipped his head and flattened his tongue against your pussy with no warning.

"Fuck—Lewis!" you cried out, your hips jerking, but his strong forearms anchored you down.

He was loud. Sloppy. Deliberate. Moaning against you as if he was tasting something decadent and rare, his beard scraping your thighs just enough to drive you mad. Your hands tangled in his braids, gripping for dear life as he flicked, sucked, devoured your clit like it was his last meal.

"Mmhm... yeah, make that sound for me," he groaned against you. "All that attitude, and now you’re just whining like a little slut for me."

Your back arched off the bed, cries of his name leaving your lips as he pushed you further, tongue teasing your entrance, nose rubbing your clit, his rhythm relentless.

"Lewis—" you gasped. "I’m—Lewis, I’m gonna—"

"Do it," he growled, fingers digging into your hips. "I want to feel you come all over my face."

And you did. Violently. Loudly.

You screamed his name as your orgasm tore through you, body trembling, legs shaking uncontrollably. He licked you through it like a man possessed, slowing only when you whimpered from the sensitivity.

Only then did he crawl back up your body, kissing your thighs, your stomach, your breasts, and finally your mouth—letting you taste yourself on his lips. The kiss was messy and sweet and dripping with want.

"Please," you whispered between kisses, batting your lashes at him with a pout. "I need you. Now."

Lewis paused, his dark eyes raking over you, hand braced beside your head.

“I’m not sure you deserve a reward, babygirl,” he said lowly, voice wrapped in amusement and threat. “The way you acted earlier? Accusing me. Throwing your little jealous fit.”

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I shouldn’t have. I was just... I was jealous. I missed you.”

Lewis gave a dark chuckle, sharp and knowing. “You are a little jealous thing, aren’t you?” His hand came up and tugged gently on your bottom lip. “Fine. You want a reward that badly?”

You nodded eagerly, and before you could reply, Lewis’s large palm pressed firmly against your chest, pushing you flat onto the mattress.

You gasped at the sudden dominance, but your grin betrayed you.

Lewis lined himself up between your thighs, his tip dragging slow and sticky over your slit, teasing, watching your eyes flutter in desperation.

"You’ve been teasing me all night," you whined.

"Good,” he said, eyes locked on where you were soaked for him. “Now you’ll remember who you belong to.”

And then he pushed in.

Your mouth fell open in a silent moan as he filled you inch by slow inch, the stretch delicious and deep. Lewis hissed between his teeth, head falling forward.

“Shit, you feel so fucking good. Tight as ever.”

His hips started to move, long, deep thrusts that hit your spot just right—each one stealing breath from your lungs. His rhythm was patient, controlled at first. But when you clawed at his back and wrapped your legs around his waist, he snapped.

“You want it rough now, huh?” he groaned, voice wrecked as he began to fuck you harder, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room. “You’re going to whine again? Beg again? Tell me how sorry you are while I’m splitting you open?”

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed, head tipping back as he pounded into you. “I was wrong. You’re mine. I’m yours. Please—don’t stop.”

Lewis growled and leaned down to kiss you hard, biting your lip before whispering against your mouth, “You’re damn right you’re mine. And I’m not stopping until I’ve ruined you.”

Your body met every thrust, desperate and slick and trembling, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. This wasn’t just sex. It was punishment. It was a claim.

And when your release hit again—sudden and brutal—you screamed for him, nails digging into his tattooed shoulders, heart pounding so fast it nearly hurt.

Lewis kissed you through it, hips slowing just enough to let you breathe. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered, “That's it, babygirl. Let me feel that pussy grip me. Let me know who owns it.”

You could only moan in reply, completely undone beneath him.

And still, he wasn’t finished with you.

You were breathless, spent—and still, he kept moving inside you, now slow and deep, grinding into that tender spot that had your thighs twitching.

“Lewis…” you whimpered, voice barely a sound.

“Shhh,” he murmured against your neck, licking a stripe up to your jaw. “You can take it. You will take it. After all that shit you talked, baby? This is what you earned.”

His thrusts slowed even further, but they hit deeper, rougher with the way he angled his hips. Every drag of him inside you made your body clench and your hands grasp for something, anything—his shoulders, the sheets, the edge of sanity.

“You feel that?” he whispered, his breath warm against your cheek. “That’s mine. You’re mine.”

“Yours,” you repeated, voice wrecked. “I’m yours.”

He kissed you again, filthier than before, tongue fucking your mouth the way he’d just been fucking your body—commanding, devouring, relentless.

And you kissed him back like you were starving, tasting your own pleasure on his tongue, sighing into the soft pull of his lips. Even now, when your limbs were jelly and your skin was burning, you wanted more.

He pulled back, staring down at you with a smirk, braids damp and hovering around his face.

“You still begging?” he asked, that glint in his eye making your core throb again.

You nodded, lips parted. “Please…”

That wicked smile curved deeper, and he picked up the pace again, fucking you slow and mean, grunting softly every time your pussy squeezed around him. “One more, then. You come one more time, and I’ll let go too.”

Your nails dragged down his back, your body arched into his, everything inside you unraveling at his command. And when that third orgasm crashed over you—sharp, unexpected, and blinding—you cried out his name again, over and over like a broken record.

Lewis cursed, burying his face in your neck as he finally let go, hips jerking, spilling deep inside you with a guttural groan.

He didn’t move right away.

Instead, he stayed there, pressed against you, breathing hard, lips brushing over your shoulder. One hand tangled with yours above your head, the other smoothing over your waist like he was grounding both of you.

You stayed like that for a long moment—sweaty, tangled, and sated.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression softer now, even as that cocky smirk lingered on his lips.

“You really need to stop doubting me,” he muttered, kissing your cheek. “Because if this is what jealousy gets me? You’re going to give me a damn heart attack.”

You giggled, too spent to even sass him back. “Shut up and hold me.”

Lewis chuckled and pulled you into his arms, settling you against his chest. You could already feel the slow thump of his heartbeat, warm and steady beneath your ear.

And as you drifted off in his embrace, your body wrecked but your heart full, you knew two things for sure:

One, you were definitely going to be sore in the morning.

And two, you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

......tbd

[thefreakandthehair]

written for ‘pin’ | wc: 388 | rated: m | cw: n/a | a @steddiemicrofic collaboration with the absolute incredible, always wonderful, mindblowingly talented @ahhrenata!

It starts with a map. 

A faded, folded map with thin red and blue lines traversing the midwest landscape that Steve finds in the console of the RV Eddie hot-wired. When no one's looking, he tucks it safely into his pocket, carrying it with him as a symbol of hope through the hopelessness of the Upside Down. 

Against all odds, they live— Eddie wakes up, Max walks again, Dustin’s ankle heals up just fine— and that little map sits in the glovebox of his car, untouched but not forgotten. At least, that’s where it rests until Eddie finds it one night a year later and Steve, a little hazy and loose, tells him all about his dream. 

The RV. The six kids. The road trip. 

“Well,” Eddie starts, voice syrupy with a slack smile that only ever seems directed at Steve these days. “We probably shouldn’t risk grand theft auto again and I definitely can’t give you six kids, but I do have a van and no responsibilities if you ever wanna stick a pin somewhere in that map and take off.” 

And that’s how, against even greater odds, Steve finds himself on the hood of Eddie’s van at a rest-stop in Minnesota just off of I-94. He’s been driving for hours, trying to make it to the North Dakota border before nightfall, but both he and Eddie need to stretch their tight joints and tighter muscles. 

It may not have been the plan, but Steve’s glad that they decided to stop here because sure, they haven’t technically reached Big Sky Country yet but damn if they aren’t getting a taste of what’s to come. Splattered in shades of pinks and oranges, sunlight pierces the fluffy clouds like prisms and throws the colors across the sky. 

Eddie drags a flannel blanket out of the back and wraps it around both of their shoulders with an uncharacteristically shy smile. As they watch the sunset, Steve turns to Eddie to thank him for indulging this fantasy and finds himself close enough that their noses touch. 

The expansive sky and unending horizon gives him courage, a kind of freedom he’s never experienced back in Hawkins with its arbitrary rules and expectations. Back in Hawkins, he'd pull away but in the vastness of Minnesota, he just matches Eddie's smile and leans in.

[ghost-proofbaby]

#94 sTEEEEEB

oh i am SO excited about this one. it's been too long since i've written for our boy steve 🫶

#94 - "JUDAS" BY LADY GAGA

“I couldn't love a man so purely, even prophets forgave his goofy way. I've learned love is like a brick, you can build a house or sink a dead body."

warnings: smut, oral (f receiving), fem!reader (or at least mentions of wearing lip gloss and a dress), use of whore as an insult, sort of enemies to lovers? sort of forbidden love? honestly the plot is only half-baked i just wanted porn. 18+, minors dni.

wc: 2.8k+

“If your daddy finds out about this, he’ll kill us both.” 

It’s spoken through muffled syllables, lips tight against your neck as you feel his stubble scratching the sensitive surface of your skin. 

Your hand travels up, fingers combing through soft and wavy hair as you whisper out, “If he finds out, and he won’t.” 

Bold words and sharp assumptions given your current predicament. Steve Harrington, heir to the Harrington Estate, hovering over your body. The son of the man your father hates most in the world, and he’s currently spinning a secret language across every inch of your bare skin. A painting of harsh kisses and fading teeth marks, his hands gripping every inch of the forbidden enemy below him. 

The weight of him against the center of your pelvis is almost heavier than the weight of all the choices leading you up to this moment. 

How many times had you been warned to play nice as the two of you had been raised in the same shark-infested waters? How many forced smiles had been almost-politely exchanged at galas? How many times had your mother rambled on about how that Harrington boy was nothing but trouble?

Not enough times, apparently, as your mother’s voice is the last on your mind as your nails scratch slowly down the center of Steve’s back, relishing the way he shivers and twitches under your dancing touch. 

“What would they say if they saw you like this?” he chuckles, lifting his head to look you in your eyes, a gentle hand coming up to caress a line from your temple and down your cheek, “Their little princess, consorting with the enemy’s son?” 

All the late nights spent listening to your father pace and complain about the Harrington business being in competition with his own. All the cursed names under the sun spit out in lieu of their actual names, muttered during late dinner arrivals. 

“What about your parents, hm?” you sigh out, letting your palms press flat against his bare chest, running up to wrap shaking fingers around his throat. Not quite choking him, but simply a warning: if you wanted to, you could press the cherry red of your nail deeper into his skin. Draw blood, leave a mark. You won’t, but you could. “Their little golden boy, upstairs and on his knees for the little whore of the party.”

His eyes widen. Clearly, no one had realized you’d overheard Claire Harrington’s comment when your family had entered the current gathering buzzing below. 

He rolls his eyes, “My mother’s a prude. Any woman wearing any dress above the knees is a whore.” 

He returns to all his mitigations, his plump lips fiery against your skin as they continue on their previous trail. Over your jugular, across your collarbones, settling into your sternum. Entirely unbothered and still focused on one thing only. 

“You’re right,” you breathe out wistfully, leaning your head back, a smug grin overtaking your face as he trails lower, “Besides, you’re not even on your knees yet.” 

“I could be.” 

He moves quickly, uncaring in his actions as he fumbles to lift up off the bed. The expensive comforter behind your back twists and scrunches in protest as he drops down to the ground, knees landing hard enough that it surely had to hurt. His hands grip your hips through the entire process, dragging you right with him until your legs are fully off the bed and your clothed center dangles right at the edge of the mattress.

“Is this how you want me, honey?” he grins up at you, shaking thighs bracketing each side of a shadowed face, all intentions twisting into something sinister by the dim lighting, “On my knees, begging for you?” 

“I do. But I don’t hear much begging, Harrington.” 

Sinister no longer covers it once the initial shock wears off. 

“Oh?” he hums, hands creeping up your legs. His fingers tap against your ankle before sliding up a few paces, the rhythm going steady as his palms travel up, up, up. “Allow me to fix that, baby.” 

His fingers dig into the meat of your upper thighs, tugging you even closer. You have no choice but to throw your arms out behind you as you partially collapse backwards, your entire body now shaking as you keep yourself held up to be aligned with his mouth. Every breath, almost mimicking laughs as he baits you, fans across the wet spot forming at the center of your lace crotch. 

“Please,” he breathes out just as his nose presses against your mound, taking a deep breath, “Please, let me just taste you, honey. I bet you’re so sweet, so sweet,” you let out a little gasp, hips bucking a bit at his expert words, “You like that, yeah? You gonna be sweet for me, honey? Gotta live up to that pretty little name, don’t you?” 

He knows how to get you riled up. He knows every string that laces your entire body, how to tighten and how to cut them loose. He’s had plenty of time to mesmerize this dance – a dozen different galas before to pull you into empty rooms, a hundred different nights to sneak away to indulge in you under pseudo names in the nicest hotels a few towns over. He can anticipate every jerk of your hips when his lips start to brush over your clit, even with fabric keeping his skin from yours. He knows which hand needs to keep a firm grip on your thigh, massaging it slowly as his thumb brushes closer and closer to the sensitive inner skin. His free arm works on autopilot as he throws it across your hips, planting you flat to the mattress as you mew out and he presses his tongue flatly against your weeping slit. 

His spit, your wetness. It all becomes the same within the intricate lace pattern separating him from your cunt currently. 

“I can taste it already, you know,” he keeps up the sweet talk and you feel his grin as he lets his cheek rest against your inner thigh, fluttering his lashes up at you, “Are you this easy for every golden boy walking around downstairs, pockets stuffed full of daddy’s money?” 

The gala downstairs. You had entirely forgotten, transported into only this moment here and now with Steve. 

Both your families, undoubtedly avoiding each other like the plague. His mother still gossiping about how short she thinks your dress is, your father snickering about the lacking details in Arthur Harrington’s suit. Bitter champagne on the tongue and even more bitter feelings on the brain. 

Your father would kill you if he knew what you were doing up here. 

Fraternizing with the supposed enemy. 

“Golden boy?” you gasp out, trying to swallow down any desire. It’s a useless battle. “And what’s so golden about you right now? All the hickeys I left on your neck, or that wet spot on your pants from how excited you’re getting at just the sight of me?” 

You don’t tell him how you’ve never taken an interest in any of the other sons of other supposed empires. You don’t mention how the rest of them hardly got more than a scoff from you all these years. 

You don’t tell him how he’s become your one and only betrayal to the blood running through your veins. 

He surprises you with a smack to the cunt. 

“I don’t remember you being so mouthy during the last charity event.” 

Your head rolls back with your laughter, “Guess I’m just in a mood tonight.”

“Is that so?” he questions, voice almost singing as he reaches up to the waistband of your panties. One finger hooks between it and your skin, pulling it out taut from your skin, “Guess that makes two of us.” 

The snap after he lets go can be heard only in this room, only between these four walls. It’s sure to leave a mark. 

“God,” it’s meant to be a groan of annoyance, but it’s more of a whine that leaves your glossy lips, “Just put your goddamn money where your mouth is or I swear to fucking God-”

Steve Harrington is many things. A brat, a golden boy, a nepo-baby to the highest degree just like yourself. 

And he’s also an excellent listener. 

You don’t feel his fingers tearing through the side strips of your underwear – all you suddenly feel is the slightest of cool breezes, and then his hot mouth on you. 

Eager, wanting, patient. Within seconds, his tongue’s mitigations go through a myriad of options, and he’s more in tune with your body than you are yourself. He finds the pace you need quickly, finds the pressure and just how much enthusiasm would be your deal breaker tonight. Long and steady strides from slit to clit, firm but gentle with you as he tugs you nearly off the mattress and right onto his waiting lips. A dog at your windowsill, offering all he can give as he laps at you. A man on his knees, worshiping a divinity beyond comprehension. 

Familiar politics no longer matter when he’s slipping two fingers into you and curling them harshly, lips locked around your sensitive clit. 

“Mmm,” he hums against you, nuzzling even further against your heat. As if he might be able to bury himself there. As if he might be able to force you to feel his sudden devotion from the press of his nose against your sensitive bundle of nerves, “I was right.” 

You open your mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a whimper as your hands try to snake down for his hair once more. 

Right about what? 

A silent question he must hear from your breathless begging for more. 

“Sweeter than I remember,” he mumbles, unable to stop himself from beginning to kiss your cunt, tongue flicking out and making your body jump, “Always so sweet for me, baby.” 

Your back arches at every curl of his fingers, legs somehow thrown over his shoulders in the daze until your heels are digging into his back. You need him closer, you want him closer. 

