The grand hall of the Veridian Estate was a cathedral of opulence, its soaring arches and marble columns gleaming under the soft, golden glow of crystal chandeliers. Classical music—a delicate waltz—hummed through the air, weaving between the low murmur of elite conversation and the occasional trill of polite laughter. Gloved waiters glided through the crowd, their trays laden with flutes of champagne and delicate canapés that looked more like art than food. The guests, draped in bespoke suits and gowns that whispered of old money and older secrets, mingled with the practiced ease of those accustomed to power.
The heavy double doors at the hall’s entrance swung open with a quiet authority, and Nicholas DeRose stepped through, his presence a storm cloud rolling into a clear sky. At six-foot-four, his muscular frame filled the doorway, the tailored lines of his black suit accentuating every hard edge of his body. The fabric, custom-made by a discreet Italian designer, screamed wealth, but the way he carried himself—shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes sharp as a blade—screamed danger. He was the undisputed king of the city’s underbelly, a mafia boss whose name was whispered in fear as often as it was in awe.
Clinging to his arm, looking both stunning and slightly out of place, was Taeyon, his husband of two years. Petite and slender, Taeyon’s form-fitting suit—charcoal with subtle silver threading—hugged his lithe curves in a way that turned heads, though his expression suggested he’d rather be anywhere else. His dark hair was swept back, accentuating the sharp angles of his face, and his almond-shaped eyes glittered with a mix of annoyance and wariness as they scanned the room. He wasn’t made for these glittering charades; he preferred the quiet of their penthouse, a sketchbook in hand, far from the games of power and pretense.
“Must you drag me to these insufferable gatherings?” Taeyon muttered under his breath as they navigated the sea of elite guests, his voice a low hiss meant for Nicholas alone. “I’d rather be flayed alive than smile at another one of these vultures.”
Nicholas’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smirk, though his eyes remained forward, exchanging curt nods with powerful figures as they passed. A senator here, a crooked CEO there—each acknowledged him with a mix of respect and barely concealed unease. “Behave, darling,” he rumbled, his deep voice carrying that dangerous edge that made lesser men flinch. “You’re my arm candy tonight. Act the part.”
“Arm candy?” Taeyon’s tone was venomous, though he kept his smile plastered on for appearances. “I’m a bloody masterpiece, and you know it. You’re just parading me around to make these fools jealous.”
Nicholas’s hand tightened briefly on Taeyon’s arm, a silent warning, but there was amusement in his dark eyes. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll find a better use for that sharp tongue of yours.”
Taeyon shot him a withering glare, though the faintest flush crept up his neck. He opened his mouth to retort, but they’d reached their destination—a crowded table near the center of the hall, where a mix of influential allies and thinly veiled rivals sat nursing drinks and egos in equal measure. The men and women glanced up as Nicholas approached, their expressions ranging from calculated warmth to barely masked hostility. Chairs scraped lightly as a few stood to greet him, but as Taeyon’s eyes swept the table, his irritation flared hotter.
There was no extra seat.
“Are you kidding me?” Taeyon’s voice was a sharp whisper, his grip on Nicholas’s arm tightening. “Did these idiots forget I exist, or is this some pathetic power play?”
Nicholas didn’t bother responding with words. Instead, with a slow, deliberate smirk that could’ve frozen blood, he sank into the single available chair—a throne-like seat at the head of the table—and tugged Taeyon down with him. In one fluid motion, he settled his husband onto his lap, one arm looping possessively around Taeyon’s waist while the other rested casually on the armrest. The curious glances from around the table were met with a look from Nicholas that dared anyone to comment.
Taeyon, however, was less than thrilled. He squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position, his movements unintentionally teasing as his hips shifted against Nicholas’s thighs. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with indignation. “I’m not a lapdog, Nicholas. Get me a damn chair.”
Nicholas’s hands clamped down on Taeyon’s hips, stilling him with a firm grip. His voice dropped to a low growl, laced with barely concealed amusement. “Stop. Moving.”
Taeyon froze for a split second, then twisted his head to glare at Nicholas over his shoulder. His dark eyes flashed with irritation, though a smirk tugged at his lips. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I distracting you? Or is that your gun poking into me? Because if it is, your aim is terrible.”
The table fell silent for a heartbeat, a few guests pretending not to have heard while others hid smirks behind their drinks. Nicholas, unfazed, leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of Taeyon’s ear as he whispered, “Careful, sweetheart. You keep squirming like that, and you’ll find out exactly what kind of ‘gun’ I’m packing.”
A visible shiver ran through Taeyon, his breath catching despite himself. His cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and for once, that sharp tongue of his faltered. He turned his head away, glaring at the table as if the polished wood had personally offended him, though the heat in his face betrayed him. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered, barely audible.
Nicholas’s grip tightened subtly, one hand sliding from Taeyon’s hip to his thigh under the table, fingers tracing lazy, deliberate circles against the fabric of his suit. “And yet, here you are,” he murmured, his tone dark and teasing. “Right where I want you.”
Taeyon’s jaw clenched, his body tensing, though he didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned back slightly, just enough to press against Nicholas’s chest, his voice a hissed insult meant for his husband’s ears only. “You’re a brute. A barbaric, overbearing beast with no sense of decorum.”
Nicholas chuckled, the sound low and dangerous, vibrating through Taeyon’s frame. “Keep calling me names, love. It only makes me want to drag you out of here and show you just how barbaric I can be.”
Their banter crackled like electricity, drawing a few raised eyebrows from nearby guests who couldn’t help but sense the undercurrent of something more beneath the heated whispers and playful jabs. A woman in a sapphire gown coughed delicately into her napkin, while a man with a silver mustache shot them a knowing look before returning to his conversation. Taeyon, for his part, refused to back down, even as his body betrayed him with every subtle lean into Nicholas’s touch.
“You’re impossible,” Taeyon snapped, though his voice lacked its usual bite, softened by the flush still staining his cheeks. “Do you ever stop thinking with your—”
“Careful,” Nicholas interrupted, his tone a velvet threat as his fingers pressed just a little harder into Taeyon’s thigh. “Finish that sentence, and I’ll have to take this ‘discussion’ somewhere more private. Right now.”
Taeyon’s glare could’ve melted steel, but the way he didn’t pull away—the way he stayed nestled against Nicholas despite his protests—spoke volumes. The flush on his cheeks deepened, and though he turned his head to stare resolutely at the crowd, the undeniable pull between them simmered in the air, a promise of fiery encounters yet to come.
As the classical music swelled and the conversations around them resumed, Nicholas’s smirk lingered, a predator’s satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. Taeyon might fight him tooth and nail, but they both knew the game—and the heat that fueled it—was far from over.
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