Chapter 3

Phayu's POV

Morning light filters in, soft and gold, brushing against the white sheets and making Rain glow like holy relic.

I'm already awake, lying on my side, just... watching him.

His lashes fan across his cheeks, lips slightly parted, a few faint bruises littering his neck where I marked him last night—after I came back from the dungeon still burning with adrenaline and he pulled me down again into him like he'd missed me, needed me.

His blonde hair spills across the pillow, messy and damp in parts from sweat and sleep. He looks fragile like this. Peaceful. Unbothered. Unaware that I've been staring at him for ten minutes with a tight ache in my chest because fuck, I love him.

I need him.

And I almost didn't come home to him yesterday.

The thought lingers—sharp, hollow—until I hear it.

Pattering footsteps.

Then, a small gasp of breath and "Dada!"

Kaia barrels into our room with no warning, wild curls bouncing, dragging her stuffed bunny by one ear.

I sit up, quickly raising a finger to my lips.

"Shhh," I whisper, catching her before she bounces onto the bed. "Papa's sleeping, princess. Let's let him rest, okay?"

Her eyes go wide and round like she just discovered the concept of secrets. She nods hard and giggles, covering her mouth like she's just joined an elite mission.

"Okay," she whispers back, barely containing her energy.

I scoop her up into my arms and carry her to our bathroom, quietly closing the door behind us.

She has her own ensuite bathroom across the hall, of course. It's pink and sparkly and smells like strawberries. But she keeps essentials in ours too—for mornings like this, when she wants to be close.

I set her on the counter, and she immediately kicks her legs, still trying to whisper even though she's terrible at it.

I squeeze the toothpaste onto both our brushes, hand hers over, and we brush together—Kaia giggling and foaming at the mouth like she's doing stand-up comedy with every swish.

She leans too far forward and toothpaste drips down her chin. I laugh and wipe it away with a towel.

"You're a disaster," I say.

"I'm a tiger," she grins back, baring her foamy teeth.

"Even tigers use napkins," I reply, tapping her nose.

After we rinse, I grab my hair tie and pull my hair back into a loose, damp knot.

Kaia watches me, wide-eyed, then tugs on my shirt.

"Dada, tie mine like yours too."

I smile, reach for one of the tiny pastel hair ties she leaves beside the sink, and start gathering her hair into a matching little knot on the top of her head.

She's wiggling in the mirror, beaming, proud.

We're quiet for a second. Then she leans her head against my chest.

I hold her there, arms around her tiny frame, and breathe her in.

My life. My love. My little chaos.

And behind the bathroom door, my heart—Rain—still sleeps in our bed, safe, warm, and waiting.

I love mornings like this.

Mornings where Kaia is all mine—every giggle, every tug of my hair, every bright-eyed question.

Rain spends more time with her, it's true. He's the one home during the day, the one who knows every teacher's name at school, every favorite color that changes weekly.

But these quiet, early hours—when she's glued to me and the world hasn't caught up yet—these are mine.

I lift her up and toss her gently onto my back, catching her by the legs, and she squeals before quickly remembering her "mission."

"Shhh! Papa's sleeping!" I whisper.

She nods with a tiny gasp and clings tighter, giggling into my shoulder with her hand over her mouth.

Rain's going to be out for a while anyway. I made sure of that.

I carry her into the walk-in closet and set her down in the little corner we've carved out just for her—a soft mat, a beanbag, a few plush toys and coloring books.

"Play here for two minutes, princess. Dada needs to change."

She nods solemnly like I've given her an elite assignment. I throw on my workout pants and a black fitted tee, pull my hair up tighter, and grab her toys before lifting her into my arms again.

Downstairs, I carry her into the gym.

She already knows the drill. She doesn't touch the dumbbells. She doesn't go near the machines. But that doesn't stop her from bossing me around like she owns the place.

"Dada, ten pushups now," she orders, clapping once.

"Yes, ma'am," I grin.

I drop down and start doing push-ups with her clinging to my back like a little monkey. Her arms wrap around my neck, her weight light but perfect.

Then pull-ups—with her hanging on me.Then squats—where I hold her in front like a dumbbell and she counts them off in dramatic toddler voice.