There’s no such thing as too close. Not when he worships you like this. 

Reciting prayers as his tongue circles your clit, raising you to a precipice that should damn your bloodline. When he has you teetering on the edge like this, it’s hard to not remember the thrill of it all. If someone, anyone, were to walk in and catch the two of you – you both lose everything. 

He’s worth it. When he has you falling over the edge, body washed over in ecstasy only thought to exist in Heaven, he’s worth the damnation. 

You don’t try to muffle the chants of his name as your hips jerk in rhythm with his tongue as you both ride out your high. 

“Jesus,” you gasp out one final curse, still tasting his name on your tongue as your body falls limp against the mattress.

It takes Steve a second to crawl back up next to you, his knees surely sore as he grins, “Not quite. Steve, or Harrington, or golden boy will do just fine.”

You open your mouth, unsure if you even have energy left within your buzzing mind for a snarky retort, when a heavy knock sounds at the door. 

“Hey, who’s in here? Upstairs is meant to be off-limits!”

You panic as Steve only rolls his eyes, turning his head towards the door as you try to sit up and find your discarded panties, still unaware that your golden boy had ripped them off. 

“It’s Harrington!” Steve calls back, voice unwavering, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

His name works like magic. 

No retorts, no further risk of trouble. There’s a whisper of some grumbles, and then receding footsteps, and still no sign of your panties. 

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, looking on the bed wildly, “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Are you lying on my panties? Move-”

You’re cut off by his snickers. 

“What’s so fucking funny, Harrington?” you whisper harshly, standing with your arms crossed and glare set on the boy with a bit of wetness still shimmering on his chin. “Did you hide them, you asshole? Because if you did-”

“I ripped them, honey.” 

Your arms drop immediately, a sharp breath taken, “Excuse me?” 

“I,” he sits up, “Ripped,” he’s back on his knees, scooting across the bed, “Them.” 

He stops just short of your reach, boyish charm radiating with smug satisfaction. 

He has a nice smile. If it weren’t the anger simmering in your chest at finding out that he’d ripped one of your nicest pairs of lingerie, you might even tell him that. 

“Fuck you,” you spit out. Or at least, you mean to. It’s more of a cross between spitting venom and a sigh of surrender. 

He has a really, really nice smile. 

“Later,” he laughs back, finally standing from the bed, pulling scraps of lace fabric out of his pocket just enough for you to catch sight of, “For now, we’ve got to go show our pretty faces downstairs, yeah?” 

He has a nice laugh, too. 

“What about my underwear?” you scoff, pulling down your dress until it brushes the top of your knees anyways. 

“Only whores have panty lines. I saved you another snarky comment from my mother, if anything.” 

He’s nice. He pisses you off, he infuriates you, but he makes you feel nice. It’s not just the afterglow of the orgasm he’s given you without any demand of returning the favor, it’s not just the glint in his eyes as he teases you and shoves his hands shyly in his pockets. 

There’s a flash of something more in the air between you. A time and place where you met and your fathers weren’t at each other’s throats. An existence where you meet him out at some overcrowded bar rather than extravagant ballrooms, and you’d never heard of his last name until he tells it to you on a third date. A world where you bring him home and your parents' only first impression is all his charm that he puts into overdrive during dinner, no whispered rumors over wine tainting the image before them. 

A lifetime where Steve Harrington is merely a salvation, and not also a sin. 

“You’re right,” you smoothly reply, even if the words choke you. The invisible smoke only you clearly see between you and the boy who couldn’t be nice, who couldn’t be a simple salvation despite the way he elevates you to godhood time and time again. “You are buying me a new pair of those, though, Harrington.”

You almost say his name the way you would in that make believe space that isn’t quite here, isn’t quite now. Where a name is just a name. 

“I’ll have them wrapped up with a bow and everything for you next time… honey.” 

He almost says your name instead of some lewd nickname in place of what has been taught to be venomous to him. 

He opens the door like a gentleman, he instructs you to return to the main showroom, he advises you to grab a glass of champagne to excuse the flush in your cheeks. No crowded bars, no proper dinners with your parents, no third dates. 

It all evaporates like smoke and mirrors as you join your parents’ sides downstairs, tugging at the bottom seam of your dress and grabbing a crystal flute with a forced smile. You don’t even turn to look in the direction of his descent when he also joins his family.

But salvation remains. Even when faced with the reminder of damnation by the look on your father’s face.

“Can you believe that boy?” he gruffly asks, glaring in their direction, “Just waltzing back in here, like he hadn’t rudely disappeared for a good thirty minutes. Those Harringtons know no manners, I tell you.” 

You hum in lackluster agreement, studying the rim of your glass, ignoring the twist in your chest. 

“Where did you run off to, though, honey?” the nickname makes your back straighten up, memories of chills running up your spine as you glance up at your father suddenly. 

“Oh, no where,” you flail a hand about, keeping steady breathing, playing an act you’ve rehearsed a million times, “I’d just heard a rumor that the Richardson’s garden fountains were larger than ours, and had to see for myself.” 

“Were they?” 

They have no idea. 

“Not even close,” you laugh. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see your laughter has attracted the attention of a certain pair of warm brown eyes and wavy brown hair, set with hidden devotion only privy in private rooms. “What did I miss?” 

Steve was right. If your father ever did find out, he was going to kill you both.

[pedripics]

IBAI x PEDRI - January 2, 2024 (summary)

He’s doing okay but things are a bit tough at the moment

He spent Christmas at home in Tenerife with his family

They play 'Suika Game' a lot in the dressing room (but on the phone and not the PC because it's free there lol)

He laughed a lot with Piqué in the dressing room. Piqué didn't really like training sessions but he was very good in the matches

Have you ever looked at Pique and thought that if you wanted to, you could dribble past him 7 times? - "Yes (laughs)"

Ferran has supported him a lot and is always there for him

Ferran takes the shark mentality very seriously, so Pedri gave him some shark slippers and now Ferran wears them in the dressing room

He tries to help Gavi every day because he knows what it's like to be injured for a longer time and he's confident that he will come back in great condition

Pedri does pilates now after Puyol recommended it to him

Pedri has Aleix García in his Fantasy team (his brother is first, he is second)

He rarely uses Twitter, he uses Twitch and TikTok more

They are behind Xavi 100%

In his opinion, Neymar looks good with every hairstyle

Girona are playing very well and he thinks that they could win LaLiga

Jordi Alba and Piqué were always fighting but that's how they got on. They just liked to fight lmao

Vitor Roque is wonderful, he is always happy, whenever Pedri sees him he is smiling

He doesn't like press conferences at all because they are a bit disturbing as all the journalists stare at you while you just sit there

In the Premier League, they are able to spend 80 or 90 million for players which is unbelievable. In La Liga, academies are what makes the difference

They don't really talk about the Super League in the dressing room

Boca Juniors or River Plate? - He's only watched one game and Boca won, so Boca

For Pedri, Busquets is the best No. 6 in history

His favourite player is Iniesta (in case you somehow didn't know that yet)

His favourite XI in history: ter Stegen, Jordi Alba, Piqué, Ramos, Alves, Xavi, Iniesta, Busquets, Ronaldinho, Ronaldo (after being forced by Ibai), Messi and Luis Enrique as a Coach (he changed out Ronaldinho for Neymar later)

Luis Enrique doesn't have What's App. If you want to talk to him, you need to send him an SMS

He was nervous when scoring the decisive penalty against Real Betis because the goalkeeper was a giant

Hardest defeat: penalty shootout against Italy (Euros 2020)

He supported Argentina in the WC final (for Leo)

He would like Haaland to sign for Barça (in his words "as a replacement for Lewy because he won't play for us until he's 60") and he also really likes Julían Alvarez (agent Pedri 👀)

His first friend at Barça was Trincāo

A dream: to win the Champions League and the World Cup

Before games, he likes to listen to slow Spanish music (Julio Iglesias? - "Maybe (laughs)")

His favourite singer is Quevedo (everyone act surprised please)

Vitor is only 18 years old, you cannot ask him to be the new Pele, but he has a lot of confidence from the club

He normally always stops for fans but there are always the same 5-6 TikTokers in front of the training ground so he sometimes doesn't stop if it's just them

He is rewatching Prison Break at the moment, even though he's seen it two times already. The first season is the best one in his opinion

He used to watch anime but not anymore

Kounde has the confidence to wear anything

They should listen to the players more because the calendar is so tightly packed right now and there are too many injuries

He would like to score more goals

He found scoring goals strange when he was younger because he never knew how to celebrate and all he did was run and look stupid

Ibai breaks his computer mouse and engineer Pedri tells him to plug it out and in again (Pedri indeed managed to fix it)

Favourite place in Barcelona? - Camp Nou ❤️

Ibai and Pedri played 'Guess these 100 Players' and Pedri guessed 94/100 right (and Pedri realised he doesn't know enough South American players)

[postsofbabel]

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[jayparked]

Hi baby 94 + 116 Subby Sunoo please

warnings: f2l, sub!sunoo, begging, teasing, handjob, slight praise kink

wc: 425

late night drinks with your best friend are nothing new. what is new, though, is the way his lips feel against yours, whispering and whimpering your name between tequila kisses while his fingers tangle in your hair. thrill with a little bit of anxiety bubbles up from your chest and rests in your throat, making your own moans come out in choked, desperate, airy gasps.

you break away from your friend, lips swollen and voice shaking with adrenaline. "sunoo- what are we doing?"

he doesn't stop moving against you, his lips trailing needy kisses along your jawline and down your throat while his hands roam your body. "mmm. don't know, don't care. just don't stop. do whatever you want with me."

"whatever i want?" you giggle with a smirk, hands now roaming down the front of his chest, all anxiety and apprehensions leaving your body instantly with the way he responds to your touch.

"please, y/n."

that's enough to make you move, hands reaching for his unbuttoned pants, "i wanna see you. cmere."

sunoo scoots closer to you and lets you pull his pants down past his hips. as soon as his cock springs free, your hands are on him, slowly pumping him just below his tip. sunoo winces with the sudden contact and pressure. you're about to lean in and start kissing him again when a better idea crosses your mind, so you lean back and continue to pump your best friend's cock painfully slow while looking him in the eyes. sunoo continues to whimper your name, a few pleads and cries mixed in between.

"the prettiest boy i've ever seen," you murmur, sunoo's hips bucking up into your hand that is still barely gliding up and down his length.

"can't- can't you go faster than this?" his arms are starting to shake from propping himself on his elbows for so long, his head falling back while he bites his bottom lip.

"hmm, impatient are we?" the alcohol is starting to make you feel hazy, or maybe it's the fact that you're so desperate to see your best friend come within your grasp that you realize why you're pumping him so slowly: you don't want the moment to end, and you wish you can see him come all of your hands in slow motion.

which wouldn't be possible. obviously. unless you record yourself jacking him off. but that's an idea for next time. for now, you pick up your pace, continuous praises leaving your lips naturally as sunoo completely lets go with you.

for part of my 1k follower celebration send me a member and a number from this list and i'll write a short drabble about it ♡ masterlist

[swift-creates]

@chrumblr-whumblr day 17: touch starved and day 18: shaking hands

wc: 2272 | warnings: mentions of minor violence, injuries, mention of alcohol, strike trying to delude herself | characters: Strike (OC) (pov), Rex, Fives, Echo, '94 / Mikaere Dunn (OC), Omega

more batfam au!!! somewhat of a sequel to this

Rex - Batman Fives and Echo - Nightwing Strike - Red Hood '94/Mika - Red Robin Omega - Robin

i spent so long on this fic and then procrastinated posting it even longer hahahaha (<- suffering) Fives and Echo both go by Nightwing to confuse the enemy. it works despite the fact that their domino masks do Not hide that one nightwing obviously has a goatee and tattoo and the other one doesn't.

Rex is really doing his absolute best to get his daughter back, Strike is just an unreliable narrator due to having abysmally low self-esteem and lying to herself a Lot and trying to convince herself that she hates the Family and they hate her (when they really want her to get to know her and she really wants to go home).

more things about Strike on AO3

It starts when she first returns to the Batcave. Red Hood got too deep into a tangle with some of Falcone's thugs and had to be rescued by Nightwing. Nightwing, of all people. He tried to make a joke about it, and she punched him in the nose. Now she watches him press a rag to the source of the blood, watches Rex fuss over him as Robin and Red Robin stare at her. This must be strange for them, unused to seeing her in the Batcave when to her, it had always been the only place she belonged.

"Honestly? I kind of deserved that." Fives pulls the rag away from his face, winces, and puts it back. Echo scowls. "No, you didn't. Strike overreacted." It's surreal, seeing her name come out of his mouth. It's surreal seeing him at all. He belongs in pictures on Rex's desk, in old newspaper clippings, on a gravestone.

Her ribs and leg ache, but she refuses to ask them for one of the first-aid kits she knows are kept inside a drawer just a few feet away. (Or the bottle of whiskey in the one below.) They probably wouldn't give it to her, anyway.

"Strike?" Rex turns and finally notices her standing there. She gives him a flippant wave with her free hand, the other buried beneath her jacket. "Hey, old man. Worried I'll swoop in and steal your chance to clean up the streets of Gotham?" He doesn't say anything in reply, steps toward her instead. She resists the urge to ask, Is there blood on my face? because she already knows there is and braces for blows, yelling, anything.

He wraps his arms around her, and she freezes.

What? Out of everything she'd expected, a hug had not been one of them. (But this hug is so warm, so comforting, and so safe. It reminds her of when she was a kid, and she thought his embrace could keep out every single bad thing in Gotham, from villains and goons to rough concrete and grazed knees. She hasn't had this kind of hug in years. All she wants to do is melt into her dad and confess all the sins she's ever committed, collapse in his arms and beg for forgiveness.)

"Come home."

I will. The words almost leave her mouth, dance on her lips, the tip of her tongue.

But then she remembers who she is, and she remembers who he is, and she pushes him away.

"They had more backup than I thought. The birds brought me back here. I'm not staying." She avoids looking him in the eyes, knows they'll be round and pained and longing for someone who doesn't exist anymore. "Sure you won't let anyone patch you up?" His voice is hushed. "I can take care of myself," she snarls, turning towards the lifts. Her legs have gotten too used to standing still, and her first step lurches embarrassingly before she catches herself and limps the rest of the way, ignoring the stares that must be pinned on her from behind.

The doors close her off from the rest, and then she turns and leans against the back wall, catching a breath, it seems for the first time that night. Her leg is screaming by now, and her ribs are even worse, twinging every time she takes a breath.

She limps out into the manor, and realises it's the first time she's been back there since dying. Everything looks roughly the same, save for more of… everything. More shoes and boots by the door, more framed pictures hanging on the walls. There's a drawing beside the nearest doorway, and she doesn't know what makes her stop to look at it.

It's hers.

It's the family-as-animals picture she'd drawn when she was 12. Her as a robin, obviously. Rex as a large bat. Two more birds on faraway branches in the background representing Fives and Echo. And somehow 12-year-old Strike had never been outed as Robin. Wonders never cease.

But why would he frame this up? It isn't even that good.

She shakes her head, chalks it up to sentimentality (summoning up less contempt than she would have liked), and keeps walking. If memory serves right, Fives and Echo store their old motorbikes in the aboveground garage. She'd grab one for the ride back to her safe houses; if they wanted it back, they'd come after her themselves. They have other vehicles now anyway, they won't need those old things-

"Strik'ika?"

She freezes again. (She seems to be doing that a lot tonight.)

"99?" The old steward looks shocked to see her there, coming right up to her in a sharp contrast to Rex's wary approach and sudden hug. (Did he even know she'd been back? Had he still thought she was dead, up till right now?) "Ad'ika…" He reaches out, his old fingers brush her chin, and she resists the urge to lean into the contact. "You've grown so tall now."

Strike can feel the tears bubbling up inside her chest. She chokes them down and doesn't dare to speak. Like the manor itself, 99 looks practically unchanged, but on closer inspection, his hands are rougher than she remembers, and all the lines on his face engraved deeper — the smiling ones too, not just the worry furrows.

They make him happy.

She doesn't know why the revelation feels like a knife through her bruised ribs.

Does he think she's back for good? That his little one, his ad'ika is home to stay.

Better lower his expectations.

"I'm not staying." She pulls away from him like she pulled away from Rex, like she pulls away from the idea of coming home. Except she doesn't, does she? Her heart longs for the halls, the cave, the sparring mats. Have they updated the dojo in the last four years? Does the kitchen still have the same ceramic tiles, subtle blue floral patterns on bright unstained white? Is her room still hers, or have they given that to the Replacement, too?

