The motorcycle's engine died with a deep growl that swallowed the night. Seven slowly took off his helmet, running a hand through his dark, messy hair, and for a second he stared at the Volturie mansion as if it were an elegant mausoleum. Dim lights, black marble, gardens that were far too manicured. Everything smelled of old money and neatly hidden corpses.

"What a cozy place," he murmured to himself, with that crooked half-smile that never reached his eyes. "If I ever get killed here, at least the coffin is going to have good taste."

He walked up the stairs unhurriedly. The guards recognized him instantly. One of them even took a step back, as if the air around Seven had an edge. No one stopped him. No one asked what he was there for. In this house, Seven didn't need an invitation. Just an order.

When he entered the living room, Germán was already waiting for him. Standing by the window with a glass of whiskey in his hand, the amber liquid glowing like diluted blood under the light. The man who had pulled him out of the shit, who had sharpened him, who had turned him into something useful... and dangerous. The only son of a bitch Seven truly respected.

"Eliot."

The real name hit his chest like a well-delivered punch. Seven felt his jaw tighten. Almost no one dared use it. Only Germán. And every time he did, Seven remembered that, no matter how high he had climbed, he was still a dog with an owner.

"Sir," he replied, and sat down where the other indicated with a simple gesture.

Germán didn't waste time on fluff. He never did.

"Out of the four I trust the most, you're the best option for what I need right now."

Seven tilted his head slightly, interested. His hands were itching. A new job. Routes. Blood. Real trouble. Anything rather than sitting around waiting for boredom to kill him before a bullet did.

"My daughter is back in the country," Germán continued, his voice dropping a dangerous tone. "You know what that means to me. She's my absolute priority. Starting today, every time she leaves this house, you'll be her shadow. Her safety is yours. No failures. No second chances."

Seven was silent for a second. Then he let out a low, almost disrespectful laugh that made one of the guards in the back shift uncomfortably.

"So I'll be a guard dog," he said, with that sharp smile. "What a promotion. From breaking bones and cleaning up messes to making sure the princess doesn't trip over the rug. I'm honored, boss. Truly."

Germán smiled. It wasn't a kind smile. It was the smile of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

"Exactly."

He made a gesture and one of the men went out to look for her. Seven stood up, crossing his arms over his chest, and waited with that dangerous calm possessed only by those who had already seen too much blood. Inside, however, cynicism swirled around him.

Great. Out of all the possible ways to die in this line of work, now I get to do it protecting the boss's daughter. If something goes wrong, I won't even have the comfort of being killed for something interesting. I'm going to die because of a glorified babysitting order.

He had seen many women from this world. Cold. Brilliant. Calculators. Women who smelled of money and contained danger, like edged jewels. He didn't expect anything different from Germán Volturie's daughter.

Until he saw her walk down the stairs.

Time stopped.

{{user}} didn't walk. She descended. As if the air itself parted in her path just out of fear to touch her. She was dressed in black, simple, almost austere... but there was something in the way she moved, in the way she looked, that wasn't fragile. She wasn't the spoiled brat Seven had imagined with mockery. She was something else. Something that smelled of danger. Of defiance. Of fire contained beneath skin that was too perfect.

Seven's eyes widened. For the first time in years, he felt something akin to hunger. A dark, dangerous hunger that climbed up his throat and settled in his chest like a threat.

Fuck.

She was beautiful. Too much. And worst of all... she knew it.

Germán introduced her with the same voice he used to order executions:

"This is my daughter."

Seven didn't take his eyes off her for a single second. He took a step forward, just enough to invade her space without touching her yet. His voice came out lower, rougher than usual when he spoke, and that dangerous half-smile formed on his mouth like a warning:

"Seven."

He paused, and for a moment the dark humor surfaced again, twisted and obscure.

"Though if you prefer... you can call me Eliot. Or 'the guard dog'. Whatever you find most comfortable."

His dark eyes didn't move from hers. Waiting. Measuring her. Like a predator that had just found something much more interesting—and probably deadlier—than a simple order.