By the time I'm done, we're both sweaty and laughing, and my little girl is red-cheeked from joy.

I towel off quickly, wipe her down too, and carry her into the kitchen.

"Now," I say, setting her on the counter, "we're going to make breakfast in bed for Papa."

Her eyes light up like I just told her she's getting a pony.

"And you," I say, poking her nose, "are going to be my sous chef."

She blinks, nose wrinkling. "What's a soup chef, Dada?"

I chuckle. "Sous, baby. It means you're my helper in the kitchen."

She narrows her eyes, then slowly nods, taking the title very seriously.

"I'm gonna be the best soup chef ever."

"Damn right you are."

And then we get to work.

Eggs, pancakes, berries. Coffee.

For the love of my life.From ours.

We pour the measurements together—if you can call the chaos that—flour in the bowl, on the counter, in her hair, on my shirt. We're both covered in it by the time we're done, and she's laughing so hard she hiccups.

My heart clenches.

That laugh.

The kind of laugh that doesn't know pain. That's never known fear. That's only ever lived in a world where she is loved and safe and treasured.

That's the world Rain and I built for her.

After mixing the wet and dry ingredients, I hand her the whisk.

"Do your worst, sous chef," I say, saluting.

She grins like I gave her a weapon. Starts stirring with all the strength of a five-year-old who thinks she's making magic. Batter slops over the rim, more on the counter than in the bowl, but I wouldn't stop her for the world.

I heat up the griddle while she's narrating her entire life story.

"Mr. Floof had a headache so Bunny Princess told him to go to the hospital—not the vet, 'cause he's not a real animal, just pretend—and then Rocky said he—"

I block out that last name like a trauma response and keep flipping pancakes.

"What did Rocky say?" I ask casually, flipping another, even though I already regret asking.

She blinks up at me, then shrugs. "He says he likes my sparkly shoes. But I told him they're not for boys."

"Good," I mutter, not entirely rational, and hand her a cup of orange juice.

"Here, tell me if this is good enough for Papa."

She sips with exaggerated drama, smacks her lips, and declares, "Mmm... perfect, Dada!" like I hadn't just poured it straight from the fridge.

I wipe her cheek with a napkin, and she suddenly goes quiet.

Looks up at me with those big eyes.

Serious. Still.

And then she says—soft, honest, glowing from inside— "This is the best day of my life, Dada."

My hands freeze on the spatula.

I swallow hard. Look down at her.

Flour in her curls. Batter on her chin.

And that smile.

My chest hurts.

I crouch beside her, kiss her forehead, and whisper against her soft hair,

"Mine too, princess."

And I mean it. With everything I am.

I bop her nose.

She giggles—a sound that could kill me and bring me back to life all at once.

I lean in and kiss her forehead, her nose, both cheeks, and then her lips, quick and soft. She squeals, squirming and laughing, floured fingers gripping my shoulders.

And just as I'm about to kiss her again, she suddenly grabs my face with both tiny, sticky, chaotic hands.

Palm prints on my jaw. Batter smudged across my cheek.Her eyes wide and shining.

And then, Just like him. Like she's his, down to the soul.She says, clear as day  "Dada, we need more chocolate chips! Papa loves chocolate chips!"

It hits me like whiplash.

The tone. The authority. The dramatic pause.That's Rain.Miniature. Cuter. Infinitely more dangerous.

I blink. She blinks back. Still holding my face hostage.

"Are you giving me orders now?" I say, amused.

She nods solemnly. "Papa needs chocolate chips. He had a long sleep."

I want to laugh.I do laugh.God, she's already got us both wrapped around her little fingers.

I tap her forehead with mine. "Yes, boss. Chocolate chips it is."

Because anything my heart and soul want, they get.Every single time.

...

The pancakes were supposed to look like Mickey Mouse.Supposed to.

Kaia stood beside me the entire time, arms crossed like a tiny food critic, tilting her head and squinting at my masterpiece like it had personally offended her.

"Papa makes better ears, Dada."

I glance down at the warped, lumpy batter blobs on the griddle. One ear's melted off completely, the other one looks like it's growing a tumor.

"I don't see you helping," I mutter, flipping the thing with a huff.

She just shrugs, smug as hell. "Papa's are cuter."

