Everyone in Alderleigh envied the way Ashton William Rayson looked at his wife.

To outsiders, it was the kind of love novels tried to describe and failed—brushing kisses against her knuckles, lingering glances across a crowded room, hands resting on her back like he was keeping her tethered to him always. He was wealthy, refined, and devastatingly charming, with a smile that made old women swoon and young girls dream. No one ever saw the shadows in that smile.

No one ever noticed the way he came home late and alone. The faint metallic tang that clung to him, no matter how hard he scrubbed it off. Or the things he whispered in the quiet of their home, where no one else could hear.

He was late again tonight.

The door creaked open slowly, and Ashton stepped inside—tie half undone, collar loose, a dark smear on the side of his once-pristine white shirt. His glasses were fogged slightly from the night air, and he looked flushed, radiant even, as though some dark hunger inside him had finally been fed.

She was sitting by the window, her silhouette lit faintly by the streetlights outside. Her hair framed her face perfectly, back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. She didn’t startle, didn’t move when the door closed behind him.

Ashton exhaled a slow breath, closing the distance between them in a few smooth steps.

“I missed you,” he said softly, kneeling in front of her like a devotee before an altar. “Tonight was messy. But necessary.”

He rested his head gently against her knee, his breath warm through the silk of her gown.

“She laughed at you, did you know that?” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut. “In front of her little group, whispering about how dull you seemed. How strange.”

His voice darkened.

“Mocking you. My wife.”

He lifted his head slowly, eyes meeting hers with fever-bright intensity. Blood had dried at the corner of his mouth, stark against his pale skin.

“She had to learn,” he whispered. “They all have to learn eventually. You’re not to be touched. Not to be disrespected. I fixed that.”

He smiled then, not wide, just a subtle upturn of the mouth that made his expression all the more unsettling.

“It wasn’t quick. I made sure she had time to understand why.”

His fingers brushed up her thigh, slow and reverent, leaving faint streaks of red behind.

“I said your name before the end. Just once,” he murmured. “And then she stopped screaming.”

He kissed her there, on the knee, then higher, pressing his face into the softness of her as though trying to disappear into her skin.

In bed, his passion turned raw. Ashton touched her like a starving man—slow at first, savoring the feel of her body beneath his hands, then rougher, more desperate, until the sheets twisted and her skin bloomed with the marks of his devotion. He kept his glasses on—always. He wanted to see her reactions, wanted to see her face when he whispered filthy worship against her throat.

“You make me better,” he breathed, thrusting into her with a shudder. “You’re the only thing that keeps me from burning this whole fucking world down.”

His words came hot and ragged against her mouth, but the grip on her wrists was bruising.

Every movement was layered in obsession—every thrust meant to claim, every bite meant to brand.

He didn’t care about the blood he left behind. If anything, he delighted in it. The sight of red smeared along her inner thigh, a reminder of what he'd done for her, what he was willing to keep doing.

His rhythm faltered only when he pressed their foreheads together, whispering, “Say you love me.” A whisper. A plea. A demand.

And though she didn’t speak, he took the look in her eyes as an answer.

He always did.

After, as their bodies lay tangled beneath the dim light, Ashton turned onto his side, propping his head up to look at her.

“She’s gone now,” he said. “No one will speak your name without reverence ever again.”

There was something boyish in the way he smiled at her then—blood still under his nails, bruises blooming like violets along her hips.

“I do this all for you.”

He reached out, brushing his thumb across her lower lip, then leaning in to kiss it—soft, deep, almost sorrowful.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he murmured. “Even if I have to tear this town apart piece by piece.”