But she doesn't care. About the Bat, about the manor, about the baby birds. Not even the pictures of various kids she can see scattered all over Rex's office. So she acts like it, turns away from him as the traitorous tears burn in her eyes.

"You won't even stay for tea?" If she says yes, the first thing he'll do is fetch a pot and bags of earl grey, and then he'll insist she take cookies with her cup, and then Rex will walk in and look at them with that wistful look in his eyes like he knows just how much she wants to go back to the days when it was just the three of them a family a team and then it will never end. So she doesn't. "I… I have to go." She swallows back the truth, limps away from him and out the door.

Trying to convince herself that their family is dead, and so is the little girl in the Robin costume, beaming up at her from the picture on Rex's desk.

~

It really starts the night in the library.

She's staring at the fireplace as the birds squawk behind her, flocking around the focal point that is their father sitting contentedly in the middle of the couch. Omega is curled up under his arm, reading a book Strike saw it was Grimm's Fairy Tales when she took it off the shelf earlier and occasionally grumbling at her siblings when they disturb her. Mika is play-struggling with Fives, and Echo has his prosthetic feet crossed ankle-over-ankle and propped on their little brother's lap; not an unimpressive feat given how much the other two boys are wriggling. Every so often his eyes flick up to Strike, and she moves her gaze back to the fire, pretends she hasn't been watching her family actually be a family. Without her.

So what if all she wants is to move closer, to press up against Rex's side in his space formed by his arm braced on the back of the couch? No one has asked her to join them; she shouldn't even be there, anyway. The only reason she'd followed them back to the 'cave in the first place was because she'd been promised 99's baking, which had been provided almost an hour ago. She should leave now, ride back to her apartment before it gets too light and people notice a single motorbike leaving Wayne Manor.

But she doesn't. Instead, she stares at the flames and pretends everything she's ever wanted isn't sitting three feet away, giggling and wrestling and being alive, alive, alive.

They go silent at some point, and she sneaks a look to see them all asleep. Omega has a finger stuck in her book, marking where she'd stopped, and Mika's head leans against hers, black on blonde, as Fives and Echo snore in tandem beside him. Rex's eyes are closed; he looks more relaxed than she remembers seeing him in the last few years. She thinks about the hug she'd spurned, and her heart aches.

Her eyes burn again. Traitorous, traitorous feelings.

Is it those very same that make her crawl across the couch and curl up against him? That close her eyes as she settles all too quickly into the familiar rhythm of breathing with him, and drag her down into sleep?

(She shouldn't be here they don't want her here why isn't she running for the hills why does she want to stay with people who don't want her-)

(But she wants them. Maybe that's all that matters right now.)

~

When she wakes up, she takes a moment to realise where she is. Her head is resting in the crook of his neck, and his arm rests around her shoulders, making it near impossible for her to wriggle away without him noticing. Not that she wants to. He must have moved sometime during the night.

It's warm and comforting in this hold. He starts to stir, and she quickly closes her eyes again, feigning uninterrupted sleep. There's the sound of a soft sigh, then: "I know you’re awake, Strik'ika." She resists the urge to wince.

Reluctantly she opens her eyes and sits up, pulling away from that warm hug she's not likely to get again, and forces her expression to blankness. "Morning."

"Morning." His gaze is level as it meets hers, even as it flicks down to her shoulder where his arm has just been resting. "Sleep well?"

She does her best to shrug noncommittally, but she's never been good at pretending not to care. Not when she always cares too much.

A brittle blanket of silence settles over them like that night on the rooftop, the night when he put a hand on her shoulder and she flinched. At the same time she wants it to shatter into a billion pieces and wants to hold her breath so it will never break.

"Strike?" His voice practically begs her to look at him, hushed and almost hopeful. She can't. Not when her eyes are already brimming with tears, blurring the pattern of the couch into a smudge of colour.

"Ad'ika?"

That is what truly breaks their standoff, in the end.

"Stop calling me that. I'm not a kid anymore," she snarls, and her own heart screams against the acid in her voice, even as she thinks he'll finally, for once in his life, stop and not push. "Why did you stay last night?" he asks instead. "You usually leave." It's all she can do not to look at him and see if his eyes are as pained as she thinks they are. "99 was baking." "No. Why did you stay?" His voice trembles so slightly, no one would catch it but his daughter.

"Because-" Because I want to find excuses to stay with you. Because I miss the family we were and the family we could have been and the family that you are without me. Because I want you to stop wanting me back. Because the kid you loved is dead and there's a weapon in her skin. "Because-"

Because because because. Because everything, because nothing, because of you, because of me.

Because the tears are warm as they spill down her cheeks, and she can't stop them. Can't stop her hands from shaking as she wipes them desperately off. And then his are there, folding her fingers in his own as he wraps her in his arms again and gently dries her face.

"I'm here. I'm here, kid. I've got you." Words she hates, words she needs, words she never thought she'd hear again.

"I'm sorry." I'm sorry imsorryimsorryimsorryimsorry-

"Shhh. I know. Me too."

Her eyes are squeezed shut as he pulls her tightly against his chest, and nothing can hurt her when her buir is there to protect her, when he has her back, when they're Batman and Robin again- no, not Batman and Robin, but something new, something different. But he will always be her father, and she will always be his daughter. This is what she whispers between wracking sobs, clinging to him like she's 12 and waking up from a nightmare again. He presses a kiss to her forehead and holds her tighter.

The nightmare is over. This is what he whispers back, when she's all cried out and the pain on her face finally eases. You are safe here, and you are loved, and you are alive.

And maybe that's all that matters, right now.

[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 4) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @yeea-nah @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @aykxz98 @thepointlessideas @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @a-moment-captured @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main

# wc: long af...

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

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Sunlight flooded the room in bright, unforgiving streams when you finally opened your eyes. You blinked at the bedside clock, the digital numbers momentarily refusing to make sense. 10:47 a.m. Impossible. You never slept past seven, a lifetime of your father's strict schedules and your mother's quiet insistence on proper appearances having trained you out of such indulgence years ago.

The absence beside your bed registered next—no wrinkled bulldog face greeting you with expectant eyes, no impatient snuffling demanding your attention. For seven consecutive mornings, Roscoe had appeared in your room like clockwork, his canine precision more reliable than any alarm. His absence felt strangely significant, another routine disrupted in a house where control and predictability reigned supreme.

Memories from the previous night flooded back as you pushed yourself upright—the shattering glass that had woken you, Lewis's uncharacteristic rage, blood dripping from his split knuckles into ice water turned pink. The kidnapping attempt. Suarez's operative infiltrating the house to reach your suite. The discovery of betrayal from within Lewis's organization, someone trusted enough to provide access codes and patrol schedules.

The Geneva trip, accelerated to tonight rather than next week.

You moved with practiced ease despite the late hour, selecting clothes appropriate for travel yet versatile enough for whatever situations might arise—dark jeans, a cashmere sweater in deep burgundy, boots with hidden compartments where a ceramic blade could be secured if necessary. Practicality disguised as style, preparation masked as fashion choices. In your world, even wardrobe decisions carried strategic implications.

The house felt different as you descended the main staircase—additional security personnel stationed at intervals, faces you didn't recognize mixed with the usual guards. The controlled chaos of crisis response operated beneath a veneer of normalcy, like watching blood spread beneath skin without breaking the surface.

Jensen stood in the entrance hall, directing a team of men unloading equipment from large metal cases—tactical vests, communication devices, and an array of weapons that would have been impressive even by your father's standards. The conversation halted momentarily as you passed, Jensen acknowledging you with a respectful nod before continuing his instructions in lowered tones.

You caught fragments as you moved past—"perimeter reconfigured," "additional scanners," "rotating protocols"—the language of security being reinforced, of vulnerabilities being eliminated. The intrusion had wounded Lewis's pride as much as it had threatened your safety; the response would be proportionate to both concerns.

Lewis's office door stood partially open, light spilling into the hallway. You hesitated briefly before knocking, the events of last night having shifted something fundamental in your relationship that hadn't yet found its proper balance.

"Come in." His voice sounded rougher than usual, fatigue eroding the edges of his usual control.

The sight that greeted you was so unexpected that it momentarily halted your stride. Lewis sat on the edge of his desk—not behind it in his usual position of authority—dressed in gray sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt that revealed the full extent of tattoos normally hidden beneath bespoke tailoring. The casual attire humanized him in ways that were strangely more intimate than if you'd seen him undressed. This was Lewis with his armor removed, the carefully constructed image of power deliberately set aside.

Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his normally immaculate braids slightly mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through them repeatedly. The knuckles you'd bandaged last night were now properly wrapped, though spots of blood had seeped through the white gauze like morse code transmitting messages of violence.

"You didn't sleep," you observed, closing the door behind you.

The ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone so quickly it might have been imagined. "Observant as always."

"Difficult not to be when you look like something Roscoe dragged in from the garden."

The unexpected teasing drew a flicker of genuine surprise across his features, followed by something that almost resembled amusement. "I've had more restful nights," he acknowledged, studying you with that intense focus that somehow felt more penetrating without his usual formal attire creating distance.

"How did you sleep?" he asked, the casual question carrying more weight than it would have in normal circumstances.

"Apparently too well," you replied, gesturing toward the ornate clock on his office wall that confirmed the late hour. "Why didn't anyone wake me? We're leaving tonight, and there must be preparations—"

"I gave explicit instructions not to disturb you," Lewis interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "Someone tried to kidnap you last night. I figured rest might be prudent before we uproot to Geneva."

"Fair point," you conceded, unable to keep a touch of sarcasm from your voice. "Though typically when someone tries to kidnap me, sleeping in feels rather low on the priority list."

"Typically?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "These attempts happen with such regularity that you've established protocols?"

"Figure of speech," you clarified, though the Ricci family did, in fact, have specific procedures for various threat levels and kidnapping attempts. Your father had drilled them into all his children from an early age—the macabre equivalent of other families' fire evacuation plans.

Lewis studied you for a moment longer before beckoning you closer with a subtle gesture. You moved toward him without hesitation, curious about this more casual version of your husband and what had prompted the summons.

He reached out when you drew near, his hands settling lightly on your upper arms in a touch that wasn't quite an embrace but far more intimate than any previous contact between you. The unexpected physical connection sent a current of awareness through your body, goosebumps rising beneath the soft fabric of your sweater. This close, you could detect the subtle notes of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker beneath, expensive but not ostentatious, like everything else about Lewis Hamilton.

"Lorenzo Bianchi is dead," he said without preamble, his eyes fixed on yours to gauge your reaction.

The news wasn't surprising—you'd heard him order the execution yesterday in the car—but the confirmation still carried weight. Another piece removed from the chessboard, the game advancing with Lewis's precise strategy.

"Confirmed?" you asked, practical rather than shocked.

Lewis nodded once, appreciation for your directness evident in his expression. "This morning. Clean execution, no witnesses, no traces back to us. Martinelli has received his warning and appears to be reconsidering his alignment with Suarez."

"How did Martinelli take it?" The question was relevant to your safety as much as to business operations—allies frightened into submission often proved more dangerous than open enemies.

"With appropriate recognition of the consequences," Lewis replied, his thumb moving almost unconsciously against your arm in a small circular motion that was oddly comforting despite the subject matter. "His response suggests that he wants neutrality moving forward rather than continued opposition."

"Smart choice," you noted. "Though Suarez is unlikely to be as easily convinced."

"Suarez is a different problem entirely," Lewis agreed, something cold flickering in his eyes. "One that requires more comprehensive measures."

This reminded you of discussions in your father's study, tactical evaluations of threats and necessary responses, except Lewis approached such matters with calculated precision rather than explosive reaction. Different methods, same lethal results.

Without releasing you, Lewis reached across to open a desk drawer with his free hand, extracting a small matte black Glock. The weapon was compact but deadly, a professional's choice rather than a showpiece.

"You know how to use this." Not a question but a statement of fact, his tone reflecting confidence in your capabilities.

You nodded anyway, familiar with firearms since your early teens when your father had insisted all his daughters learn to protect themselves. "Since I was fourteen."

Lewis extended the gun toward you, handle first. "Keep this on you at all times," he instructed, his voice leaving no room for discussion. "It's registered under a clean identity, untraceable. The safety features are minimal—it will fire if you need it to, without complication."

You took the weapon, its weight familiar in your palm. Your father had given you your first gun on your sixteenth birthday—a delicate silver .22 with pearl inlay that looked more decorative than deadly. This was its opposite—purely functional, designed for one purpose without pretense or embellishment.

"The house has been secured, but until we identify the source of the breach, assume nowhere is completely safe," Lewis continued. "Naomi will remain your primary security detail, but this—" he nodded toward the gun, "—provides insurance no bodyguard can offer."

"Thank you," you said simply, appreciating both the practical protection and the respect implied by the gesture. Lewis wasn't attempting to shield you from danger through ignorance, but empowering you to participate in your own defense—another subtle distinction from your father's more paternalistic approach.

Lewis didn't immediately release the gun, his hand still wrapped around yours, creating a connection both literal and symbolic—shared danger, shared responsibility, shared understanding of the world you both inhabited. Your eyes met over this physical bridge, something unspoken passing between you that transcended the practical aspects of the moment.

For the first time, you noticed flecks of amber in his dark irises, visible only at this closeness. The observation felt strangely intimate, like uncovering another secret carefully hidden beneath Lewis's controlled exterior.

The moment stretched, tension building not from awkwardness but from something more complex—recognition, perhaps, of shifting boundaries, of territory being explored beyond strategic alliance into something neither of you had fully anticipated.

A knock at the door broke the spell, Naomi's voice calling through: "Lewis, you need to see this. The surveillance footage from the east entrance shows something interesting."

Lewis didn't immediately respond, his eyes still holding yours, hand still connected through the weapon between you. "One minute," he finally called, not looking away.

Then he did something so unexpected it momentarily stopped your breath. Leaning forward slightly, he pressed his lips to your forehead—a gesture too deliberate to be casual, too restrained to be passionate, yet somehow more meaningful than either extreme would have been.

The contact lasted only seconds before he withdrew, releasing the gun fully into your possession as he straightened. Without another word, he moved past you toward the door, the familiar mask of controlled power sliding back into place despite the incongruity of his casual attire.

You remained motionless for a moment after he'd gone, the ghost of his lips still warm against your skin, the weight of the gun in your hand a tangible reminder of danger and protection inextricably linked. Like everything in your world, intimacy and violence existed side by side, neither fully separate from the other.

Carefully, you secured the weapon in your waistband, adjusting your sweater to conceal its presence. Another layer of protection, another secret carried beneath the surface. In many ways, it felt more natural than the diamond ring on your finger—deadly practicality over decorative symbolism.

The unexpected kiss lingered in your thoughts, not because it represented romantic development, but because it suggested trust developing in a world where trust was the rarest and most valuable currency of all. You slipped the gun from your waistband briefly to check the magazine and chamber with practiced movements—fully loaded, one in the chamber, ready for immediate use. Just like you. No longer merely a Ricci daughter or Hamilton wife, but something evolving into its own dangerous identity.

You slid the gun back into place and moved toward the door, ready to prepare for Geneva and whatever awaited there. The game continued, the stakes escalating, the players adjusting strategies with each new development.

And you, once merely a piece to be moved across the board, were increasingly becoming a player in your own right.

*****************************************************

Back in your suite, you paced the length of the bedroom, phone pressed to your ear as Sophia's indignant voice filled the space. The conversation with your sisters had started with concern about your safety wrapped in complaints about canceled plans and was rapidly evolving into the particular brand of guilt only younger siblings could perfect.

"This is complete bullshit," Sophia declared, her frustration practically vibrating through the phone. "We've been planning this London trip for a week. Maria already bought new clothes, and Gabriella rescheduled three different appointments."

"I know, and I'm sorry," you replied, keeping your tone measured despite your own frustration. "But circumstances have changed. It's not safe right now."

"Since when has 'not safe' ever stopped a Ricci from doing anything?" Sophia challenged, the eye roll practically audible in her tone. "Papa taught us to move through danger, not hide from it."

You pinched the bridge of your nose, weighing how much to reveal versus how much to conceal. The delicate balance of big sister responsibilities—protect them from unnecessary worry while not treating them like children who couldn't handle truth.