"Papa doesn't get flour in his hair," I mutter.

"He ties it better," she sing-songs.

I look at her. She looks at me. We both burst out laughing.

When we finally plate everything—pancakes with chocolate chips, berries, even the perfect orange juice in a cup with a silly straw—I kneel so she can hop on my back.

"Ready, boss?"

"Let's go, Dada!"

I carry her up the stairs, her arms looped around my neck, her legs bouncing against my ribs, chattering my ear off the entire way.

She tells me more about Rocky, Which I skillfully tune out.Then about Mr. Floof's recovery—Which apparently involves glitter.Then about how she wants to dress as a pancake for Halloween.

By the time we reach the bedroom, my ear is ringing, my chest is warm, and my arms are full.

And Rain—my sleepy-eyed angel—is already sitting up in bed, pillow creases on his cheek, hair a soft cloud around his face, white blanket pooling around his waist.

He blinks at us like we're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

And I think...This is it.This is heaven.

I straighten up proudly. "Breakfast in bed for the most perfect man in the world," I announce.

And Kaia throws her arms up like a magician revealing her trick. "With chocolate chips!"

Rain's POV

I heard them before I saw them.

Giggles. Footsteps. Phi's low voice rumbling in protest, Kaia's tiny one steamrolling over him with absolute authority.The sound slid into my dreams, warm and familiar, and tugs me gently awake.

By the time the door creaks open, I've sat up in bed, the sheets pooling around my waist.

And then...chaos.

Kaia launches at me like a missile, all flailing limbs and sticky hands."Papa!!"

I catch her with a laugh, hugging her tight as she presses kisses all over my face—cheek, nose, mouth, forehead—like I've been gone for weeks instead of just asleep upstairs.

She's rambling before I can even breathe properly."—and I made juice but Dada says you make better ears but I said your pancakes are cuter and also I didn't touch the big weights, I promise, and we used the griddle and the batter exploded and I didn't even cry and we wore matching hair buns!"

She flops sideways across my lap, legs dangling off the bed like a sack of flour, still babbling with pride.

I cradle her instinctively, kissing her head, half-asleep and still catching up.

Then Phi sets the tray down.

I don't even need to look at him, just feel the weight of his gaze when he leans in to kiss me.

"Morning, baby."

His lips brush mine—warm, slightly sweet, slow.I hum against his mouth and squint at him when he pulls back.

"How do you taste like syrup, batter, and orange juice?"

He grins, smug as sin. "Kaia's sous chef."

"She didn't even know what that meant yesterday," I murmur, smiling sleepily.

"She still doesn't," he whispers, brushing flour from the tip of my nose.

I chuckle, wrap an arm around his waist, and pull him down into bed beside us. Kaia wiggles between us immediately, claiming her space like she owns it.

We gave her the whole world.

And somehow, she gave it back to us.

...

After the very chaotic, very sticky, very flour-coated breakfast in bed, Phi starts gathering the plates with that quiet, efficient ease of his.

Kaia's still crawling all over the bed like she's on a jungle gym, syrup on her sleeve and chocolate on her lip. I swing my legs over the side of the mattress, yawning as I prepare to follow them and help get her ready for school.

But Phayu's voice cuts in, firm and final.

"I've got it, baby."

I blink up at him. "I can help."

Kaia immediately turns traitor. "Rest, Papa! Dada says you need it!"

My cheeks flush hot. I shoot Phi a sharp look, narrowing my eyes.

He's grinning. Of course he is. That infuriatingly smug grin, like he just won a prize.

He shrugs, leans down, and with the ease of someone who's done it a hundred times, scoops Kaia up and tosses her onto his back again. She squeals like a wild thing, arms wrapped tight around his neck.

Tray in one hand. Daughter slung across his back. Chaos incarnate in black sweatpants.

I cross my arms. "She likes the blue jumper on Thursdays."

"Papa!" Kaia hollers like I've just insulted her. "Don't worry! We got it!"

Phi just throws me a wink. "We got it."

And then they're off—footsteps pounding, laughter echoing, my two favorite people disappearing down the hall.

I exhale slowly and fall back into the pillows.

And smile like a fool.

