Alesia's POV.
"Yes, what would you like to have?" I smiled at the customer, pen poised over my notepad. I was about to write down the order when the door opened, six armed men all in black suits walked inside. Fear gripped my heart immediately as screams erupted.
"It's okay, everyone please relax. We won't harm anyone as long as you're cooperating". A tall man, dark hair tied back, charcoal coat said, trying to calm everyone down despite having a gun in his hand.
I couldn't move. My legs turned to stone.
He pointed at one of the men behind him. "Escort them out."
Then his attention shifted to me. I instinctively stepped back, throat tight.
"I have nothing here," I whispered. "Please, just let me go."
"That's very bad of you, Donna."
He took two slow steps closer before dipping his head in an exaggerated bow.
"I'm Ralph. Pleased to meet you."
"Ralph?" I repeated, stunned.
"He's my brother…". Almost immediately the words came through, Ralph gave way and Jericho stepped forward, filling the space in front of me. Of course it was him. Who else would pull something like this?
The fear burned away in an instant, replaced by hot, sharp anger.
"You can leave," Jericho said to his brother without looking away from me.
Ralph obeyed immediately.
I glared at Jericho. "What the hell do you want? The three days aren't over yet!"
"Does that mean you're agreeing?" His lips curved into that infuriating smirk he wore like a second skin.
I scoffed and looked away. As if he ever gave us a choice.
"You're cute when you're angry," he murmured.
"Are you this shameless? Do you not have anything better to do?"
"Of course I do," he said softly—dangerously. "That's why I'm here. To do you."
I glared at him, disgust curling in my stomach… or at least I told myself that's what it was.
But my eyes—traitors—slid downward before I could stop them.
His shirt was only half-buttoned, exposing a sliver of skin and the edge of a tattoo. A fox… no, a wolf, inked in dark strokes, peeking out like it was watching me. My gaze drifted lower, to the forearm he'd casually rolled his sleeve up on.
I froze.
My breath hitched—loud enough that his smirk deepened.
There, from his wrist downward, wrapped in detailed flowers and butterflies… was my name.
My actual name.
The skin around it still looked red, irritated, a little swollen. Fresh.
He must have gotten it recently.
Does he seriously think this kind of stunt will move me?
Make me like him?
Fall at his feet because he branded my name on his skin like some twisted vow?
A bitter laugh almost slipped out.
What is he trying to prove by doing this?
That he's devoted? Obsessed? Unhinged in a way I'm supposed to find flattering?
It doesn't matter what he tattoos, what he says, or how many men he storms in here with—he would still remain the same shameless man who lusts after a married woman.
My eyes darted to his other arm.
A snake coiled along his skin, dark ink disappearing into the sleeve like it was slithering up his arm toward his heart.
I cleared my throat, forcing my eyes away from his inked skin and back to reality. "Please leave."
"You're coming with me tomorrow," Jericho said calmly, like it was already carved into fate.
"I already know that," I muttered. "There's no need to remind me how much of a whore I am to—"
"Finish that sentence," he warned, voice low and sharp, "and I will show you just how shameless I am."
I snapped my mouth shut.
"I'll go with you tomorrow," I said instead, "but only on one condition". He tilted his head, before nodding at me.
"You will give my husband half of the money you promised."
Jericho didn't even blink. His expression didn't change—not anger, not amusement, nothing. Just cold, unreadable calm.
"Are you just plain foolish? Because I still can't wrap my head around how you can trust that man so much? Same man who gave you away?" he asked quietly.
I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.
"I thought females had such good instincts, yet yours can't pick up on how he treats you. What if he's cheating on you?"
"Not every man is like you," I shot back.
"Like me?" His brow lifted.
"Shameless. Manipulative. Cold. And lusting after married women."
He let the words hang there.
Most men would've flinched.
He didn't.
"What?" I continued, my gaze flicking pointedly to the fresh tattoo on his wrist. "Do you think that's going to make me hate you less? Or think differently about you? Even if you tattoo my name on your forehead, I still won't spare you a glare."
I expected anger. Instead, his lips slowly curled into a smile. He stepped closer.
I stepped back until the counter dug into my hip, his body caging me in. His cologne—clean, sharp, expensive—filled my lungs, making them feel too tight.
"What are you doing?" I whispered, heart hammering.
His face was inches from mine. "Would you like that?" he murmured.
"Tattooing your name on my forehead?"