"This isn't standard business danger, Soph. Someone breached Lewis's security last night." The partial truth, enough to convey seriousness without sending your sisters into panic. "We're relocating temporarily while the situation is handled."

"Relocate to where?" Maria's more practical voice cut in, suggesting Sophia had put the call on speaker without warning—typical of your youngest sister's disregard for privacy.

"Can't say over the phone," you replied, caution ingrained by years of your father's paranoia about communications. "But I'll let you know when it's safe to visit. It won't be long."

"So we're just supposed to sit here in New York while you're off playing international crime wife?" Sophia's dramatic flair hadn't diminished with distance. "This wasn't the deal when you got shipped off to London."

"I wasn't 'shipped off,'" you corrected automatically, though the description wasn't entirely inaccurate. "And yes, for now, that's exactly what you're supposed to do. Listen to Papa's security team, stay within protected areas, and wait for my call."

Gabriella's calm voice joined the conversation, the voice of reason among your sisters as always. "She's right, Soph. If Lewis's security was breached, that's serious. Better to delay than walk into a situation."

Sophia made a disgusted sound. "Fine. But you owe me for this disappointment."

You recognized the negotiation opening for what it was—Sophia's transition from outright refusal to bargaining phase. "What exactly do I owe you?"

"That Birkin bag I showed you last week. The green one."

"A thirty thousand dollar bag for postponing a trip?" You couldn't help but laugh. "Your extortion skills need work."

"Twenty thousand with the discount Papa's friend could get," Sophia countered. "And I've been wanting it forever."

"Ten thousand maximum, and you follow all security protocols without complaint until this is resolved," you countered, falling into the familiar rhythm of sisterly negotiation.

"Fifteen, and I want it in the special edition leather."

"Twelve, standard leather, and you stop interrogating Papa's guards about my situation. They have actual work to do besides satisfying your curiosity."

A pause, then a reluctant sigh. "Fine. But I want it by my birthday."

"Done," you agreed, knowing the bag was a small price for your sister's cooperation and safety. "Now put Maria back on."

As you shifted into more practical conversation with your middle sister about security arrangements and family matters, movement caught your peripheral vision. The connecting door between your suite and Lewis's—a door that had remained firmly closed since your arrival in London—stood slightly ajar, a sliver of the adjoining room visible through the gap.

Words died in your throat as Lewis came into view, back turned toward the door, clearly in the process of changing clothes. He pulled his t-shirt over his head in a smooth motion, revealing a canvas of muscle and ink that momentarily short-circuited your thoughts. Unlike the decorative softness of mobsters from your father's generation, with their espresso-paunches and gold chain necklaces, Lewis's body was a functional weapon—all lean sinew and defined strength without unnecessary bulk.

Tattoos covered his torso in strategic patterns—a large compass design centered on his chest, its intricate detail suggesting meaning beyond mere decoration. A rose bloomed along his left side, its thorny stem wrapping around his ribs like a warning. A huge cross cascaded down his spine, religion and art intertwined in permanent ink.

"Hello? Are you still there?" Maria's voice suddenly pierced your focus, jarring you back to the phone conversation you'd completely forgotten.

"Sorry, got distracted," you managed, quickly moving to close the connecting door with as little sound as possible. "What were you saying?"

"I was asking when you think we might actually get to visit," Maria repeated, suspicion coloring her tone. "What was so distracting?"

"Just security staff needing confirmation on something," you lied smoothly, turning your back on the now-closed door. "And I'm not sure about visit timing yet. I'll call you from... where I'm going... once we're settled."

The conversation wrapped up with the usual sisterly threats of bodily harm if you didn't call regularly, promises to keep them updated, and Sophia's final reminder about her bag—"Green, special edition, size 30, and I'll send the exact reference number to make sure there's no 'confusion'."

You set the phone down after hanging up, your mind returning unbidden to the glimpse of Lewis through the door. The sight shouldn't have affected you as it did—you'd seen shirtless men before, had even had a few lovers during college, but something about the unexpected vulnerability of Lewis, seeing the man beneath the tailored suits and controlled exterior, stirred something complicated in your chest.

The connecting door's sudden accessibility raised questions as well. Had it been unlocked all along, or was this a recent development? Another boundary shifting in the wake of last night's events, perhaps—security considerations trumping privacy concerns. The thought of Lewis having access to your bedroom at any time should have been unsettling, yet somehow wasn't, which was potentially more disturbing than the access itself.

You returned to packing methodically, selecting clothes appropriate for Geneva's early autumn climate along with a few pieces elegant enough for whatever business functions Lewis might need you to attend. The Glock he'd given you was carefully wrapped in a silk scarf and tucked into a hidden compartment in your luggage—easily accessible but not immediately visible.

A knock on your door interrupted your thoughts. "Yes?" you called, closing your suitcase with a decisive click.

Lewis pushed the door open slightly, his head appearing in the gap. "May I come in?"

"Of course," you replied, straightening as he entered the room fully.

He'd changed into dark slacks and a charcoal sweater that somehow looked both casual and expensive, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the intricate tattoos covering his forearms. The outfit was a middle ground between the formal suits he typically wore and the unexpectedly revealing sweatpants from earlier—comfortable but still controlled, like Lewis himself.

"Almost ready?" he asked, eyes scanning the packed luggage at the foot of your bed.

"Just about. Waiting for my passport from Naomi—she's adding the Swiss visa."

Lewis nodded, moving further into the room with his characteristic measured grace. "The jet's being prepared. We should be wheels up by seven, arrival in Geneva around eleven local time."

"And your meeting is tomorrow?" you asked, recalling fragments of information gathered over the past week.

"Afternoon, with Augustus Mueller. He heads the digital currency department at Banque Privée Genève." Lewis leaned against the bedpost, his posture more relaxed than usual though still carrying that coiled readiness that never fully left him. "I've been trying to secure accounts there for years. They've finally agreed to a formal meeting."

"They've made you wait that long?" you asked, genuine surprise coloring your tone. Most financial institutions fell over themselves to accommodate clients with Lewis's resources, regardless of how those resources were acquired.

A hint of that rare smile touched his lips. "Swiss bankers are the original assholes of the financial world. They make you prove your worth before deigning to take your money." The light profanity and touch of humor felt unexpectedly intimate—another glimpse behind the carefully constructed facade. "Three years of negotiations to get a meeting that should have happened in three weeks."

You couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped you. "Impressive patience on your part."

"Strategic necessity," he corrected, though amusement lingered in his expression. "Their security protocols are worth the wait. Once established, the accounts will provide protection beyond what any other institution can offer."

You nodded, understanding the value of such banking relationships in your world. The right financial infrastructure could provide protection more effective than armed guards—money properly secured was power properly preserved.

"I've made additional arrangements for Geneva," Lewis continued, something shifting in his tone that caught your attention. "Given the circumstances, I thought it appropriate to adjust our itinerary."

"In what way?" you asked, curiosity piqued by his suddenly careful phrasing.

"We need a legitimate reason to remain in Switzerland while certain situations develop," he explained. "A proper honeymoon provides perfect cover while allowing us to remain close to banking operations."

Honeymoon.

The word hung in the air between you, loaded with implications that had nothing to do with security protocols or business strategy.

Lewis watched your reaction with careful attention, reading the momentary unease that you couldn't quite mask. "Not like that," he clarified quickly, then with unexpected hesitation added, "...unless?"

"Unless?" you echoed, eyebrow rising in genuine surprise at the uncharacteristic ambiguity from someone typically so precise in his communication.

The question drew a genuine chuckle from Lewis—not the controlled almost-smile you'd grown accustomed to, but actual amusement that transformed his severe features. The sound was rich and unexpectedly warm, like discovering a rare instrument could produce music when you'd only ever heard it used for formal announcements.

You found yourself smiling in response, oddly pleased to have elicited such a reaction. It was then you noticed his dimples—those small indentations that appeared only with genuine smiles, a detail you'd intellectually registered when first meeting him but hadn't truly seen in action until this moment. When had that feature become so attractive? The shift in your perception was subtle but undeniable, like suddenly noticing a painting's details after passing it daily.

Lewis scratched his beard thoughtfully, head tilting slightly as he studied you. "Never mind on that," he said, though the amusement hadn't fully left his eyes. "But I thought you might appreciate some time to relax."

"I wouldn't mind that," you admitted, surprised by your own sincerity. The idea of breathing space, even within the constraints of your complicated situation, held unexpected appeal.

He nodded, gaze sweeping around your room as if mentally cataloging its contents. "I'll let you finish packing, then."

"Okay."

Another moment of charged silence stretched between you, neither entirely comfortable nor precisely uncomfortable—a space of possibility neither of you seemed quite ready to define. Then Lewis turned, crossing to the door in a few measured strides and pulling it closed behind him with a soft click.

You released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, the oxygen leaving your lungs in a rush that left you slightly light-headed. The conversation replayed in your mind, focusing on that single word—"unless"—and the implications that hung unspoken behind it.

Had Lewis Hamilton, your strategic husband of calculated precision, just implied interest in consummating your marriage of convenience? Like everything about Lewis, it had been carefully calibrated—an opening created without pressure applied, a possibility presented without expectation attached.

More surprising than his implied interest was your own reaction to it—not revulsion or even reluctance, but a complex mixture of curiosity and something warmer that you weren't entirely prepared to examine. The memory of his shirtless form seen through the doorway resurfaced.

You moved to the window, gazing out at the manicured grounds of the estate while your thoughts reorganized themselves around this new development. Marriage in your world had always been primarily strategic—emotional connection an added bonus. You'd entered this arrangement fully expecting a business partnership, perhaps eventually a friendship of mutual respect.

The possibility of genuine attraction hadn't factored into your calculations, yet here it was, introducing a variable you hadn't prepared for. Not unwelcome, but certainly interesting.

*******************************************************

The private jet hummed around you, its engines a steady drone that matched the circular pattern of your thoughts as you stared out the window at darkness punctuated by occasional city lights below. Across the aisle, Lewis worked steadily on his laptop, the blue glow casting shadows across the angles of his face, emphasizing the controlled focus you'd come to recognize as his default state.

Two hours into the flight to Geneva, and the conversation from your bedroom still circled your mind like a persistent melody—that single word "unless" and all it implied hanging in the air between you even now. Not that Lewis showed any sign of it. Since boarding, he'd been courteous but professional; the momentary crack in his composure sealed as if it had never existed.

You took another sip of the excellent red wine the flight attendant had poured before discreetly retreating to the forward cabin, leaving you and Lewis alone in the main cabin's luxurious privacy. The alcohol warmed your throat but did nothing to quiet your thoughts about what Lewis had been suggesting in your bedroom.

Sex. Fucking. Consummating a marriage that existed on paper but had yet to become physical reality.

It wasn't that the idea itself was disturbing. Lewis was objectively hot—that glimpse of his tattooed torso through the doorway had confirmed what his tailored suits had merely suggested. But the implications of crossing that particular line felt more significant than a simple physical act. Sex changed things, complicated arrangements that functioned perfectly well without such entanglements.

Lewis had been nothing if not respectful of boundaries since your arrival in London. Every interaction had maintained careful distance, every conversation balanced between professional and personal without tipping decisively toward the latter. Even his suggestion had been presented as possibility rather than expectation—a door opened but not insisted upon.

Your mother's words from years ago surfaced in your memory: "Men in our world handle danger in predictable ways—with violence, with alcohol, or with sex. Sometimes all three in sequence." She'd been explaining your father's particularly aggressive bedroom demands after narrowly escaping a federal investigation, her matter-of-fact acceptance of his behavior part of the unspoken contract of their marriage.

Perhaps Lewis was simply experiencing the natural male response to threats and violence—physical desire as a release valve for tension. The kidnapping attempt, the betrayal from within his organization, the complications with Suarez—enough pressure to drive any man toward basic outlets for stress. Sex as a biological need rather than an emotional connection.

You'd been aware of your father's numerous mistresses since adolescence, had seen the knowing glances between your mother and his guards when he'd stay out late on certain nights. Not that he'd been disrespectful enough to bring evidence home, but the pattern had been clear enough to recognize even before you understood its mechanics. Men had urges, had needs—Ricci daughters were taught this reality early, prepared for the inevitability of husbands who would seek physical satisfaction beyond marriage beds while expecting absolute fidelity from their wives.

Maybe Lewis, for all his controlled distinction from men like your father, was ultimately driven by the same basic male programming. The timing certainly aligned with your mother's warnings about danger heightening sexual impulses. The breached security, the blood-spotted bandages on his knuckles—violence already engaged, perhaps sex naturally following in the cycle your mother had described.

You glanced at him across the aisle, studying his profile as he focused on whatever complicated financial maneuvers filled his screen. Nothing in his demeanor suggested a man consumed by sex. If it was indeed on his mind, he concealed it with the same precision he applied to all potentially compromising emotions.

The question that kept circling back wasn't whether Lewis wanted sex—his "unless" had made that possibility clear enough—but whether you did. And if so, what it would mean beyond the obvious physical consequences.

You weren't naive about sex. College had provided opportunities for exploration before your father's reputation inevitably scared away potential partners. You understood the basics, had even enjoyed some wildness on occasion, but you had always maintained emotional distance.

Sex with Lewis would be something else entirely—crossing a threshold that couldn't be uncrossed, creating connection where strategic distance might be safer. Yet the prospect wasn't without appeal. That glimpse of his body, the rare genuine smile with those dimples, the focused intensity that characterized everything he did—

"You're thinking very loudly," Lewis observed without looking up from his screen, his voice startling you from your thoughts.

"Excuse me?" you replied, caught off-guard by the sudden break in silence.

Now he did look up, those dark eyes finding yours with practiced precision. "Your expression. It's quite... concentrated. Like you're solving a complex equation."

You couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at your lips. "Something like that."

"Care to share the problem? I'm reasonably good with difficult calculations." The hint of dry humor was becoming more frequent in his interactions with you.

"Just processing everything," you replied, deliberately vague. "It's been an eventful twenty-four hours."

Lewis closed his laptop, giving you his full attention. "That's an understatement. How are you handling it? The attempt was directed at you specifically."

"I've had kidnapping threats before," you reminded him. "The Ricci name comes with certain occupational hazards."

"There's a difference between abstract threats and someone physically breaching security to reach your bedroom," Lewis pointed out. "Most people would find that deeply disturbing."

"I'm not most people," you echoed his own words from earlier with deliberate parallelism.

That almost-smile appeared briefly. "No, you certainly aren't. But the question still stands."

You considered how to respond honestly without revealing the actual direction of your thoughts. "I'm more concerned about what it represents than the attempt itself. Suarez has connections inside your organization—that's the disturbing part."

Lewis nodded. "We're making progress identifying the source. The operative who died had communications that point toward specific personnel. It's being handled."

The clinical phrasing couldn't quite disguise what "being handled" likely meant—interrogations considerably more thorough than what had left Lewis's knuckles bloody, followed by disposal methods that would leave no evidence for authorities to find.

"How extensive do you think the breach is?" you asked.

"Limited but strategically placed," Lewis replied, his expression hardening slightly. "Someone with access to security protocols but not operational details. Which narrows the field considerably."

"Then there's hope your Geneva banking connections haven't been compromised?"

"The compartmentalization should have protected that information, yes." Lewis leaned back in his seat, an uncharacteristically casual posture that suggested growing comfort in your presence. "Mueller doesn't know about Suarez or Bianchi. To him, we're simply a wealthy couple looking to establish private accounts for legitimate business interests."

"With a honeymoon cover story," you added, deliberately addressing the elephant that had followed you onto the plane.

Something flickered in Lewis's expression—surprise at your directness, perhaps, or appreciation for not dancing around the subject. "Yes. It provides legitimate reason for an extended stay if needed."

"Practical," you acknowledged, holding his gaze. "Though complicated."

"Most effective strategies involve some level of complexity," Lewis replied, his tone carefully neutral despite the weight of unspoken meaning beneath his words. "The question is whether the advantages outweigh potential complications."

"And what's your thoughts on that particular equation?" you asked.

Lewis studied you for a moment, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. "I think it depends entirely on mutual agreement about desired outcomes and acceptable risks."

"Very diplomatic," you observed with a hint of genuine amusement.

Something like self-awareness crossed his features. "Occupational hazard. Precision in communication prevents misunderstandings with potentially significant consequences."

"Then let me be precise," you said, setting your wine glass down decisively. "Earlier, in my bedroom, you had an implied question. I'd like clarity on what exactly you were suggesting."