Phayu's POV

I've got the best girl in the world. No contest. No close second.

No fussing this morning. No whining about the water being too hot or cold. She lets me bathe her, even tilts her head back like a pro when I rinse her hair. I do her curls next, and she sits there like a little queen on her stool, pointing to the hair ties she wants, giggling when I mess it up and cheering when I get it right.

She's all smiles. All laughter.Telling me stories.Asking if she can take two snack boxes because "Rocky always forgets his."

I don't respond to that. I just hum. She doesn't need to know I've memorized his last name.

When we're done, she spins once in her blue jumper and matching sparkly shoes—looking too much like Rain and too much like herself—and then throws her arms around my neck.

"Are you taking me to school today, Dada?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

I already sent a message to Isha this morning:Coming in late today.She didn't question it. She knows what matters.

We step out of her room and head down the stairs together. She's bouncing with every step.

Rain's at the kitchen island, legs folded under him, sipping coffee like a prince The maids are finishing up the battlefield we left behind—crumbs, syrup stains, rogue berries under chairs.

Rain looks up when we walk in, his gaze softening instantly when he sees her. And then, me.

Kaia runs to him, her sparkly shoes tapping across the tile.

He wraps her in his arms, smiling, but I see the flicker of disappointment in her eyes.

"You're not taking me, Dada?"

I raise a brow. "You think I'm showing up in this and flour to drop you off?"

She tilts her head.Considers it.Then grins. "I don't mind!"

I lean down and kiss her forehead."I just need to change first. You stay with Papa, alright?"

She sighs like she's been burdened with a great injustice but nods. Rain just sips his coffee with a smug smile.

I give him a look as I pass.He lifts his cup in salute.

Yeah.This is my fucking life.

Rain's POV

My husband is a genius.

With architecture? Untouchable.With guns? Surgical.With drugs, smuggling, security infrastructure, territorial enforcement, laundering tactics, and international black-market negotiations?He's a goddamn legend.

But not our daughter's hair.

That, apparently, is where his criminal empire meets its match.

Kaia's curls are soft and wild, springing loose even when you breathe near them. And Phi... bless him. He tries.

This morning's attempt?Two pigtails, slightly uneven, one a little higher than the other, a pink tie on one side and a purple clip on the other. A lone glitter barrette sits halfway down the back of her head like it got lost and gave up.

It's chaos.It's crooked.It's love, in the purest form.

And Kaia? She's beaming.

I reach for her hair—gentle fingers, practiced from doing this every school morning. I spot a curl slipping loose, one of the ties twisted a little awkward, and instinctively I go to fix it.

But before I can touch it, Kaia twists away and gasps like I just tried to tear down her castle.

"Nooo, Papa!"

I blink. "What?"

She huffs, grabbing the end of one of her pigtails protectively. "Dada made it, and I love him."

I freeze.

Her lip juts out in that tiny dramatic pout she inherited entirely from me, arms crossed like she's ready to go to war.

And I? I melt. Immediately.

I sit back on the stool and raise my hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. I wasn't going to change it. I was just admiring the craftsmanship."

She beams. "He tried so hard, Papa. And he even said I look like a princess."

Of course he did.Phi could barely tie a ponytail when she was born, he used to act like brushing her hair required tactical strategy. Now he's out here doing curls and bows and making her feel like royalty.

I press a kiss to her temple and whisper, "Well then, I guess you're going to school in your Dada's masterpiece."

She nods fiercely and climbs into my lap, her little hands still guarding her hair like it's a national treasure.

I sit there holding her, smiling into my coffee. Because my husband can design cities, orchestrate billion-baht operations, and take down a room of armed men.

But this? This tiny tangle of hair and bows and love?

He nailed it.

...

Kaia's on my lap, swinging her legs, munching on a strawberry as I wipe a little syrup off her cheek. I'm focused on her, completely present, until...

He walks in.

And my brain short-circuits.

Phi steps into the kitchen like a storm dressed in soft cotton.

Grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. Black tank clinging to his chest, ink curling in sharp elegant lines down both arms.

His long black hair's tied back in a loose bun that should not be allowed to look that good.

His earrings glint under the light. His silver chain catches against the edge of his collarbone.

