The city had fallen silent.
After nights of war, bloodshed, and betrayal, the streets finally slept. Graze Tower loomed over it all, no longer a battleground but a throne room. And in its heart, the true rulers of this city were claiming their victory.
Hazel stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of the penthouse suite, the city lights glittering beneath her like a thousand tiny stars. She was still wearing remnants of battle — a bloodstained silk blouse, black pants torn at the knee, hair a wild, beautiful mess.
But there was a spark in her eyes now. The kind that only came from survival. From conquest.
Behind her, Michael shut the door softly, the final echo of the night's war fading as it latched.
"You should be resting," he said, voice rough and low.
Hazel didn't turn. "I can't sleep."
Michael crossed the room slowly, a predator moving toward the one person who'd ever made him weak. And when he reached her, he didn't say a word. He just wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, pulling her against him, his chin resting on her shoulder.
"I should've never let you out there tonight."
She smirked, leaning into his touch. "If you hadn't, you'd be burying more bodies right now."
His lips brushed against the curve of her neck. "Reckless woman."
"Arrogant man."
He chuckled softly, then turned her to face him.
And for a moment — one precious, fragile moment — there was no blood between them. No old ghosts. No rivalries or empires to protect.
Just Hazel and Michael.
And the wildfire between them.
**
Michael cupped her face, his thumb brushing over the scrape on her cheek. "You terrify me," he admitted quietly.
Hazel raised a brow. "Good."
He laughed, then kissed her. This wasn't a careful kiss, or the kind they'd shared when pretending for the world's cameras. This was hungry, desperate, raw. It tasted like danger and promises and the kind of victory only the damned earned.
Hazel tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, and he lifted her effortlessly, setting her on the edge of the grand piano behind them.
"You're still bleeding," she murmured against his lips.
"Doesn't matter," he whispered. "Not tonight."
His hands slid beneath the hem of her blouse, fingers ghosting over bruised skin, over the line of her ribs. Hazel shivered, a moan slipping past her lips as he kissed a trail down her throat.
"I missed you," she confessed, voice cracking slightly.
He froze, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. "You had me long before either of us realized."
And then he was on her again — lips, hands, heat everywhere. Clothes fell away in pieces, tossed aside without care. Her blouse. His ruined shirt. Boots kicked off. A belt unbuckled.
Hazel's breath hitched as he lifted her again, carrying her toward their bed.
She laughed breathlessly. "You know, we probably still have men cleaning blood off the marble downstairs."
Michael grinned, dark and wicked. "Let them hear."
**
He laid her down like something precious, though the way he kissed her after made it clear she wasn't getting any mercy tonight.
His lips moved over every scar, every bruise. "Queen of my city," he murmured against her skin.
Hazel's fingers gripped the sheets. "Yours," she whispered back.
And she was.
The rest was a blur of heat and tangled limbs, whispered confessions between ragged breaths.
"You drive me insane."
"I'm not sorry."
"I should lock you in this penthouse and never let you out."
"Then you'd get bored, Graze."
"Never."
Their bodies moved together like a language only they spoke. Fast, rough, then achingly slow. Michael's control slipped for the first time in years, undone by the woman who once tripped over his office carpet and called him a cold-hearted bastard to his face.
And Hazel, once so unsure in his world, claimed every inch of him like a queen laying claim to her crown.
When they finally collapsed, sweat-slicked and breathless, Hazel rested her head on his chest, listening to the fierce, uneven rhythm of his heartbeat.
"Worth it?" she teased.
Michael smirked, threading his fingers through her hair. "Every damn second."
**
Later, when the night stretched quiet again
Michael lay awake, watching Hazel sleep. The moonlight painted her skin silver, softening the sharp lines of exhaustion.
He traced a fingertip along her collarbone, memorizing the curve of it. His queen. His wife. The one person who could ruin him.
And she had.
In the best possible way.
"I'm sorry it took me this long to get it right," he whispered.
Hazel stirred, not fully waking, but her hand reached for his, finding it even in sleep.
"You're worth waiting for," she murmured.
Michael smiled, something dangerously close to contentment settling in his chest.
Tomorrow, there'd be new enemies. New battles. Politics and blood feuds and the weight of ruling a city that fed on its own darkness.
But tonight…
Tonight, they were just Hazel and Michael.
And the city belonged to them....