The directness clearly caught him off-guard, that rare unguarded expression briefly crossing his features before control reasserted itself.

"I was saying that our marriage could potentially incorporate additional aspects if mutually desired," Lewis replied after a moment, his phrasing still careful but considerably more direct than before. "Not as requirement or expectation, simply as... an option available should preferences align."

"Sex," you translated bluntly. "You were asking if I might be interested in having sex with you."

Lewis's eyebrow raised slightly at your candor, but he didn't flinch from it. "Yes. Though with more emphasis on choice and timing being entirely on your terms."

"I appreciate the honesty," you said. "And the emphasis on choice."

"Your father made clear from the beginning that certain traditional expectations wouldn't be part of our initial arrangement," Lewis explained, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "I've respected those parameters and will continue to do so unless you indicate otherwise."

The information was new—your father negotiating sexual boundaries on your behalf without your knowledge, Lewis accepting limitations that men of your father's generation would have considered insulting to their masculinity. Another unexpected dimension to an arrangement that continued revealing new facets with each passing day.

"And yet you made the suggestion," you observed, not accusatory but curious about the shift.

Something almost like vulnerability suddenly crossed Lewis's features. "Circumstances change. Relationships evolve. What begins as purely strategic can develop into something else when people work closely together."

"My mother always said men in our world have predictable responses to danger," you said, deciding honesty deserved equal honesty in return. "Violence, alcohol, or sex—usually in that order."

Understanding registered in Lewis's expression. "You think my suggestion was just a response to a threat."

"The timing fits with her theory," you added. "Less about me specifically and more about male needs after danger triggers certain responses."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful rather than offended. "There's likely some truth to that observation as general pattern. Stress and danger do trigger certain biological responses." He met your eyes directly. "But I'd like to think I'm capable of distinguishing between chemical reactions and genuine interest."

"And which category did your suggestion fall into?" The question was bold, but the conversation had already crossed into territory where traditional caution seemed unnecessarily limiting.

"Both, if I'm being entirely honest," Lewis replied after a moment, the admission clearly costing something in terms of his usual controlled presentation. "The danger certainly heightened awareness of mortality and corresponding impulses. But those impulses were directed specifically toward you for reasons beyond mere proximity or convenience."

It was perhaps the most revealing statement he'd made since your marriage—acknowledgment of genuine attraction rather than strategic consideration alone, of personal desire beyond contractual arrangement.

"I see," you said simply, processing this new information and its implications for your evolving relationship.

"My suggestion wasn't made with an expectation of immediate response," Lewis added, apparently sensing your need for space to consider. "Geneva provides the opportunity, but creates no obligation whatsoever. We have more immediate concerns to address regardless."

The statement offered graceful retreat from territory that had perhaps been explored further than either of you had initially intended.

"Mueller's banking connections being primary among them," you agreed, accepting the shift back to business.

Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop again though not immediately opening it. "Get some rest if you can. We land in just over an hour, and tomorrow will likely be demanding."

You recognized the gentle conclusion to a conversation that had revealed more than perhaps either of you had planned. "Good advice. I think I will."

As you reclined your seat and closed your eyes, not actually expecting sleep but welcoming the opportunity to process without observation, you found your thoughts considerably clearer than before the conversation. Whatever developed between you and Lewis, at least it would be based on direct communication rather than assumption or manipulation.

*******************************************************

Geneva greeted you with crisp autumn air. Lewis's security team had traveled ahead, establishing protocols before your arrival, so when you emerged from customs, the transition was seamless—black Mercedes waiting, driver holding a discreet sign, no names required.

The city gleamed under moonlight as you were driven from the airport—old money and new power coexisting in architectural harmony, the lake reflecting lights like scattered diamonds across its surface. Everything pristine, everything controlled, everything operating according to precise rules that were never overtly stated but universally understood.

Lewis spent the drive exchanging texts with his advance team, the blue glow of his phone illuminating his profile in brief flashes as you gazed out at the passing scenery. Despite the eleven p.m. arrival, he looked unfazed by travel—the same controlled composure he maintained regardless of circumstances. You wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to truly disrupt that legendary control. The bloodied knuckles had been one glimpse. Perhaps there were others to discover.

The hotel—a discreet five-star establishment that catered to wealth that preferred anonymity—welcomed you with the particular deference reserved for guests who paid in cash and required no credit check. The lobby was a study in understated luxury, nothing so gauche as gold fixtures or other displays, just perfect proportions and materials that whispered rather than shouted their quality.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the concierge greeted you, his English impeccable, his eyes professionally warm without being presumptuous. "Welcome to La Réserve. We've been expecting you."

Lewis placed a protective hand at the small of your back as you were escorted to a private elevator—a gesture that could have been performative for watching eyes but felt oddly genuine in its subtle pressure. The flight had shifted something between you, the direct conversation about potential consummation of your arrangement clearing air that had grown increasingly charged with unspoken possibilities.

The penthouse suite occupied the building's entire top floor, its windows offering panoramic views of the lake and mountains beyond. A security sweep had already been completed, Jensen nodding confirmation to Lewis as you entered, before discreetly retreating with the remaining hotel staff. Within moments, you were alone in the expansive space, the door closing with a soft click that emphasized the sudden privacy.

You moved further into the suite, noting the elegant furnishings, the fresh flowers arranged with Swiss precision, the bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in a silver bucket—all the expected luxuries for guests of your presumed status. What caught your attention, however, was the bedroom visible through open double doors—specifically, the single king-sized bed that dominated the space.

One bed. Not the two you'd anticipated based on your careful maintenance of separate sleeping arrangements in London.

Lewis followed your gaze, a momentary frown crossing his features as he registered the same detail. Without comment, he moved to the house phone, dialing with controlled precision.

"This is Hamilton in the penthouse," he said when someone answered, his tone polite but carrying that edge of authority that expected immediate resolution. "There seems to be a misunderstanding regarding our accommodation requirements."

You couldn't hear the response, but Lewis's expression tightened incrementally as he listened.

"I specifically requested a two-bedroom suite or connecting rooms," he continued. "This arrangement wasn't part of our agreement."

Another pause, longer this time, his fingers tapping a controlled rhythm against the polished desk surface—the only visible indication of his displeasure.

"Until Monday?" he repeated, glancing in your direction with a question in his eyes. "That's four nights."

You moved closer, the telephone exchange now audible as you approached—a professionally apologetic voice explaining that the hotel was fully booked due to an international banking conference, that no other suites were available until early next week, that they deeply regretted the inconvenience but could offer no immediate solution beyond a substantial rate reduction for the trouble.

"It's fine," you said, the decision made with practical ease. After all, it was hardly the most complicated situation you'd navigated in recent weeks. "We can manage."

Lewis studied you for a moment, clearly gauging the sincerity of your acceptance before returning to the call. "Thank you for checking. We'll make the current arrangement work." He paused, listening to further apologies. "Yes, that rate adjustment would be appropriate. Thank you."

He replaced the receiver with the same careful control he applied to all movements, turning to face you fully. "I apologize for the mixup. I was very specific about our requirements when making the arrangements."

"It's not a problem," you assured him, moving toward your luggage to unpack essentials. "We're adults, not teenagers at prom. I think we can handle sharing a bed for a few nights."

"I'll take the couch," Lewis said immediately, nodding toward the living area with its admittedly luxurious sofa. "You take the bedroom."

The offer was entirely expected—the gentlemanly solution to an awkward situation, precisely what etiquette demanded from a man of his position. But something about the automatic distancing struck you as unnecessary after the directness you'd established on the plane. If anything, the separate spaces in London now seemed like artifice maintained out of habit rather than necessity.

"Don't be ridiculous," you replied, moving to the bed and grabbing one of the many pillows from its elaborate arrangement. You placed it lengthwise down the center of the mattress, creating an improvised boundary. "There. Now we have space."

Lewis stared at your solution for several beats, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. "Interesting," he finally said, the single word carrying layers of potential meaning.

"Practical," you corrected, though you couldn't quite suppress the small smile that tugged at your lips. "And considerably more comfortable than that couch."

Something that might have been amusement flickered across his features—there, then gone, controlled as always but not completely extinguished. "Practicality does appear to be a shared value."

You grabbed necessities from your suitcase—silk pajamas, toiletries, the small handgun Lewis had given you earlier that day—and moved toward the bathroom. "I'm going to shower and change. It's been a long day."

Lewis nodded, already turning his attention to his own luggage. "Take your time. I have calls to make regarding tomorrow's meeting anyway."

The bathroom was a marble-clad sanctuary larger than some New York apartments, with a rainfall shower and a soaking tub positioned to capture views of the mountains through privacy glass. You turned the water as hot as you could stand it, letting steam fill the space as you stripped away clothes that carried the staleness of travel and the weight of the day's tensions.

As water sluiced over your skin, you found your thoughts drifting to the man in the next room and the strangeness of your evolving situation. Not just the marriage itself—though that remained surreal enough, but the unexpected developments within it. From strategic arrangement to potential partnership to whatever liminal state you now occupied, with shared beds and direct acknowledgment of possibilities.

The pillow barrier was childish, perhaps, a symbolic division that would do nothing to address the actual complexities between you. But symbols mattered in your world. They established boundaries and expectations, created frameworks within which negotiations could occur. The barrier wasn't about physical separation so much as psychological space—acknowledgment that whatever might eventually develop between you would happen by choice rather than circumstance.

You emerged from the bathroom wrapped in one of the hotel's robes, hair damp and curling around your shoulders, to find Lewis speaking quietly into his phone near the windows.

He ended the call as you approached, tucking the phone away with practiced ease. "Everything alright?" he asked, his eyes making a quick assessment that felt professional rather than invasive.

"Fine," you assured him, gesturing toward the bathroom. "All yours. There's enough hot water for a small army."

Lewis nodded, gathering his own necessities before disappearing into the steamy bathroom. The door closed with a decisive click, leaving you alone in the suite with thoughts that refused to settle into orderly patterns.

You changed quickly into silk pajamas after blow drying and wrapping your hair. The gun went under your pillow, old habits from the Ricci household transferring seamlessly to this new context. In your world, weapons during sleep were as essential as teeth brushing before bed—just another routine of self-preservation.

You'd just settled on your side of the pillowed barrier, checking emails on your phone, when Lewis emerged from the bathroom. Unlike your robe-wrapped transition, he was already dressed for sleep—dark pants that might have been either expensive loungewear or athletic gear, and a simple white t-shirt that did nothing to disguise the muscular definition beneath. More tattoos were visible now—the intricate linework extending down both arms in patterns too complex to decipher from a distance.

He paused briefly, taking in your position on the bed, before moving to his own suitcase to secure something inside, likely a weapon similar to the one beneath your pillow.

"Jensen reports no unusual activity around the hotel," he said, the security update offered as neutral conversational territory. "Additional personnel are stationed on the floor below and in the lobby. Naomi will join us for breakfast to review tomorrow's schedule."

Lewis settled on his side of the barrier, his movements economical as he arranged himself against the headboard, close enough for conversation but carefully observing the boundary you'd established. The king-sized bed was large enough that you weren't truly crowded, yet the awareness of his presence carried a charge that made the space feel more intimate.

"May I ask you something?" you said, curiosity overriding caution.

"Of course." His tone suggested openness, though his posture remained carefully controlled.

"The tattoos," you gestured toward his arms and what was visible of his chest beneath the white shirt. "They're more extensive than I realized. Do they have significance?"

Lewis glanced down at his forearms, as if briefly seeing them through your eyes rather than his own accustomed perspective. "Most have specific meaning, yes. Milestones, reminders, certain principles I choose to keep literally close."

"The compass?" you asked, recalling the design you'd glimpsed through the connecting door.

"Direction," he replied after a brief hesitation, one hand unconsciously moving to his chest where the tattoo lay beneath fabric. "A reminder to maintain course regardless of external pressures or distractions."

"And the rose?" The question pushed further into personal territory, acknowledgment that you'd seen more of him than perhaps he'd intended through that partially open door.

Something shifted in his expression—surprise giving way to understanding. "The connecting door," he said, neither accusatory nor embarrassed. "I didn't realize it had opened."

"Just a glimpse," you clarified, not wanting him to think you'd been deliberately watching. "While talking to my sisters."

Lewis nodded, accepting this without apparent concern. "The rose represents beauty with defense—thorns necessary for survival in hostile environments." His hand moved to his side where you'd seen the flower design wrapping around his ribs. "Beauty alone is vulnerability; defense alone is isolation. The combination creates sustainable strength."

The philosophy revealed more about Lewis Hamilton than perhaps he intended, values encoded permanently in skin, carrying meaning beyond mere decoration. Not the crude symbology of traditional mobsters with their misspelled Latin phrases and religious iconography.

"Do you have any?" he asked, turning the question back to you with genuine curiosity. "Tattoos?"

You shook your head. "My father considers them common—beneath a Ricci's dignity. My sisters and I were forbidden from getting any."

"And now?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "Your father's prohibitions no longer apply to your choices."

The simple observation carried more weight than its surface suggestion about body art—acknowledgment of your shifting status from daughter under paternal authority to wife with autonomy within new parameters. The transition was still ongoing, boundaries still being established between old identity and new reality.

"I haven't given it much thought," you admitted. "There's been rather a lot happening lately."

That almost-smile appeared briefly. "Fair point."

Silence settled between you—not uncomfortable but charged with awareness of the unusual intimacy of your position. Two people legally married yet practically strangers, sharing a bed divided by pillows rather than walls, navigating territory neither had fully anticipated when signatures formalized your union.

"We should get some rest," Lewis said finally, reaching for the lamp on his bedside table. "Tomorrow's meeting with Mueller will require focus."

"Of course," you agreed, settling further beneath the covers on your side of the barrier.

Lewis turned off his light, the room plunging into near-darkness broken only by city glow through partially drawn curtains. You followed suit, switching off your own lamp and adjusting to new shadows in unfamiliar space.

For several minutes, silence reigned, broken only by the distant sounds of occasional traffic below and the subtle rhythm of two people breathing in careful awareness of each other's presence. Despite exhaustion from travel and the day's tensions, sleep remained elusive—too many unprocessed thoughts circling your mind.

"Lewis?" you said quietly, uncertain if he was still awake.

"Yes?" His response came immediately, suggesting he'd been equally unable to find sleep.

"Thank you for being direct on the plane. About everything."

The darkness concealed his expression, but his voice carried a warmth rarely present in daylight conversations. "Directness seems to work well between us. Better than alternatives."

"It does," you agreed, finding unexpected comfort in this simple shared understanding.

Another silence, this one softer somehow, settled between you. Just as sleep began to pull at the edges of your consciousness, Lewis spoke again, his voice low in the darkness.

"For what it's worth, I respect the barrier. Both what it represents and what it potentially allows."

The statement carried layers of meaning—acknowledgment of boundaries established and possibilities left open, respect for choice without presumption of outcome. It was perhaps the most perfectly calibrated communication yet from a man who specialized in precise calculation.

"I know," you replied simply, the words carrying more certainty than you'd anticipated. Whatever else remained uncertain between you, Lewis's respect for your autonomy had been consistently demonstrated through actions rather than merely words.

Sleep claimed you shortly after, the strange intimacy of shared space somehow less disruptive than expected. Your last conscious thought was recognition that danger and desire continued their parallel trajectories in your new life—both requiring careful navigation, both carrying potential for either destruction or something unexpectedly valuable.

Tomorrow would bring Mueller and banking arrangements and the continued strategic dance of your unconventional marriage. But tonight, for the first time since arriving in London as Lewis's wife, you slept without Roscoe's watchful presence or security personnel patrolling outside your door—just the measured breathing of the dangerous, controlled man beside you, separated by pillows but increasingly connected by something neither of you had fully anticipated when signatures sealed your arrangement.

*************************************************

Consciousness returned in layers, warm and hazy around the edges as morning light pressed against your closed eyelids. Something felt different—the weight of covers, the texture beneath your cheek, the subtle rhythm against your ear that wasn't quite the sound of your own heartbeat.

You opened your eyes to find yourself not on your designated side of the bed, the carefully arranged pillow barrier long abandoned during the night. Instead, you were curled against Lewis's side, head resting on his chest, one arm draped across his torso in unconscious intimacy that sent a jolt of surprise through you.

You jerked upright, disoriented by the unexpected closeness, only to hear Lewis's voice—deeper, slightly rough with sleep, yet still carrying that fundamental control that never quite left him.

"Don't worry about it," he murmured, making no move to shift away despite your sudden movement.

