Imagine...The clock on the nightstand glowed 3:07 in soft blue, the only light in the room besides the thin spill through the half-drawn curtains. Outside, the city still slept. Inside, the sheets were already a wreck of twisted cotton and cooling sweat.
You had him pinned the way you liked best—your thigh thrown heavy across both of his, locking his hips in place, your hand shoved deep into the ruined front of his slacks. His cock was slick and oversensitive in your fist, the skin stretched tight and shiny, the head flushed almost purple. Every brutal upstroke dragged another broken sound out of him, muffled against where he’d buried his face in the crook of your neck.
Zayne was usually the one who insisted on schedules. Sleep, meals, work, everything had its place. Yet tonight, he was sprawled beneath you, his carefully maintained composure reduced to shallow breaths and flushed cheeks.
“Love,” he managed between breaths, “we sho—fuh—should be up… in two hours—”
The words dissolved into a wet,low whimper when your thumb swiped hard over the leaking slit. You felt the tremor roll through his stomach, the way his abs jumped under your forearm. You kissed the crown of his head, slow and almost tender, while your wrist never stopped its relentless pace—tight, mean strokes that made wet, obscene sounds in the quiet room.
“𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤, 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑟,” you murmured against his hair “𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑒, ℎ𝑚? 𝑊𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑒?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The question had never been a question.
Zayne’s breath hitched, then shattered. He nipped at the side of your neck, teeth catching skin just shy of too hard, and his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your waist hard enough to bruise. His face stayed hidden, burning against your soft give of breasts, the way it always did when the shame and the pleasure got too tangled for him to look at you. You could feel how close he was—again—the way his cock kicked in your fist, the way his thighs trembled under yours.
Third time already. Or was it the fourth? The evidence was smeared down your knuckles and across the soft fabric of his slacks, each release thinner, more watery than the last. His body had stopped pretending it could hold anything back hours ago.
You couldn't help smiling.
This was Zayne.
The same man who was usually so composed. So measured. So maddeningly in control.
And yet here he was, letting you have your way with him simply because you asked.
“𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡'𝑠 𝑖𝑡,” you whispered “𝑌𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑜 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙.”
He made a quiet, embarrassed sound .
You slowed just enough to keep him right on the razor’s edge, the way he used to do to you on nights when he was the one in control. A soft, cruel reminder. Payback, maybe. Or simply because watching him fall apart like this—your good, composed husband reduced to shaking and tears and desperate little noises—fed something deep and greedy in you.
His breathing turned shallow, frantic. The muscles in his stomach contracted hard. His grip on your hip turned bruising. A wrecked, open-mouthed groan spilled against your collarbone as the next orgasm ripped through him, weaker than the ones before but no less devastating. Fresh wetness pulsed over your fingers, thinner still, almost clear. His whole body jerked once, twice, then went loose and trembling in your arms.
You hummed, soft and pleased, easing your strokes into something almost gentle while he shuddered through the aftershocks. Kissed his cheek, the damp skin of his forehead, the corner of his mouth.
Imagine... being Sylus' wife and slowly realizing something about the people who work for him.
They're afraid of him.
Not respectful.Not loyal.
Afraid.
They keep their heads low because they know what happens when they cross him. They follow his orders because disobedience has consequences. They do their jobs because Sylus is powerful enough to make sure they do.
And perhaps most importantly—
Every single one of them is waiting.
Waiting for a mistake.
An opportunity.
A weakness.
Because fear makes people obedient, but it doesn't make them loyal.
And you hate that.
Not because you think Sylus is some innocent man who doesn't deserve his reputation.You know exactly who he is.
You've seen the ruthless side of him.You've seen what he's capable of.
But you've also seen the man nobody else gets to see.
The man who remembers tiny things about the people he cares about.
The man who protects what he considers his.
The man who can be unexpectedly patient, unexpectedly generous, unexpectedly gentle.
And you know that if his people ever got the chance to see even a fraction of that man, they might stop fearing him long enough to actually respect him.
So you decide to give them that chance.