The heavy watch on his wrist ticks like a bomb, counting down the seconds to my collapse.

And under that tank?On his left pec?I know exactly what's there.My name.Kaia's name.Kaia's footprint—tiny and perfect from the day she was born, immortalized against his heart like a seal.

My breath catches.

And, oh God—my very sore hole clenches.

I should be exhausted. I should be satisfied. He had me twice last night.

But all I can think now is again.

His eyes catch mine—those dark, wicked eyes that undress me with zero shame even with our child sitting right here—and my face heats immediately.

Kaia waves cheerfully. "Dada! Papa says I can take the unicorn pen to school today!"

Phi hums in response, his attention still fixed on me.

I swallow. Hard.

Because my dangerous, beautiful, tattooed husband just smiled at me like he already knows what I'm thinking.

And the worst part is—he's right.

I do want to jump his bones again.

Even if it kills me. Especially if it does.

Then Win walks and  "Uncle Win!" she shrieks and leaps straight off my lap and into his arms. He catches her without flinching, laughing like they've been apart for weeks.

"Morning, superstar," he grins, adjusting her on his hip.

She grabs his face. "We made pancakes. Papa says Dada's are lumpy."

"They were Mickey Mouse," I call out dryly.

"More like Sad Mouse," Phi mutters behind me.

Win snorts and heads outside with her—probably to go cause chaos somewhere in the garden—leaving me alone.

With him.

And then, he moves.

Before I can turn back around, I feel it—Phi crowding me from behind, a wall of heat and power and very little fabric. He cages me in against the counter, palms flat on either side of me, and I go still.

"Why are you wearing that?" I mutter, not trusting my voice to be any less sinful.

He glances down, as if genuinely confused. "What's wrong with it?"

"It's soft. Comfortable."

"It's dangerous," I murmur.

He grins, all teeth, all sin. "Good."

I roll my eyes, feigning exasperation, but he's already nosing at my neck, mouth brushing just beneath my ear, one hand sliding down to grab a firm, possessive hold of my ass.

"You're thinking about last night," he whispers. "And how you still want me."

My breath hitches.Of course he says it.Of course he knows.

And then he kisses me.

It starts slow. Languid. But I know better. I know what his tongue tastes like when it gets greedy. What his hands do when he's been patient for exactly five seconds too long.

My fingers curl into his shirt as he presses against me, the growing bulge of his cock grinding into my hip. His tongue slides over mine, claiming me like he didn't already twice last night.

I moan softly, already melting into him, the weight of his body stealing every last coherent thought

"Dada!"

Kaia's voice sings out from outside the sliding doors.

Phi freezes. I do too. "Come look! I made Uncle Win a crown!"

I drop my forehead to his shoulder and try not to laugh.

Phayu groans like he's been personally attacked. "She has satanic timing."

I press a kiss to his neck. "She's five."

He growls into my throat, but when we pull apart, he's smiling.

...

I help Kaia into her car seat this time, tightening the straps while she hums some tune she and lilly probably made up—don't ask me how I know. She throws her arms around my neck before I can pull back and gives me the kind of sticky, strawberry-scented kiss that makes my heart clench.

"I love you, Papa," she whispers like it's a secret.

I smile and kiss her cheek. "I love you more, princess."

I straighten up, adjusting her backpack on the seat beside her and then he grabs me.

Strong arms around my waist, all hot breath and wicked intent, dragging me in with zero warning. Phi kisses me stupid, like the world's about to end, like Kaia isn't literally four feet away behind the tinted glass, like we didn't just do this in the kitchen—and in the shower—and again after his late-night dungeon detour.

I pull back, barely, eyes still half-lidded, lips swollen. "You planning to take your daughter to school with a hard-on?"

He groans, like I'm the one being unfair, and rests his forehead against mine for a second before kissing it gently.

"Blame yourself," he mutters, stepping away reluctantly.

I watch him slip into the driver's seat, one hand already reaching back to hold Kaia's, the other gripping the wheel like he wants to take it out on the road.

And then they're off.

My whole heart, driving away. My daughter waving with sticky fingers. My husband with his unrelenting hard-on.

I smile like a man completely ruined.