Your eyes found his, one arm casually positioned behind his head as he regarded you with surprising nonchalance given the circumstances. No sign of discomfort or awkwardness, just calm acceptance of waking to find his strategic wife cuddled against him like a lover.

"I'm sorry—" you began, embarrassment heating your cheeks.

"Don't," he interrupted gently. "It's fine. You talk in your sleep sometimes... did you know that?"

Embarrassment deepened, your mind racing through potential revelations you might have unknowingly shared while unconscious. Growing up in a household where information was currency and vulnerability was weakness had made you pathologically private, even in sleep.

Lewis's expression softened, a hint of amusement warming his usually reserved features. "It wasn't anything serious. You didn't reveal anything vital to destroy an empire, if you're worried about that."

You couldn't help but return his half-smile, surprised by the light-hearted reference to your shared world of secrets and power. "Good to know my subconscious isn't committing treason."

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, the sound still touched with sleep. "Sounded like you had a nightmare... so I pulled you closer to me."

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, the statement so at odds with the controlled, calculated man you'd come to know. Lewis, deliberately drawing someone closer during vulnerability rather than maintaining careful distance? The revelation felt more intimate than the physical closeness itself—a glimpse behind carefully constructed walls that few were likely permitted.

"Come 'ere," he said, the words carrying the unmistakable weight of command despite their quiet delivery, brooking no argument or hesitation.

You found yourself complying without conscious decision, moving closer until you were near but not quite touching as you had been moments before.

"More," Lewis prompted, a teasing lilt warming his voice that you'd never heard before—playfulness from the man who approached even casual conversation with strategic precision.

Drawn by something that felt like gravity, you shifted until your head rested in the crook of his arm, the position deliberate rather than accidental this time. His arm wrapped around you with surprising naturalness, hand settling against your upper arm with gentle pressure as his other arm completed the embrace.

You inhaled deeply, his scent filling your senses—that expensive cologne now mingled with the warmth of sleep, creating something more intimate than the carefully curated presentation he maintained in public. The combination was unexpectedly appealing, triggering responses you hadn't anticipated when placing that now-forgotten pillow barrier between you.

Lewis sighed, the sound carrying contentment rather than resignation. "I enjoy cuddling," he revealed, the simple admission somehow more surprising than if he'd confessed to complex criminal operations.

The idea of Lewis Hamilton—the dangerous, controlled crime lord who ordered executions between wine selections—being someone who "enjoyed cuddling" created cognitive dissonance so profound it almost made you laugh. Yet here was evidence in the form of strong arms holding you with gentle but definite intention, his body relaxed against yours in a way that suggested genuine comfort rather than strategic performance.

"Your skin is so soft," he murmured, his voice dropping to a lower timbre that sent an involuntary shiver through you. His hands skimmed delicately over your arms, the touch light but deliberate, somewhere between affection and assessment.

The observation immediately transported you back to your conversation on the plane. His tone carried the same quality now, appreciative without demanding, noting without claiming.

"Thank you," you replied, the response automatic though hardly adequate for the complex moment unfolding between you.

"You're welcome," Lewis said simply, seemingly content with both your response and the continued physical contact that neither of you appeared inclined to end.

Silence settled comfortably around you, allowing space to absorb the strangeness of this new intimacy—strategic partners becoming something less defined yet more connected, the carefully maintained distance of previous days giving way to whatever this tentative embrace represented.

You listened to birds calling outside the windows, watched as early sunlight strengthened across the room. Lewis's heartbeat maintained its steady rhythm beneath your ear, his breathing even and calm as if this level of physical closeness were commonplace between you rather than unprecedented.

"I've been attracted to you since our first meeting," Lewis said finally, his voice quiet but clear in the morning stillness. "Not just for strategic advantage or family connection, though those factors were certainly relevant to the arrangement."

The revelation caught you by surprise, though in retrospect, it shouldn't have. Lewis approached most matters with calculated precision—once a decision was made to address a topic, he did so without unnecessary pretense.

"Your father showed me the notes," he continued, his hand still moving in gentle patterns against your arm. "The ones Suarez sent with his flowers. The presumption, the crude possessiveness disguised as courtship. It was... illuminating."

You stiffened slightly at the mention, unaware that Lewis had seen the messages the Cuban had sent—increasingly threatening "romantic" overtures your father had apparently shared during negotiations without your knowledge.

"I didn't realize," you said, uncertain how to feel about this exchange of information about you without your participation.

"Your father wanted me to understand what I was potentially standing against," Lewis explained, sensing your discomfort. "Though I suspect his intent was more to gauge my reaction than out of concern for your feelings about Suarez's attention."

The assessment aligned with your understanding of your father's methods—using information as both test and manipulation, revealing vulnerabilities to assess responses rather than from genuine concern.

"What was your reaction?" you asked, curious despite yourself about how Lewis had responded to seeing another man's presumptuous advances.

His arms tightened fractionally around you, the only indication that the memory triggered something less controlled than his usual presentation. "Professional outwardly. Your father needed to see reasoned strategic assessment, not emotional response."

"And inwardly?" you pressed, somehow knowing there had been more beneath the surface.

Lewis was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing small circles against your shoulder as he considered his answer. "Inwardly, I found myself... unexpectedly territorial about someone I hadn't yet met. It wasn't strategic. It was visceral."

The admission carried weight beyond its simple words—Lewis acknowledging emotional response that transcended calculated advantage, revealing layers beneath controlled exterior that few likely witnessed.

"Seeing you bandage my hand that night after the intruder," he continued, his voice taking on a quality you hadn't heard before, "watching you think through strategic countermeasures when most would have been focused solely on the danger... it did something to me."

His hand moved from your arm to your shoulder, then traced a path down your back with deliberate slowness, the touch firm enough to be intentional but gentle enough to allow withdrawal if unwanted. "Your intelligence, your composure under pressure, the way you see through performances to underlying motivations—those qualities are intriguing beyond any physical attraction, though that certainly exists as well."

His hand continued its careful exploration of your back, not straying beyond appropriate boundaries but making its awareness of your body unmistakably clear.

"I'm not going to push," Lewis said, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "That isn't how this works between us. But I find myself... anticipating possibilities. Savoring moments like this in the interim."

His hand stilled against your lower back, pressure firm but not restrictive. "Imagining what it might be like to hear you, to feel you... to watch you come apart before pulling you back together." The statement was delivered with the same measured control as business assessments, yet carried heat beneath its precision. "But patience has always been among my stronger qualities."

As if to emphasize this point, his hand lifted from where it had been creating distracting patterns against your body, the withdrawal of contact almost as potent as its application had been.

You glanced up, needing to see his expression, to read whatever might be visible in features that typically revealed only what he deliberately allowed. You found his eyes already watching you, intense focus softened by something that might have been genuine affection. His lower lip was caught briefly between his teeth—a rare display of even minor loss of control that drew your attention with unexpected force.

"Yes, babygirl?" he asked, the unexpected nickname sending a jolt of something electric through your nervous system.

The term of endearment—possessive yet affectionate, dominant yet caring—highlighted how rapidly territory was shifting between you. From Mrs. Hamilton to given name to this new designation in the span of weeks, each step changing the landscape of your arrangement in ways neither of you had fully anticipated.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his lip, still caught between teeth in uncharacteristic display of actual human impulse, before returning to meet his gaze directly. "You said you liked control," you reminded him, referencing the conversation in your father's garden where he'd first alluded to preferences that transcended business interactions.

"I do," Lewis confirmed, something darkening in his expression that wasn't quite dangerousness but carried similar intensity. "In certain contexts, control is... essential to my satisfaction."

The deliberate phrasing didn't disguise the fundamental meaning—Lewis preferred dominance in sexual encounters, requiring surrender from partners in ways that aligned with his carefully controlled approach to all other aspects of his existence.

"It's not about degradation or inequality," he clarified, reading potential concern in your expression. "It's about trust. About someone choosing to surrender control rather than having it taken. About creating space where submission becomes strength rather than weakness."

The philosophy revealed more than perhaps he intended—values that extended beyond bedroom preferences into fundamental worldview, approach to power that differed from men like your father who equated dominance with negation of others' agency.

"I would never do anything you wouldn't like," Lewis continued, his tone carrying absolute certainty. "That's not the point of control. It's about maximizing pleasure through structure and boundaries, not imposing unwanted experience."

The detailed explanation was both reassuring and intriguing, the implications of what such dynamic might entail in practice rather than theory.

"How would I know if I like it?" you asked, the question emerging from genuine curiosity rather than challenge or evasion.

Instead of answering directly, Lewis's expression shifted into something that could only be described as smugly confident—a smile that contained certainty born of experience rather than mere theory. The expression was so unlike his usual controlled presentation that it caught you off-guard, revealing yet another facet of the increasingly complex man whose ring you wore.

Before he could respond verbally, a sharp electronic tone cut through the moment—his phone signaling priority communication that couldn't be ignored regardless of personal preference. The sound broke the intimate bubble that had formed around you, reality reasserting itself with typical inconvenient timing.

Lewis sighed—a rare display of actual frustration—before reaching for the device on his nightstand. "Hamilton," he answered, professional mask sliding seamlessly back into place despite the lingering effects of your conversation.

You shifted away, using the interruption as opportunity to collect thoughts scattered by the unexpected intimacy. Whatever had been developing between you would need to wait—business calling as it always did in your world, possibilities deferred but not forgotten as you both returned to the roles that had brought you together initially.

Strategic partners first and foremost, regardless of what else might be evolving beneath that fundamental arrangement.

Lewis's expression hardened as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the call, the intimate warmth from moments ago replaced by the calculated focus of a man handling business complications. "Send me the details. I want the complete file before the meeting," he instructed, rising from the bed in a single fluid movement. "And double the surveillance on Mueller's associates. If he's meeting with Castellano's people, I want to know why."

You slipped from the bed as well, giving him privacy for the call while gathering clothes for the day. The transition felt abrupt but familiar—moments of personal connection inevitably interrupted by business demands, the constant rhythm of life in your world. That fundamental reality hadn't changed with marriage, just the specific players and territories involved.

"Bloody hell." Lewis ended the call with terse efficiency, setting the phone down with controlled precision that didn't quite mask the tension radiating from him. He turned to find you watching him, his expression softening fractionally when your eyes met.

"Problem?" you asked, practical rather than disappointed about the interrupted moment.

"Potential complication," he clarified. "Mueller's been meeting with representatives from a rival banking group with connections to certain Italian interests in Milan."

The careful phrasing didn't disguise the actual concern—potential compromise of your banking arrangements through competing criminal organizations. The Swiss financial world operated within careful parameters, maintaining neutrality while still facilitating transactions other institutions wouldn't touch. Loyalty wasn't guaranteed to the highest bidder, but alliances shifted based on calculated advantage.

"Castellano?" you asked, the name triggering recognition. "As in Giovanni Castellano?"

Lewis raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by your familiarity with what should have been an obscure connection. "You know the family?"

"My father considered an alliance with them three years ago," you explained, memories surfacing of overheard conversations and files you weren't supposed to access. "The negotiation broke down over territorial disputes in Newark."

Lewis's expression shifted from surprise to something closer to genuine appreciation. "That information wasn't in your father's briefing materials about your family connections."

"It wouldn't be," you acknowledged. "The discussion never reached formal negotiation stage. But I remember my father mentioning their Swiss banking arrangements were particularly sophisticated, especially regarding digital assets."

Lewis studied you with renewed intensity, that focused assessment that made you feel simultaneously examined and valued. "The Castellanos have been strengthening their European operations, particularly in fintech. If they're meeting with Mueller before our appointment—"

"They could be positioning to block our access," you finished, mind already analyzing potential countermeasures. "Or at minimum, raising Mueller's expectations regarding compensation for his services."

Lewis nodded, something like genuine partnership passing between you—shared understanding of the complex chess game your world operated within, mutual recognition of threats and opportunities without need for simplified explanation.

"I need to make some calls," he said, reaching for his phone again. "The meeting's been moved up to eleven rather than afternoon—Mueller's office 'apologizes for any inconvenience' but claims scheduling conflicts."

"Convenient timing," you observed dryly. "Almost as if someone wanted to limit our preparation."

"Exactly." Lewis was already scrolling through contacts. "This changes our approach. Instead of separate meetings, I want you with me for the Mueller discussion."

The statement caught you by surprise—not because of inclusion itself, which aligned with your emerging role in his operations, but because of its implications for strategy. "You want to present unified front rather than using me as unexpected asset later?"

Lewis paused, giving you his full attention despite pressing concerns. "I want Mueller to understand exactly what he's dealing with—not just another criminal with money to hide, but a partnership with complementary capabilities. Your understanding of the Castellano connections creates leverage we didn't know we had."

The assessment was both practical and oddly gratifying—recognition of value beyond decorative accessory or symbolic alliance. "What's our angle, then? Good cop, bad cop? Sophisticated couple? Business partners?"

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful despite the time pressure. "Executive team, I think. Professional, knowledgeable, with clear division of expertise but unified direction." His eyes held yours with unwavering focus. "No pretense of traditional marriage roles—Mueller needs to see you as equal strategic partner, not wife along for decorative purposes."

The approach differed markedly from how your father would have positioned you in similar circumstances—as silent ornament whose occasional intelligent comment would surprise by contrast with assumed decorative function. Lewis was suggesting something fundamentally different.

"I'll need information on what we know about Mueller's digital banking operations," you said, mind already shifting to practical preparation. "And the specific services we're seeking from his institution."

Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop. "I'll have Claire send the complete file immediately. We have just over two hours before we need to leave for the meeting."

The next ninety minutes passed in focused preparation—files reviewed, strategies discussed, contingency plans established for various potential complications. The intimate moment from earlier remained unacknowledged but not forgotten, its implications temporarily set aside rather than dismissed as you both channeled energy into the immediate challenge.

You emerged from the bathroom dressed for battle in your own way—charcoal pencil skirt and burgundy silk blouse that managed to be simultaneously professional and striking, heels adding height without sacrificing mobility should circumstances require quick exit. Not dramatically different from your usual business attire, but selected with particular attention to the impression it would create on Swiss bankers with traditional expectations constantly at war with reality of their clientele.

Lewis looked up from his laptop as you entered, his eyes making a quick but thorough assessment. "Perfect," he said simply, the single word carrying more weight than elaborate compliment.

He had transformed as well—the relaxed, cuddling man from earlier morning completely replaced by the dangerous, controlled crime lord his reputation described. His suit was flawlessly tailored black with subtle gray pinstripe, white shirt providing stark contrast to the deep blue tie secured with mathematical precision. The tattoos were once again hidden beneath formal armor, the only hint of their existence the edges visible at his wrists when his cuffs shifted and the markings on his hands.

"Mueller has particular views about appropriate business attire," Lewis explained, making a final adjustment to his tie. "Traditional to the point of anachronism. It's one battle not worth fighting if we want his cooperation."

You nodded, understanding the strategic concession. In your world, adapting to certain expectations created space to challenge others more central to your objectives. Conformity in surface matters often facilitated deviation in more substantial ones.

"The car will be ready in twenty minutes," Lewis continued, closing his laptop with decisive click. "Naomi and Jensen are already downstairs coordinating security for the route."

"What about the gun?" you asked, pointing to the Glock still sitting on the nightstand. "I'm guessing Swiss bankers aren't big fans of armed clients, no matter how nicely we dress."

Lewis's mouth quirked up slightly. "Jensen took care of it. Apparently 'clients of Mueller's particular specialization' get diplomatic courtesy for their security measures."

You couldn't help but smile at the delicate phrasing—"clients of particular specialization" instead of just saying "criminals with enough money." The Swiss had turned discretion into an art form long before modern organized crime even existed.

Lewis moved closer, near enough that you caught his cologne but not so close it felt like he was crowding you. "There's something else you should know before we meet Mueller," he said, his tone more serious now.

"What is it?" you asked, immediately on alert.

"Mueller's got this thing about marriages in our world," Lewis explained. "He sees them as proof of stability and succession planning. His best deals go to clients whose family setup looks like it'll last."

That made immediate sense. "So our honeymoon cover actually serves a real business purpose."

Lewis nodded. "Exactly. Mueller likes dynasty-building—banking relationships that'll continue through generations instead of ending when one person dies or goes to prison."

"So he'll be sizing up our marriage as much as our business," you translated. "Looking for signs we're actually partners and not just a convenient alliance."

"Yes," Lewis confirmed. "Which means we need to... perform a bit differently than your standard business meeting."