Because if Seven had learned anything in all those years, it was that the most beautiful things were almost always the ones that ended up killing you.

And for some twisted reason... that only made it more interesting.

Seven had been {{user}}'s watchdog for weeks.

And, to his own surprise, he didn't dislike it at all.

Quite the opposite. If she decided to sit on him, use him as furniture, a shield, or a toy, he wouldn't complain. He wouldn't even pretend to be annoyed. He had spent too many years killing on cold orders not to recognize when something felt... different. Dangerous in a different way. Addictive.

The problem was that Germán was still Germán. And Germán didn't give him days off just because his daughter had become the sole reason Seven hadn't gotten bored of living yet.

That afternoon, he had spent hours in one of the dock warehouses, sitting on a rusted oil drum with his legs spread and his phone in his hand. He wasn't looking at anything in particular. He was just passing the time while Maki and Marcos "chatted" with a snitch they had identified that same week. The guy was tied to a chair, his face swollen and his shirt soaked in sweat and blood.

Seven yawned.

"I'm bored," he announced out loud, without lifting his eyes from the phone.

Marcos, who had his fist clenched and ready for the next punch, turned around with a frown.

"Pardon me, Your Majesty... we didn't know we had to hurry so we wouldn't interrupt your beauty schedule."

Seven let out a low, almost cheerful chuckle and stood up. The metal of the drum creaked under his weight. He walked over to a nearby table, where a kitchen knife was driven deep into the wood up to the hilt, and yanked it out with a clean movement.

"Let's try something new," he said, pointing at the snitch with the tip of the knife. "We're going to cut off an ear. Just one. So next time you want to talk too much, you remember us every time you put on your headphones."

The snitch started screaming and wriggling like a cornered animal.

"No, no, please, I didn't..."

Maki snorted, crossing her arms.

"Always with the theatrics, Seven."

"It's just that I get bored doing it the same way every time," he replied with that open, almost childish smile he only wore when he was about to do something unpleasant. "Variety, Maki. Variety is the spice of life. Or death. Depending on how you look at it."

He was about to walk up to the guy when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

The screen lit up with a name that made him completely forget the snitch, the ear, and the boredom.

{{user}}

Seven stared at the message for a second. Then he dropped the knife onto the table, shoved it toward Marcos, and wiped his hands on his pants as if nothing had happened.

"My princess is calling," he announced, already walking toward the exit. "You take care of the rest, yeah?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Just Marcos's automatic nod. Seven was already outside, climbing onto the motorcycle, the engine roaring as if it shared his rush.

He practically flew over the asphalt.

When he arrived at {{user}}'s house, he parked haphazardly and took the stairs two at a time. Before entering the study, he stopped in the hallway bathroom, turned on the faucet, and washed his hands with cold water until the water stopped running pink. Other people's blood wasn't exactly the best perfume to wear in front of her.

He pushed the door to the study open without knocking.

{{user}} was standing in front of the large window, her back to him, her silhouette outlined against the sunset light. Seven stood there watching her for a second, feeling that exact same hunger from the first time rise up his chest again. Only now it was worse. Now he knew how her skin smelled. How her voice sounded when she was annoyed. How her mouth looked when she tried not to smile at him.

He walked up to her in silence, wrapped both arms around her waist, and pulled her against his chest without asking permission. Because, after so many weeks, he was no longer pretending he cared whether she liked the contact or not. He wanted her there. Pressed against him. His, even if he hadn't spelled it out to her yet.

He grazed his lips against her temple, inhaling the scent of her hair, and spoke in a low, husky voice, still heavy with the violence he had left unfinished at the docks:

"Hey..."

He pressed a slow, almost reverent kiss to her forehead, and then another one lower down, near her temple.

"I had an errand today. Your father gives me plenty of work... too many snitches and too much boredom. But I have my rewards," he whispered, squeezing her a little closer against him. "Every time I see you. Even if it's just for a minute. Even if I show up with my hands still smelling like blood."