Phayu's POV

Kaia sings the whole ride. And talks. And sings some more. I think it's the same song, or maybe five different ones mashed together. I nod along, let her chatter fill the car, because I'll never get tired of her voice—high and animated and full of joy that nothing in the world's managed to dim.

Halfway through, my phone buzzes.One of my men.

I swipe to answer."Yeah?"

"Boss, about that Narathiwat shipment, there's a—"

"No," I cut him off. Voice sharp, no room for argument. "My daughter's in the car."

He gets it. Click.

I toss the phone to the passenger seat and turn back to Kaia, who's now holding her unicorn pen up to the sun like it's rare.

We reach the school not long after. I park, step out, and help her down. She's bouncing already, grabbing my hand and dragging me toward the building.

And then the looks start.

Parents. Staff. Security. All of them watch me like I'm either going to fund the school or burn it down.

It's the usual mix of fear and curiosity. Except, as always, want wins.

They can't help themselves. I don't come here often.

And Kaia? She knows. She's showing off.

Pointing to things like I haven't seen trees before. Waving to her little friends like she's bringing royalty to show-and-tell. She tugs on my hand to introduce me to a kid named Lily who apparently eats the heads off her gummy bears and that's very important.

By the time we reach her classroom, I'm already regretting not bringing backup.

Her teacher sees me and I watch the internal short-circuit happen in real time. She smiles too wide, adjusts her blouse, and gets chatty.

"Kaia's been doing so well in class—"

I don't respond. Don't even look at her. I kneel to Kaia's height instead.

She throws her arms around my neck. "I love you, Dada."

I kiss her cheek. "I love you more, tiger."

"Are you picking me up today?" she asks, hopeful, eyes wide.

I hesitate. "I'm not sure, baby. I have work."

Her face falls. Just a flicker. Barely a second, but it guts me.

So I lean in close and say, "When Papa comes to get you, tell him to bring you both to my office. Deal?"

Her eyes light up again. "Deal!"

She holds out her pinky. I link mine with hers, sealing the pact.

And when she turns to her teacher, already launching into a story about the pancakes I made (that Rain called lumpy), I stand.

The teacher tries again to speak.I give her a look.

She closes her mouth.

Smart.

I step out of the classroom, not looking back.Because if I do, I'll end up taking Kaia back home and canceling my day.

And as much as I want to, there are still men who need reminders.And shipments that need inspecting.

But later, maybe, I'll have both of them in my office.And I'll get my goodnight kiss before sundown.

...

When I get back to the estate, it's quieter than usual. The guards nod as I walk past. Win gives me a quick update near the hall—shipment secure, nothing urgent, Sector 7 still licking its wounds. I wave him off and head upstairs.

The bedroom's empty.

But then I hear movement—soft steps, the faint thump of something being set down. I follow the sound to Kaia's room.

And there he is.

Rain.

Bent over Kaia's bed, folding tiny shirts into perfect squares. Her laundry basket's at his feet, his hair loosely clipped up, a few golden strands slipping free. He's barefoot, in one of my shirts that swallows his frame, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

My chest tightens.

He doesn't hear me at first. He's humming quietly, that same lullaby he always sings for Kaia when she's sick or tired. I lean against the doorframe and just... watch.

My husband. The softest part of my world. The one man who could gut me with a look, and stitch me back together with a smile.

"You're folding laundry," I say finally.

He jumps a little, straightening up. "Jesus, Phi. You move like a fucking shadow."

I smile. "It's my job."

He rolls his eyes and tosses a pair of unicorn-print leggings onto the bed. "Well, my job right now is making sure our daughter doesn't go to school smelling like fabric softener overdose. The maids use too much."

I walk into the room, slow, deliberate. "You could've asked someone else to do it."

He shrugs, not looking up. "I like doing it."

Of course he does.Of course the man who lives in a palace and has a diamond collection somehow still finds time to fold our daughter's barbie pajamas by hand.

I come up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him flush against me. He leans back into it with a soft hum, warm and pliant.

"You miss her already," I murmur into his neck.

Rain nods. "Every single time."

We stay like that a moment, the scent of fresh cotton and his skin filling my lungs. I kiss the shell of his ear and feel him smile.