The meaning was clear—to convince Mueller, we'd need to show a connection beyond just strategic arrangement, suggesting something with a future. Not fake romance exactly, but definitely showing a united front beyond just business.

"So we need to act like a real couple, not just business partners," you clarified. "What, should I call you 'darling' while we talk about blockchain?"

That drew another brief smile from him. "Nothing that over-the-top. Just... being comfortable around each other. Familiar with each other's movements. The little tells of people who actually share a life, not just a business card."

The irony wasn't lost on you, given how this morning you'd woken up cuddled against him after crossing the pillow barrier in your sleep.

"I think we can handle that," you said, feeling oddly confident about this particular act. The pillow barrier had been abandoned in more ways than one, making space for whatever was developing between you.

Lewis studied you a moment longer, as if checking that you were really okay with this. "Good. But if anything crosses a line you're not comfortable with, just say 'Geneva protocol' and I'll back off immediately."

That consideration—setting up a safety word for something as simple as physical closeness—told you volumes about Lewis's approach to your partnership. Consent mattered to him in ways that stood out among powerful men, creating a foundation of respect regardless of strategic needs.

"I appreciate that," you said sincerely. "But I don't think it'll be necessary."

Lewis nodded, accepting your word without pushing. "We should head downstairs. Naomi will want to brief us on security before we leave."

As you gathered your things, you caught Lewis watching you with an expression that wasn't entirely professional. The look disappeared quickly as his usual control took over, but that brief glimpse confirmed what your morning conversation had established—Lewis was interested in you beyond just strategic advantage, creating possibilities neither of you had expected when you signed those marriage papers.

Those possibilities would have to wait, though. Mueller and his banking empire came first—another move in the complex game that defined your shared existence, another piece on the international chessboard of power and influence.

You followed Lewis toward the door, mentally reviewing key points from the files while thinking about how to show the right level of marital connection that Mueller would expect. The double performance felt strangely fitting—operating on multiple levels at once had always been a survival skill in your world.

At least with Lewis, you weren't carrying the strategic burden alone. For the first time in your experience with powerful men, you had a partner who saw your mind as an asset rather than an inconvenience, who treated you as an equal player instead of just decoration.

Whatever else might develop between you—whatever that heated look and your morning conversation might lead to—that fundamental respect created a foundation unlike anything you'd experienced in your father's world of traditional power structures.

The thought brought an unexpected warmth as you stepped into the elevator beside Lewis, his hand resting briefly at the small of your back in a gesture that could have been just for show but somehow felt more genuine than calculation alone would explain.

****************************************************

Banque Privée Genève occupied a discreet limestone building that managed to project both historical gravitas and understated wealth without resorting to the ostentatious displays that characterized newer financial institutions. No gleaming steel and glass here, no modern architectural statements—just three centuries of accumulated power disguised as conservative respectability.

The car dropped you at a side entrance where private clients could avoid the public lobby, a concierge in impeccable formal attire greeting you by name without consulting any visible record. Such flawless execution spoke to thorough preparation—Mueller's operation had been studying you both well before your arrival.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the man said with perfect Swiss precision—not too warm, not too distant. "Herr Mueller is expecting you. If you would follow me, please."

The corridors you traversed could have belonged to an exclusive museum rather than financial institution—antique furnishings that were clearly original rather than reproduction, oil paintings by masters whose works rarely appeared at public auction, display cases housing historical documents that traced the bank's lineage through European wars and financial crises it had weathered with characteristic neutrality.

Lewis walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brushed—establishing the comfortable physical proximity your strategy required without overplaying the connection. His hand rested briefly at the small of your back as you entered an elevator requiring key card access, the touch feeling less calculated than previous similar gestures. Whatever was developing between you had begun bleeding through the performance, creating something that felt increasingly genuine despite its strategic foundations.

Mueller's office occupied the building's top floor, a space that managed to be both grand and understated—old money that had no need to announce its presence with flashy displays. The man himself embodied similar contradiction—mid-sixties with silver hair and patrician features, his suit so perfectly tailored it appeared molded to his frame.

"Mr. Hamilton," Mueller greeted, extending his hand with precisely calibrated pressure in the handshake. "A pleasure to finally meet in person after our extensive correspondence."

"The pleasure's mine," Lewis replied smoothly. "Thanks for accommodating our schedule change."

Mueller turned his attention to you, his assessment quick but comprehensive—taking in every detail from your carefully selected attire to the wedding band on your finger. "And Mrs. Hamilton. A delightful addition to our meeting. I was unaware you would be joining us today."

"My wife has a unique perspective on digital currency integration that's particularly relevant," Lewis explained, the word 'wife' somehow sounding natural in his British accent. "Her financial tech background has given our operations an edge I've come to rely on."

Mueller's eyebrows rose slightly, clearly reassessing initial assumptions about your presence. "How fascinating. The younger generation's embrace of technology provides critical advantage in evolving markets. Please, both of you, be seated."

The chairs positioned before Mueller's massive oak desk were deliberately placed, close enough to suggest unity between occupants while maintaining clear sightlines for all participants. You took your seat with practiced grace, crossing your legs at the ankle in the conservative posture your mother had drilled into you for such situations.

"I understand congratulations are in order," Mueller continued, gesturing toward your wedding rings. "A recent union, yes? You're in Geneva for your honeymoon, I'm told."

"Thank you," Lewis replied, his tone warming slightly. "Yes, we're combining business with pleasure while in Switzerland. Geneva has special significance for both our families."

The careful phrasing established both personal connection to the location and hint of generational ties, exactly the type of dynastic implication Mueller reportedly valued in clients. Your briefing materials had emphasized the banker's preference for family operations over individual entrepreneurs, his belief in bloodlines and succession as indicators of reliable long-term partnerships.

"The most successful unions in our world balance both practical alliance and personal compatibility," Mueller observed, his gaze moving between you with evaluative precision. "Particularly across traditional territorial boundaries. Quite progressive, bringing American and British operations together through marriage."

"The old geographical divisions don't really matter in digital markets anymore," you replied, joining the conversation naturally. "Strategic positioning across financial systems matters more than physical location now."

Mueller's attention sharpened at your contribution, his assessment visibly adjusting. "Indeed. A perspective many of my more traditional clients struggle to embrace." He leaned forward slightly. "Your father's operation maintains more conventional territorial focus, if I recall correctly."

The direct reference to your family connection confirmed what you'd suspected, Mueller had thoroughly researched both your backgrounds, understanding exactly what alliance your marriage represented. No point in pretense with someone so well-informed.

"My father's good at what he does within established boundaries," you acknowledged diplomatically. "Lewis and I see opportunities in pushing beyond them."

Lewis's hand moved to rest lightly on your forearm—a subtle gesture of approval that felt warmer than mere performance would justify. "Her insights on regulatory adaptations have already given us an edge in our European expansion. Especially with integrating blockchain and traditional banking systems."

The discussion shifted into technical territory—Mueller probing your combined knowledge of financial systems, testing both expertise and unity of vision through increasingly pointed questions. You and Lewis responded with natural coordination, each covering areas of strength while supporting the other's perspectives.

The banker's skepticism gradually transformed into genuine interest as the conversation progressed, particularly when you outlined how digital currency conversion could address traditional banking vulnerabilities.

"Your approach is more sophisticated than I anticipated," Mueller acknowledged, making notes in an actual leather-bound ledger rather than electronic device—old-school methods for old-school power. "Most clients in your... particular industry... focus exclusively on concealment rather than legitimate integration opportunities."

"Hiding money only works for so long in today's world," Lewis responded. "We're more interested in building systems that work across different regulatory environments, not just hiding assets."

"A longer-term perspective," Mueller noted with approval. "Generational thinking rather than quarterly objectives."

"Exactly," you confirmed, seeing the perfect opening to appeal to Mueller's known preferences. "We're building foundations that will last well beyond our lives."

Mueller's eyes moved meaningfully between you, the implication clear without being stated directly—foundations that included potential heirs, succession planning, dynasty-building that appealed to his traditional values despite your modern methodologies.

"I believe we can establish arrangements that would serve your particular requirements," he said finally, closing his ledger with deliberate precision. "Though certain additional verifications will be necessary before accounts can be fully activated."

"Of course," Lewis agreed easily. "We expected thorough due diligence. My team has prepared all the documentation you'll need."

Mueller nodded, apparently satisfied with both your professional presentation and the subtle but consistent indicators of genuine partnership. "Excellent. My assistant will coordinate the next steps with your team. I anticipate we can have preliminary accounts established within forty-eight hours, with full functionality following verification protocols."

The timeline was significantly accelerated from typical banking procedures—clear indicator that your combined approach had successfully convinced Mueller of your value as clients. Lewis's hand found yours briefly, a gentle squeeze communicating shared victory without need for words.

"We appreciate your efficiency," Lewis said, rising as Mueller did to indicate the meeting's conclusion. "And your flexibility regarding our accelerated timeline."

"Honeymooners should focus on pleasure rather than extended business negotiations," Mueller replied with surprising hint of warmth. "Geneva offers much to appreciate beyond banking facilities."

You stood as well, smoothing your skirt with practiced grace. "We're looking forward to exploring the city more once the business matters are settled."

Mueller extended his hand to you, the gesture conferring equal professional respect rather than merely ceremonial acknowledgment. "A pleasure, Mrs. Hamilton. Your contributions to today's discussion were most illuminating."

"Thank you," you replied, accepting the handshake with precisely the right balance of firmness and feminine grace your mother had taught you for dealing with the traditional European businessmen. "We look forward to a productive relationship with your institution."

The practiced phrases carried weight beyond their surface courtesy—establishing expectations for ongoing connection rather than merely transactional interaction. Mueller's approving nod suggested the message had been received exactly as intended.

Lewis's hand returned to the small of your back as you prepared to leave. Something was shifting between you with each such contact—boundaries slowly dissolving.

"One moment," Mueller said as you reached the door, his tone suddenly more cautious. "I should mention that an associate of yours is currently in the building. Giovanni Castellano arrived for his appointment earlier than scheduled. I believe you may know each other?"

The name hit you like an unexpected punch despite your earlier discussion of potential Castellano connections. Giovanni's presence immediately following your meeting couldn't be coincidence—the timing was too perfect to be anything but a deliberate power play.

Lewis's expression remained controlled despite the obvious provocation, only the slightest tightening around his eyes betraying his recognition of the competitive challenge. "We know each other," he acknowledged neutrally. "Though it's been a while since we've crossed paths directly."

Mueller's careful neutrality couldn't quite disguise his awareness of the underlying tension. Swiss banking thrived on maintaining relationships with competing interests, providing services to rivals without becoming entangled in their conflicts. "I mention it only as professional courtesy," he explained. "To avoid any... awkward encounters in the lobby."

"Appreciated," Lewis replied smoothly. "Though I don't have any problem greeting a colleague if needed."

The diplomatic phrasing barely disguised the underlying reality—neither man could afford to appear intimidated by potential confrontation, not with Mueller observing their respective responses. Backing down or avoiding contact would signal weakness neither could strategically afford.

"Your wife is welcome to make her own assessment," Mueller said, turning to you with a carefully neutral expression. "Given certain historical connections, I understand."

The reference to your father's previous negotiations with the Castellanos further confirmed your earlier suspicion—Mueller knew exactly who you were and what complex alliances your marriage represented. His seemingly casual mention of Giovanni's presence was actually calculated test of both your individual reactions and your unity as a couple.

"Family connections often go beyond business complications," you replied with the diplomatic smile your mother had perfected through decades of navigating your father's complex allegiances. "I'd be happy to say hello to Signore Castellano if we run into each other."

The response struck a perfect balance—acknowledging the relationship without overstating its significance, maintaining professional courtesy without suggesting actual alliance.

As if on cue, a knock at the office door preceded the entrance of Mueller's assistant. "Herr Mueller, Signore Castellano has arrived for his appointment," he announced.

"Thank you, Klaus," Mueller replied. "Please show him in. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were just leaving."

The timing couldn't have been more perfectly orchestrated if planned in advance—which, you suspected, it very well might have been. Mueller's seemingly coincidental scheduling created an opportunity to observe direct interaction between competing interests.

The door opened fully to reveal Giovanni Castellano in all his traditional Italian glory—Brioni suit in charcoal gray, Ferragamo shoes polished to mirror shine, gold Rolex peeking from beneath French cuffs secured with diamond links. At sixty-five, he remained handsome in that distinctly Mediterranean way that aged like fine wine—silver threading through still-thick black hair, lines around his eyes speaking of laughter rather than hardship, the overall impression one of vitality rather than diminishment.

His eyes widened slightly at the sight of you—genuine surprise not quite masked by practiced social grace. Then a smile spread across his features, transforming serious business demeanor into something warmer and distinctly more Italian in its expressiveness.

"Madonna mia," Giovanni exclaimed, spreading his arms in theatrical gesture of delighted surprise. "Piccolo fiore! Is it really you?"

The childhood nickname—bestowed during a summer gathering at your father's Hampton estate when you were barely ten—carried uncomfortable weight given your current position as another man's wife. Lewis remained perfectly still beside you, his physical presence somehow intensifying without any visible movement.

"Uncle Gio," you replied, using the familial designation despite lack of actual blood relation—the traditional form of respect in your world for older family associates. "What a surprise to see you in Geneva."

Giovanni moved further into the room, his attention focused entirely on you as if Lewis and Mueller had temporarily ceased to exist. "Look how you've grown, piccolo fiore. A woman now, and such a beautiful one." His eyes moved deliberately to your wedding ring, expression shifting toward something less warm. "Though I must say, I was disappointed to learn of your marriage. Especially to..." his gaze finally acknowledged Lewis's presence, "...someone outside our traditional circles."

The implied criticism—Lewis lacking proper Italian heritage—carried deliberate provocation beneath its surface courtesy. Giovanni had always been among the most traditional family leaders, placing enormous value on bloodlines and ethnic connections despite his organization's international operations.

"Lewis and I just click," you replied simply, stepping closer to your husband in a subtle but visible show of unity. "Some traditions are worth moving beyond."

Giovanni's expression registered both surprise and something closer to grudging respect at your direct response—clearly having expected the silent deference traditional wives displayed in your world. Lewis's hand settled at your waist in quiet show of support, the touch feeling protective without being possessive.

"Stefano was quite upset to hear the news," Giovanni continued, referencing his eldest son with deliberate emphasis. "He always had special fondness for you, piccolo fiore. Such a shame timing didn't align differently."

The implication was clear—your father's failed negotiations with the Castellanos might have resulted in very different marriage arrangement had circumstances developed differently. Stefano Castellano's "special fondness" had always left sour taste in your mouth—his attention during family gatherings carrying entitled presumption that had made your skin crawl even as a teenager.

"Please give Stefano my regards," you replied carefully, avoiding the implied romantic connection. "It's been a few years since we saw each other at my father's Christmas party."

"Too many years between our families," Giovanni agreed, his attention finally shifting more directly to Lewis. "Business complications create unnecessary divisions where alliances would be more productive. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Hamilton?"

Lewis's expression remained controlled, his response measured. "Partnerships work when they're built on shared values. The right foundation matters for anything that's going to last."

The professional phrasing couldn't quite disguise the underlying message—some divisions existed for substantive reasons beyond mere territorial competition. Giovanni's smile tightened slightly, recognition flashing beneath practiced cordiality.

"Of course, of course," the Italian agreed with theatrical wave of his hand. "Values, traditions, foundations of family operations. Speaking of which," his attention returned to you, "we've been watching your family's recent developments with great interest. Particularly the expansion into new territories through... unconventional alignments."

The indirect threat was thinly veiled—surveillance of your family's operations wrapped in seemingly casual observation. Lewis remained outwardly relaxed beside you, though you could sense the heightened alertness.

"How nice of you to keep such close tabs on us," you replied, deliberately emphasizing the word 'close' to acknowledge awareness of the surveillance without showing concern. "Of course, Uncle Gio. Our families have always kept an eye on each other's activities."

Giovanni's eyes narrowed slightly at the subtle countermove—your acknowledgment transforming his implied threat into mutual observation rather than one-sided vulnerability.

"Indeed," he agreed after brief pause. "Family connections transcend temporary business complications. Speaking of family," his tone shifted toward seemingly casual inquiry, "how is your lovely sister Gabriella? She must be, what, twenty now?"

The question carried weight beyond surface curiosity—Giovanni's well-known preference for strengthening alliances through marriage making his interest in your unmarried sister's status unmistakably strategic rather than merely conversational.