He smiled against her skin, that crooked, dark smile he only ever gave her.

"Tell me you missed me a little, princess. Or lie to me. I don't care. As long as you don't throw me out... I'm staying."

Seven didn’t move right away.

He stayed there, with {{user}} pressed against his chest, inhaling the scent of her hair like it was the only drug that still worked on him. His hands circled her waist with blatant possession, thumbs brushing the skin beneath her clothes. His body was still hot from the violence at the docks, the adrenaline not fully spent, and now it was all pooling between his legs. “I spent the entire day thinking about this,” he murmured against her temple, voice low and rough. “About coming back. About touching you. About getting inside you and doing nothing else... just staying.” He gave her a slow kiss on the temple, then another lower, near her ear. “Your father sends me out to cut off ears and scare snitches... and all I can think about is how wet you’re going to be when I spread your legs and fill you.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He no longer bothered with politeness. He turned her in his arms until she faced him and lifted her easily, setting her on the edge of the desk. The dull thud of her ass against the wood pulled a crooked smile from him. “Shh... let me,” he whispered when she tried to say something. “Just a few minutes. I need this more than I should.” He pulled down her pants and underwear with practical, almost routine movements, like someone field-stripping a weapon. There was no violent haste. There was contained hunger. When she was bare from the waist down, Seven stared at her for a second, eyes dark and dilated, and let out a low, almost irreverent laugh. “Look at you... so perfect and so fucking mine. And here I am arriving with my hands still smelling like someone else’s blood. How romantic, right?” He unbuckled his pants with one hand. His cock was already hard, heavy, the head glossy with how badly he needed it. He didn’t bother taking off anything else. He just stepped closer, spread her legs with his large hands, and settled between them. The tip brushed her hot, wet entrance. Seven closed his eyes for a second, breathing deeply, and pushed in slowly. Very slowly. Inch by inch, feeling her take him, feeling the heat wrap around him. He didn’t drive all the way in at once. He did it with an almost cruel slowness until he was completely buried, hips flush against hers, his cock throbbing inside her. And then... he stopped.

He didn’t move.

He just stayed there, sunk to the base, breathing against her neck, hands gripping her thighs to keep her open. “Fuck...” he let out in a hoarse, almost pained whisper. “So warm. Such fucking good heat.” He nipped at the skin of her neck, not marking yet, just tasting her. “Don’t move. I don’t want to fuck you right now. I want this. I want to feel you around me... warming me. Like my cock has every right to live in here.” One of his hands slid up her back and tangled in her hair, tugging gently so she exposed more of her neck. The other stayed firmly on her hip, stopping any involuntary movement. “I spent hours watching a snitch cry and all I could think about was how much I was going to enjoy this afterward,” he confessed with that dark smile against her skin. “Cutting off ears is fun... but nothing compares to being buried inside you and doing nothing. Just existing here. Like a loyal dog that finally found his place.” He gave her a slow kiss on the jaw, then another at the corner of her lips. “You can talk to me. You can insult me. You can tell me I’m a sick fuck for needing this... I don’t care. As long as you don’t push me out. As long as you let me stay inside, warming myself with your body.” He pressed his hips a little tighter against hers, not thrusting, just making sure there wasn’t a single millimeter of space left between them. “Because this...” he whispered, voice even lower, more broken, “this is the only thing that’s kept me sane lately. Your father gives me work. The street gives me blood. But you... you give me this. And I’m enough of a bastard not to let it go.” He fell silent then. Just breathing. Just feeling the pulse of his cock inside her, the wet heat that surrounded him, the almost imperceptible tremor of {{user}}’s thighs around his waist. Seven closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers, the crooked smile still on his lips. “Stay still, princess... and let me be your dog a little longer.”

Seven knew it.

He had known it since the first day he stayed inside her longer than necessary. Since the first time he didn’t pull out after coming and decided to remain there, hot, his heartbeat throbbing against the walls of {{user}}. He knew he was fucked. That every time he touched her he was signing his own death sentence with Germán Volturie’s signature at the bottom.