Quietly.
You start with the people closest to him.
His bodyguards.His drivers.His Assistants and Informants.The people who have spent years standing at his side without ever really knowing what exists behind the reputation.
You learn about them.
Their families.Their financial situations.Their backgrounds.The things they struggle with but never mention at work.
And whenever you find something you can help with, you simply do.
Someone is drowning in debt?
You don't simply hand them a pile of money.You help them find a way out of it.
Someone is responsible for younger siblings after losing their parents?
Suddenly their little sister has the school supplies she needed.Their younger brother gets help with his education.You visit them when their older sibling is too busy working.And when they ask where any of it came from—
"𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑖𝑔 𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑜𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢."
Someone's elderly parent needs medical treatment they can't afford?
You make sure the treatment happens.
Someone is struggling with an addiction?
You don't shame them but find them professional help.
Someone is trapped in an unhealthy relationship?
You make sure they know they have somewhere safe to go.
Someone is struggling mentally?
You don't dismiss it.You find them someone qualified to help.
And you never do any of this in a way that makes them dependent on you.
That's important.
You're not trying to buy their loyalty.You're trying to give them enough stability to stand on their own.
Because the point was never to make them grateful to you.The point was to make them realize something about him.
So whenever someone asks,"Why are you going through all this trouble for us?"
You simply smile."𝑂ℎ. 𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑆𝑦𝑙𝑢𝑠' 𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑎."
Every time.
You give him all the credit.
You make it sound as though he woke up one morning and decided to personally solve everyone's problems.as though this terrifying man they've spent years avoiding suddenly developed a philanthropic streak.
And you never correct them.
Because eventually, they start believing it.Not because you told them Sylus cares.Because you've given them experiences that make the possibility difficult to dismiss.
The changes are small at first.
A guard who used to obey an order solely because he was afraid of disappointing Sylus , starts putting genuine thought into his work.
A driver starts looking after the others instead of treating them as competition.
A manager starts helping the people underneath him instead of ruling them through the same fear Sylus used to inspire in him.
People start taking care of one another and most importantly of him , which he doesn't need.
They start protecting each other's families.
They start staying late because they want the job done properly, not because they're terrified of what will happen if they fail.
And slowly, something that fear could never create begins to grow.
Respect.
Not the kind demanded by a boss.The kind earned by someone they believe is worth following.
They still know Sylus is dangerous.They still know exactly what he's capable of.You never tried to erase that.You simply gave them something else to put beside it.And eventually, the difference becomes impossible to miss.
They still stand when he enters.
They still listen when he speaks.
They still follow his orders.
But now there's something in their eyes that wasn't there before.
They trust him.
They defend him when he's not there.
They take initiative instead of waiting to be commanded.
They do things properly even when nobody is watching.
And one day, Sylus notices.
He notices that his people no longer look at him like a predator they have to appease.
They look at him like their leader.
And perhaps that's the first time he realizes what you've actually been doing.
You weren't making his people softer.You weren't buying their loyalty.
You were giving them reasons to respect him.
And you did it without asking them to.Without telling them that he's secretly a good man.Without forcing them to change their minds.
You simply let them meet the man you've always known.And perhaps the strangest part is that Sylus doesn't seem angry about it.He just looks at you for a long moment.
Because for the first time in his life, people aren't following him because they're afraid of what he'll do to them.They're following him because they believe he's worth following.
Imagine… Cowboy Sylus — no, Outlaw Sylus — has tangled you deep in his affairs. There’s no road left open, no voice you can call. His hunters are yours now, shadows chasing you both across the wasteland. The cruelest irony? You thought he wasn’t the type to share… yet here you are, bound to him by fire and blood.
Exhaustion weighs you down, and you sink beside the campfire he struck to life after finishing his grim work. Through the haze, your eyes find him — sharp against the flicker of the flames, every line of his face carved harsher by the light. The question stirs unbidden in your mind: How long can this last? But before the answer comes, sleep drags you under, quiet and uneasy beneath the outlaw’s watchful gaze.