"Nineteen," you corrected. "And doing great. She's actually mentioned wanting to spend some time in Milan. I think she's been texting with Marco fairly regularly."

The reference to Giovanni's younger son—dropped casually as if it wasn't calculated—landed exactly as intended. Giovanni's expression shifted toward genuine interest, business maneuvering temporarily superseded by parental curiosity.

"Marco? My Marco has been speaking with Gabriella?" The surprise seemed genuine rather than performative. "He didn't mention this development."

"Young people and their private communications," you replied with a conspiratorial smile.

The implication was masterfully structured—suggesting potential romantic interest between Giovanni's son and your sister without making claims that could be directly verified. The "connection" was technically true—Gabriella and Marco had exchanged a few text messages following a charity event both had attended—but substantially exaggerated in its significance.

Giovanni processed this information with visible calculation, his strategic mind already incorporating potential new alliance pathway into existing plans. Despite past differences with your father, the Castellano patriarch had always been among those who placed highest value on uniting powerful families through marriage especially those with strong Italian bloodlines on at least one side.

"How interesting," he said finally, his tone warming considerably. "Young people finding their own paths while still honoring traditional connections. Perhaps we should arrange a family gathering when you return from your... honeymoon." The slight pause before the last word carried clear acknowledgment that your current marriage represented obstacle to a potential Castellano alliance with your sister.

"That would be lovely," you replied with practiced social grace that committed to nothing concrete. "Once our current business matters are settled and we've returned to London, of course."

Lewis chose this moment to re-enter the conversation, his tone balancing professional courtesy with subtle assertion of position. "We shouldn't keep Signore Castellano from his appointment with Herr Mueller any longer. Banking matters wait for no one, as we've just discovered ourselves."

The gentle redirection was masterfully executed—acknowledging Giovanni's status while establishing clear conclusion to the unexpected encounter. Mueller, who had been observing the entire exchange with careful neutrality characteristic of Swiss bankers witnessing potential conflicts between valued clients, nodded in agreement.

"Indeed, schedules remain tight today," the banker confirmed. "Though this unexpected reunion has been most... illuminating."

The final word carried knowing weight, Mueller clearly cataloging the complex dynamics he'd just witnessed for future reference regarding all parties involved. In the Swiss banking world, such intelligence often proved as valuable as financial assets themselves.

"Of course, of course," Giovanni agreed, though his attention remained primarily on you rather than the men. "We mustn't delay important financial matters. But piccolo fiore," he stepped closer, taking your hand with old-world formality, "it truly warms my heart to see you again. You've grown into a magnificent woman, just as your mother once predicted."

The reference to your mother—subtle reminder of Giovanni's longstanding connections to your family that predated current business complications—created another layer of complexity.

"Thank you, Uncle Gio," you replied, accepting the hand clasp with appropriate respect for his age and status despite your marriage to someone he clearly viewed as competitor. "Please give my regards to Aunt Nina and the family."

"I shall, I shall," he promised, finally releasing your hand with reluctant formality. "And we will be watching your progress with great interest. Both of you," he added, finally acknowledging Lewis directly again. "The banking world presents unique challenges for newcomers to its particular traditions."

The subtle warning—Castellano connections potentially influencing your banking arrangements—hung in the air between you as Giovanni stepped back to allow your departure. Lewis's hand returned to its now-familiar position at the small of your back, the touch carrying more definite pressure than in previous similar gestures.

"Until next time, Signore Castellano," Lewis said with perfect professional courtesy that didn't quite mask the underlying steel. "I'm sure our paths will cross again soon enough."

"In our world, they always do," Giovanni agreed, the seemingly casual observation carrying weight of both promise and potential threat. "Safe travels, Signore e Signora Hamilton. Geneva can be treacherous for unwary visitors."

You maintained perfect composure as Lewis guided you from the office, the practiced social mask never slipping despite the multiple layers of threatening subtext beneath seemingly cordial exchange. Only once the elevator doors closed, leaving you momentarily alone in the confined space, did you allow yourself to exhale fully.

"Well," you said quietly, aware of potential surveillance even in private banking elevators, "that was unexpected."

"Was it?" Lewis asked, his voice equally low though his expression remained neutral for any watching cameras. "Mueller strikes me as someone who creates opportunities to observe client interactions rather than leaving such intelligence to chance."

"True," you acknowledged. "Though Giovanni's presence itself might have been a coincidence. The Castellanos have maintained Swiss banking relationships for generations."

Lewis's hand found yours, fingers interlacing with deliberate intent that felt more protective than performative now that you were beyond Mueller's direct observation. "There are remarkably few coincidences in our world, particularly involving banking arrangements and family rivalries."

The elevator reached the ground floor, doors opening to reveal the discreet private lobby where Mueller's special clients could exit without being seen. Lewis's security team waited with their usual vigilance, Jensen stepping forward immediately.

"Car's ready, sir," he reported crisply. "Route's secure, no unusual activity."

Lewis nodded, his hand still holding yours as you moved toward the exit. The touch felt different now—a connection born from navigating those tricky waters together rather than just putting on a show for watching eyes.

"Meeting with Mueller went well," Lewis told Jensen as you approached the waiting vehicle. "But we've got a complication with Castellano showing interest. Keep surveillance up until we're clear of the banking district."

Jensen took this with professional calm, already activating his comms to alert the others. "Understood. Adjusting now."

As the car door closed behind you, creating a bubble of privacy, Lewis finally let his controlled expression relax slightly. "You were amazing in there," he said quietly, genuine admiration in his voice. "Mueller was impressed by your technical knowledge, but how you handled Giovanni was something else."

The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on looks or charm—he actually recognized your strategic skills, and that hit differently.

"The 'Uncle Gio' thing definitely caught him off guard," you acknowledged, remembering the surprise on Giovanni's face. "He's used to throwing around family connections to intimidate people, not having it turned back on him."

"It divided his attention perfectly," Lewis added, clearly appreciating your tactical thinking. "He couldn't focus solely on competing with us anymore."

This felt like real partnership, not just an arranged alliance—recognizing how your different skills created something better than either of you could manage alone.

"Mueller will approve the accounts," Lewis said, shifting to practical matters. "Our unified front was exactly what he wanted to see."

"Funny how our honeymoon cover story actually served a real purpose," you noted with a touch of irony.

Something changed in Lewis's expression, shifting from purely professional assessment to something more personal. "Sometimes strategies work out better than we plan," he said quietly. "Creating value we didn't expect."

As the car moved through Geneva's elegant streets, Lewis's hand found yours again. The contact wasn't necessary for show anymore, but he maintained it anyway. Something was shifting between you with each moment like this—boundaries fading not through violation but through mutual recognition of a connection developing beyond what was in the contract.

The famous lake gleamed outside your window, mountains rising majestically in the distance, beauty that had witnessed centuries of alliances made and broken, while Swiss neutrality provided a safe harbor regardless of who won or lost. Your own situation seemed both significant and tiny against this backdrop—personal changes playing out where generations had navigated similar waters before you.

"I believe that calls for celebration," Lewis said once you'd returned to the hotel suite, loosening his tie with uncharacteristic casualness. "Mueller's approval typically takes weeks, not hours. And I still can’t get over the way you handled Giovanni. Brilliant."

The suite felt different somehow upon your return—the morning's unexpected intimacy having shifted your perception of the space. Lewis moved to the bar, selecting a bottle of champagne with the efficient precision you'd come to expect from him.

"Mueller definitely didn't expect us to tag-team him like that," you acknowledged, slipping off your heels with a sigh of relief. "Though I bet Giovanni showing up was Mueller's idea all along."

"No doubt," Lewis agreed, opening the champagne with a controlled pop. "Swiss bankers love to watch how their clients handle pressure. Two birds, one stone kind of thing."

He poured two flutes and handed one to you, his eyes warmer than usual. "To kicking ass in banking negotiations."

"And surprising the hell out of Italians," you added with a smile, clinking your glass against his.

The champagne was excellent—crisp and not too sweet. You moved toward the window, enjoying the view of Geneva while allowing yourself a rare moment to actually feel satisfied about something.

"That Castellano move was smart," Lewis said, joining you at the window. "Bringing up Gabriella and Marco was a nice touch too."

"Giovanni's always thought of himself as everyone's Italian patriarch," you explained, remembering summers where he'd dispensed unwanted advice to all the younger generation. "He can't resist the chance to play matchmaker, even when he's supposed to be threatening us."

Lewis watched you with that intense focus that still sent an unexpected warmth through you. "You know, most people would've gotten defensive when he brought up your marriage. But you turned it around on him completely."

The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on appearance. He actually respected your mind, and that hit differently than you expected.

"My mother would say I just applied her lessons on handling difficult men," you replied with a half-smile.

"She taught you well," Lewis said, that rare smile briefly appearing. "But I think you've got natural talent."

You settled onto the window seat cushion, relaxing in a way that would have been impossible in public. Lewis remained standing, still carrying that readiness that never fully left him.

"Do you ever actually relax?" you asked. "Even now, you look ready to take down a threat at any second."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Hard habit to break," he admitted. "Survival mode becomes your default setting after a while."

"Even with champagne and a win this big?" you pressed, sensing a rare opportunity to see behind his carefully maintained facade.

Something shifted in his expression—a decision to let you see a bit more than usual. "Especially after a win," he said quietly. "That's when you're most vulnerable. When you think you're safe... that's usually when everything goes sideways."

The insight felt personal rather than theoretical. You found yourself genuinely curious about the experiences that had shaped him, what had created both his controlled precision and those glimpses of warmth you'd been seeing more frequently.

"Sounds like you learned that the hard way," you observed.

Lewis moved to join you on the window seat, reducing the physical distance between you. "Yeah," he acknowledged, setting his champagne aside. "Experience is a hell of a teacher. Especially when the lessons involve blood rather than just bruised pride."

His simple statement carried the weight of history you'd only glimpsed in fragments. The scars on his knuckles and forearms told stories his carefully measured words typically concealed.

"I got too comfortable after some early successes," he continued, surprising you by elaborating without further prompting. "Let my guard down. Started celebrating before I should have. And it cost me... more than I was prepared to lose."

The clinical way he said it couldn't quite hide the emotion underneath—personal pain transformed into hard principles through self-discipline. For the first time, you wondered about Lewis's life before he became the powerful, controlled man you knew—what relationships he might have had, what connections might have been severed.

"I'm sorry," you said simply.

Lewis looked momentarily surprised by your response, as if he'd expected something more strategic. "It was a long time ago," he replied, though his expression suggested the impact hadn't faded with time. "Made me better at what I do now, anyway."

Even personal loss became strategic advantage with Lewis—pain recalibrated into useful principles. Yet this glimpse of vulnerability felt like trust extended rather than weakness revealed.

"To lessons learned," you said quietly, raising your glass.

Lewis's expression softened as he picked up his champagne to meet your toast. "And doing better with them going forward."

The conversation drifted to more practical matters—next steps with Mueller, security plans, how to handle the Castellanos. Yet that underlying current remained, your connection subtly transformed by this shared moment into something more substantial than professional alignment alone.

When Lewis's phone eventually interrupted with a call that couldn't be ignored, you felt an unexpected disappointment. The realization itself was surprising—that you'd started to value these quieter moments with him.

"I should take this," Lewis said, genuine regret in his tone as he checked the caller ID. "Claire wouldn't call unless it was important."

"Of course," you said, professional understanding replacing personal disappointment with practiced ease. "Business never waits. Mueller taught us that much today."

Lewis stood with his usual grace, but paused before moving away to take the call. In a gesture that felt both calculated and spontaneous, he leaned down and pressed a light kiss against your forehead—brief contact that felt warmer now that no one was watching to make it necessary.

"Thanks," he said simply. "For everything today."

Then he was moving toward the office space, already shifting into business mode as he answered Claire's call, transforming from briefly relaxed to fully operational despite the champagne and momentary lowering of guards between you.

You remained at the window, watching Geneva spread out before you while your thoughts circled this latest evolution in your relationship with Lewis. Not quite a traditional marriage, not merely a business arrangement, but something developing its own unique shape, a connection building itself rather than following any predetermined pattern.

The celebration had been brief but genuine, the victory truly shared. Whatever developed next would build on the foundation being established through moments like this—trust extended through both professional respect and personal confidence, understanding built through actually seeing each other rather than just the roles you played.

Your wedding ring caught the afternoon light as you finished your champagne, the diamond's sparkle a reminder of a binding that had begun as strategic necessity but was evolving into something neither of you had anticipated. Not quite love in the traditional sense, but a connection increasingly substantial beyond mere convenience.

Lewis's voice carried from the office, handling whatever complication Claire had identified with his usual efficiency. The sound reminded you of the reality underlying your shared existence—danger and strategy never truly gone.

.............tbd

[woozivrse]

masterlist!

🎐- fluff | 🫐- angst |

💎 all members/by unit

svt as things i've sent my friends | 🎐 vu | hhu | pfu

svt as types of kisses | 🎐 wc: 316

ways you show love to svt | 🎐 wc: 942

🍒choi seungcheol

drabbles!

☆ unnamed | 🎐 wc: 179

☆ unnamed | 🎐 wc: 233

☆ req: unnamed | wc: 256

😇yoon jeonghan

drabbles!

☆ unnamed | 🎐 wc: 140

🐰 hong joshua

scenarios!

☆ apple of my eye | 🎐 wc: 262

drabbles!

☆ unnamed | 🎐 wc: 74

😼 wen junhui

nothing yet!

🐯 kwon soonyoung

drabbles!

☆ unnamed | 🎐 wc: 121

🐈‍⬛ jeon wonwoo

fics!

☆ Hiding the Truth, Pretending I'm Fine | 🎐🫐 wc: 4.1K

drabbles!

☆ unnamed | 🎐wc: 94

🍑 lee jihoon

drabbles!

☆ unnamed | 🎐 wc: 144

☆ unnamed | 🎐 wc: 311

🐸 xu minghao

nothing yet!

⚔️ lee seokmin

drabbles!

☆ unnamed | 🎐 wc: 139 ! requested

🐶 kim mingyu

drabbles!

☆ unnamed | 🎐 wc: 184

🍊 boo seungkwan

nothing yet!

🐻‍❄️ chwe vernon

drabbles!

☆ unnamed | 🎐 wc: 101

🦦 lee chan

drabbles!

☆ unnamed | 🎐 wc: 175

☆ unnamed | 🎐 wc: 147

[snowberriesromanoff]

February Fic Roundup

I posted 18 fics for various February prompt challenges, in addition to adding 9 chapters to my ongoing DC longfic and submitting 2 unrevealed exchange assignments

Fandoms: DC, Marvel, Star Wars, She-Ra, Leverage

under 1K

Stay in Purgatory (Marvel 616, Katyana, WC:94)

Stay (anytime) (DC, Stephcass, WC:115)

Cheap Champagne (DC, Cassrose, WC:129)

This Engagement Ring (DC, Cassrose, WC:142)

Real Kiss (DC, Harper/Steph, WC:356)

Make it Home (DC, Hollycat, WC: 445)

Remind Me Again (Marvel, Elektra/Aurora, WC:526)

Her Lips are Cherry Bomb (DC, Harper/Steph, WC:598)

Gotta Catch a Bus (DC, Alysia Yeoh/Jo Muñoz, WC:711)

Under 2K

Just like a Souvenir (DC, Robterra, WC:1032)

Inevitable Greek Tragedy (DC, WonderCheetahEtta, WC:1128)

Space Girl (Star Wars, Riyosoka, WC:1227)

When Your War is Over (She-Ra, Catradora, WC:1358)

The Cat's Paw Job (c.1) (DC/Leverage, Maggie/Sophie, OT3, WC:1912)

Under 3K

Watch the World Burn (DC, Harper/Rose, WC:2137)

I Kill for Her (MCU, Bishova, WC:2364)

Break Your Heart Again (c.1&2) (DC, Sladick, endgame Robterra, WC:2870)

Kiss Like Real People Do (DC, Kara/Nia, WC:2921)

Longfic

Motherf*cking Brand c.11-19 (DC, Stephcassharperose, added approx. 20K)

Other

Unrevealed Marvel Exchange Fic 1 (1K)

Unrevealed Marvel Exchange Fic 2 (1537)

Bonus

I am creating fics for the Fandom Trumps Hate Charity Auction. My full listings including fandoms and charities are here. The auction is open until March 1st at 8pm EST