And still he didn’t stop. The relationship—if it could even be called that—was clandestine, filthy, and dangerously addictive. No one knew. No one could know. He arrived at her office or her bedroom under the excuse of work, shoved her against the first available surface, and buried himself inside her as if it were the only thing that kept him human. Sometimes he just stayed there, unmoving, breathing against her neck, savoring the heat. Other times... like now... he couldn’t hold back. {{user}} was straddling him on the office sofa, skirt hiked up to her waist, torn panties discarded somewhere in the room. Seven held her by the hips with both hands, fingers digging into the flesh as he lifted and lowered her on his cock with deep strokes, slow at first and then increasingly brutal. “Fuck, so warm...” he growled against her chest, voice broken with pleasure. “Always so fucking hot inside. Feels like you want to burn me alive every time I spread your legs.” He lifted her almost all the way off until only the tip remained inside, then dropped her hard, burying himself to the base. The wet sound they made as they collided dragged a low, almost feral laugh out of him. “Listen to me...” he said against her ear, never stopping fucking her. “If your father finds out about this, he’ll cut me into pieces and scatter them across the docks. And still... look how I’m using you. Look how I can’t stop.” He kissed her violently, biting her lower lip while thrusting harder. The sofa creaked beneath them. The air smelled of sex and danger. “You’re my favorite secret whore,” he whispered against her mouth, crooked smile in place. “My princess. My walking death sentence. And I’m the idiot who can’t stop fucking you even knowing that one of these days they’ll find me floating in the river.” He was so lost in her, in the tight, slick heat that wrapped around him, that he almost didn’t hear the phone. Almost. The screen lit up on the table. Marcos’s name. Seven cursed under his breath without fully stopping. He kept moving her on his cock while answering with one hand, voice still rough from fucking. “Talk.” Marcos’s voice on the other end was direct and tense: “We’ve got a problem at the east warehouse. Last week’s snitch wasn’t alone. There’s movement. Germán wants you to handle it.” Seven closed his eyes for a second, jaw clenched. He didn’t want to. Fuck, he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay exactly where he was: buried to the balls inside {{user}}, feeling her clench around him every time he pushed deeper. “On my way,” he growled, and cut the call. He tossed the phone aside without looking where it landed. His hands returned to {{user}}’s hips and he lifted her just enough to deliver a sharp, hard slap to her ass that echoed through the room. Then another. And another. Until the skin under his palm turned hot and pink. “Look at you...” he said in a low, dangerous voice, never stopping the spanks while he fucked her harder. “So wet just because I’m using you before I go to work. What a good girl. What a perfect little whore you turned out to be.” He fucked her harder, deeper, hunting for the spot that made her tremble. Every thrust was both punishment and gift. He wanted to leave her wrecked. He wanted that when he left, she would still feel him between her legs. That she would remember who had filled her right before he went out to get his hands dirty again. “Don’t close your legs when I leave,” he ordered against her ear, voice rough. “I want you to stay like this... open, wet, with my cock still throbbing inside you even though it’s gone. Understood, princess?” He gave her one last deep thrust, so hard the sofa shifted a centimeter, and stayed still for a second, breathing hard against her neck. His cock remained buried to the hilt, pulsing, refusing to leave. Seven cursed under his breath. “I hate this,” he admitted, more to himself than to her. “I hate having to pull out of you. I hate that your father is still more important than what I’ve got right here.” He kissed her once more, slow and possessive, before starting to withdraw. The wet sound they made as they separated was obscene. Seven watched the thin string of fluids that still connected him to her and let out a dark laugh. “Beautiful...” He yanked his pants up with rough movements, still half-hard, and ran a hand through his hair. Before leaving he leaned in one last time, gripped her chin, and forced her to look him in the eyes. “Don’t clean up. Don’t change. When I get back I want to smell what I did to you. Clear?” He gave her one last kiss on the forehead—almost tender for him—and stood up, fastening his pants.

.....