"I'm going to cook tonight," he says suddenly. "You've been working too much. And Kaia said she wants shrimp."

"She said that yesterday too," I remind him.

"She says it every day," he laughs. "It's her personality now."

I chuckle and tighten my grip. "Fine. I'll help."

"No. You'll distract me. You'll hover, and then you'll kiss my neck, and then I'll burn the shrimp."

"I like it when you burn things."

"You like it when I burn. Period."

I grin against his shoulder. He's not wrong.

....

I drag him upstairs. Not roughly, just with intent.

My hand around his wrist, his soft scoff behind me, like he knows exactly where this is going and won't fight it.

I don't need sex. Not now.I just need him.

I pull him into our bedroom, kick the door shut, and steer him toward the bed. He rolls his eyes, but he follows. Always follows. I collapse back onto the mattress and pull him down with me, slotting myself behind him at first, but then I shift, pressing my head to his stomach instead, arms wrapped tight around his slim waist.

His shirt rides up as I bury my face against his warm skin. I inhale deeply, like I've been starving and he's the only thing keeping me alive.

Rain hums low in his throat, fingers threading through my hair, gentle and slow. He's always like this when I come to him like this—unquestioning. Open.

"Long morning?" he asks, amused.

I groan. "The longest."

He chuckles under his breath, and I feel it vibrate through his body. I don't move. I don't want to.

"I love her," I say, almost a whisper. "To death."

"I know."

"But I love this more," I admit. "Just us. Like this."

His fingers pause for a second, then keep moving. "You're allowed to say that, you know."

"I still feel like I'm not."

"Because you're an overprotective, obsessive, emotionally repressed mafia boss who cries when his daughter hands him rocks?"

I snort. "Shut up."

He laughs quietly, and my grip tightens around his waist.

"When are you meeting Sector 7's boss?" he asks, voice dipping softer.

"This night ."

"Good," he says. "I'm coming with you."

I hum again, this time with no argument. I hold him tighter, just nuzzling deeper into his warmth. His fingers never stop moving, threading slow and easy through my hair, grounding me with every stroke.

Then his voice drops, low and calm but carrying that edge I know too well."Sector 14's being sneaky. I thought 7 was our only problem, but 14 and 22... they give me a bad feeling."

That pulls my head up. I shift, resting in his lap now, looking up at him from under the sweep of my lashes. His eyes are narrowed, faraway, calculating.

I never question him. Not when he sounds like that.

He may be softer than me, prettier, more polished. But when Rain gets a feeling, I fucking listen.

"You want me to kill them all?" I ask, voice soft, steady.

He snorts, shaking his head. "Not yet. I don't think it's come to that."

I reach up and brush a strand of hair from his cheek."But it could."

"It might." He glances down at me. "But first we deal with Seven."

I hum, agreeing, already sorting possibilities in my mind. Routes. Names. Weak links. How much firepower I'll need if I let myself off the leash.

Then he claps my thigh lightly. "Up you go."

I blink. "What?"

"Go shower," he says, standing and stretching like a cat. "You stink of sweat and syrup."

"You licked the syrup off me this morning," I remind him, not moving.

He grins and kisses the top of my head. "Yeah, and now I want you clean so I can dress you up like a doll. Come on. I'm picking out your clothes."

I groan dramatically. "I'm a grown man."

He gives me that look. The one that shuts me right up.

I stand.

Because if my husband wants to play dress-up with his favorite murder toy, who the hell am I to argue?

...

I shower in record time—quick scrub, rinse, no indulgence. Not when Rain's in one of those moods. The ones where he wants to micromanage how I smell and what I wear, because he says it makes him feel better when I look like I belong to him.

Not that I ever belonged to anyone else.

I step into our closet and the contrast hits me like always.

My side: neat rows of black, charcoal, slate. Deep burgundy suits with silk linings, some greys so dark they almost blur into black, and a few white shirts—Rain's favorites. He makes me wear them around the house so they soak in my scent.

Then he steals them, sleeps in them, sometimes even wears them out, sleeves rolled up to the elbows like it's the most casual thing in the world to be draped in the mafia boss' favorite shirt.

His side? All white.Ivory. Pearl. Ecru. Champagne.

