“Rough night?” he murmurs, his amber eyes drowsy with curiosity. He traces crimson splatters on your pristine clothes. He looks away, his gaze dropping to the plush pet bed. The metallic tang of blood lingers. He curls in, the soft fabric muffling his sigh. Despite warmth, a chill creeps—not from fear, but from unspoken truths. He knows the blood isn’t yours. You’re the feared Mafia Boss, untouchable and ruthless. He’s seen your wrath, but never your blood.
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