A hundred shades of delicate, ethereal cream.Soft fabrics. Clean lines. A few dress shirts with hidden silk harnesses sewn in.Rain always says it's to "stay elegant under duress."

I glance over and see him standing at the end of my rack, holding up two shirts like he's judging them for an international competition.

His face is pinched. Displeased.

"This one," he says, flicking one hanger toward me, "makes you look like a grumpy billionaire about to fire half your staff before brunch."

I arch a brow. "I am a grumpy billionaire about to fire half my staff before brunch."

He clicks his tongue. "Yes, but we don't need to announce it with shoulder pads."

He tosses that one aside and picks another. A black button-down, sharp-cut, no tie. Slim fit. Of course.

"This one," he says, stepping forward to hand it to me, "says: I'm lethal, emotionally unavailable, and I might shoot your husband if you look at me wrong."

I grin. "So... you, basically."

He smirks. "Exactly."

I grab the shirt from him, tug it on, not bothering to button it yet. He watches the way it slides over my body, eyes flickering low like he's remembering the way he peeled it off me the last time.

"You're such a problem," he mutters.

"You're the one who picked it."

He walks past me, but not before dragging his fingers down my chest, then slipping one of my  shirts from its hanger—white, soft, worn.

"This is mine now," he says casually, slipping it on over his own bare chest.

I watch him. Shirt too big. Collar slipping. Smelling like me already.

"Take anything you want," I murmur, voice low. "Just don't leave."

He looks over his shoulder, smirks. "Where the fuck would I go?"

And that's the end of it. Because I know it. He knows it.

This closet, this empire, this home—We built it together.And no matter how much blood we drag through the doors, he's still my white.

And I'm still his black. And we wear each other like shield.

Rain's POV

Later in the afternoon, I go to pick Kaia up like I always do—expecting the usual flash of curls, that high-pitched "Papa!" and her tiny sneakers running so fast the teacher has to hold her back.

But she's not running today.She's walking.Slowly.

Still smiling, but...Not the way she usually does.Not the kind that turns her entire face into sunshine and noise.

My heart pinches.

I crouch to her height, arms open, and she walks into them, wraps her arms around my neck. It's tight. Not like her usual happy squeeze. This feels like she's holding on.

I stroke her back gently. "Did you have a good day, princess?"

She nods against my shoulder.That's already weird.Kaia talks. She narrates her life. From what she ate to who she fought to what color the sky was at recess.

But now, silence.

I lean back just enough to see her face. "Are you okay? Do you feel sick?"

She shakes her head. Her nose wrinkles. "No, Papa."

I glance her over—no scrapes, no bruises, no tear tracks. She's intact. But my gut says something's off.

I guide her to the car and open the back door. One of our security, Jael, is already there waiting. I lean down, kiss her forehead.

"I'll be right back, princess," I whisper.

She nods again, too quiet, already curling into her seat.

I walk back into the school. Straight to her teacher, who flinches a little when she sees me. I'm still in cream linen pants and a pale pink white shirt—soft, delicate, rich—but I know what I look like when I'm upset. And I'm upset.

"I just wanted to check," I say, calm but direct, "was there anything unusual today? Anyone hurt Kaia?"

Her teacher shakes her head quickly. "No, nothing like that. Just the usual kid things. A little bickering over turns at the swing set but Kaia didn't even get involved."

I nod, but I'm filing that swing set comment away for later."Thank you," I say, and I mean it, but I'm still already halfway back to my car.

Kaia's smile lifts a little when she sees me slip into the front seat again."Papa?"

"Change of plans," I say, starting the car. "We're getting ice cream."

Her eyes widen. "Really?"

"Mm-hmm. And after that, we're going to Dada's office."

And there—there it is. The spark comes back. Not full force, not yet, but brighter.She claps once, and my chest finally loosens.

I switch on her iPad, cue up her favorite cartoon, and glance in the rearview mirror as I pull out of the school gates.

She's singing softly to herself now. Watching talking animals.Licking her lips already like she's imagining ice cream flavors.

But I'm not letting this go.Not until I know exactly why my daughter walked instead of ran.Not until I know who or what dimmed her light.

She's our whole world.And when something touches her...They've touched me.And worse...They've touched Phi.

God help them.