Chapter 4
Monroe lies still and asleep beside me, her body soft and warm under the bedsheets. Her breathing is slow and relaxed, eyelashes fanning against her round cheeks.
It’s minutes after eight a.m., and I’ve spent each one admiring my beautiful fiancée. The woman I’ve fallen in love with when I never even believed in love in the first place.
But I’ve realized that is what’s so special about her—she’s perhaps the only woman I could ever feel this way about.
I can’t help myself.
I lean in and press my lips to hers. Then I’m traveling elsewhere, dragging my mouth from her jaw to her throat and shoulder.
They’re slow, heavy kisses. Lazy kisses I drop as she stirs and a quiet murmur sounds from her throat.
Her eyes still don’t open, so I carry on teasing her. My lips graze the sensitive hollow between her neck and shoulder, and my warm hands slide under the sheets to palm her delicious naked curves.
Her eyes finally flutter open, and she peers at me groggily.
“Jin…” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
I grin against her supple brown skin. “Good morning, Tokki-ya. I thought I’d wake you the only way I know how.”
My hand fondles the soft swell of her breasts then the flat expanse of her stomach, coming to rest on her rounded hip. I’m still languid about it, every touch slow and unhurried.
Monroe doesn’t even begin to pretend she’s not interested. She hums along in approval, her hands finding my broad shoulders and back.
I travel back up to capture her mouth for a kiss she greedily accepts.
More heat shoots through me. Endless desire that will never truly be sated as far as she’s concerned.
I go to bed thinking about how I must have my little rabbit and wake up in the morning plagued by the same obsessive inclinations.
We’ve been together for more than a year now, yet rather than grow stale, the familiarity has only increased our hunger for each other.
I’m hard within seconds, my cock throbbing and rigid. She’s not the only one who slept naked. My body covers hers as I position myself over her, and we kiss lazily but eagerly all at once.
Monroe parts her thighs to welcome me closer, every part of her so fucking silky and soft it makes me even harder.
I’m left reminded how over the next nine months her body will change even more. She’ll become even softer and rounder as she grows my baby.
I push into her gradually, groaning at the pulsing wet heat that greets me. She flicks her tongue against mine and tangles her fingers in my hair. Her breathing has deepened as we come together and immediately lose ourselves in the sensations.
The fullness of my cock resting inside her pussy. The slick moisture of her arousal as she spasms around me. The sparks of pleasure that shoot up my shaft.
My thrusts mirror the kisses we’ve traded—long and leisurely, taking my time and savoring each second.
I drag my hips back and grip her thighs as I press more kisses to her lips. Her body gyrates in tune with mine, adding more friction between us.
The room is quiet except for the distant sounds of the neighborhood paired against our breathless groans and gasps.
I hit her sweet spot, and she bows against me, mouth agape and nails digging into my shoulders. We pleasure each other this way, bodies flushed and rocking, until she’s coming and I’m only a few strokes behind.
The once quiet room fills with Monroe’s sharp little cry. Then it’s followed by my deeper, lower grunt as I bury my face in the crook of her neck and an intense wave of pleasure consumes me.
Even our come down is unhurried and lazy.
We roll apart with sated expressions and faster breath than usual, the sheets a tangled mess around us.
Monroe’s bonnet has half slipped off, and I got some cum on the bedsheet when I pulled out. But when our gazes meet, her large dark eyes are sparkling and the corner of her lips curve.
“Welp, that’s probably the best morning alarm possible,” she quips. “But that’s also how I wound up pregnant in the first place.”
I lean over and drop a kiss to her collarbone. “No regrets.”
She laughs. “Yeah, I bet you don’t have any. You probably planned it all along.”
We finally drag ourselves out of bed and head into the bathroom for a shower.
One of the many perks of living in our much more spacious apartment is that we can now indulge in them together.
In my old apartment in Gijang-gun, the bathroom barely fit one adult, let alone two. Monroe’s place in Seomyeon was hardly any better.
But our new home boasts a shower more than large enough for two bodies.
Steam fogs up the room as hot water cascades over us. Monroe stands beneath the spray, her head tipped back, shower cap firmly on, water streaming down her curves.
Then we’re switching places with me under the spray.
By the time we emerge, wrapped in towels and still slightly damp, the sun has fully risen and the apartment glows with warm morning light.
Monroe disappears into the closet and returns wearing one of my cotton T-shirts.
It hangs loosely on her frame, the hem brushing her mid-thigh, the neckline slipping off one shoulder.
She looks comfortable and adorable, her curls out and free (she recently got rid of what she calls her vacation braids).
I cock a brow at her. “Stealing my shirts again, Tokki-ya?”
“What? I like them.”
“Clearly.”
“They’re roomy. And soft.” She plucks at the fabric, then grins at me. “Plus, I still have a whole week before school starts. I’m allowed to be comfortable.”
I have no complaints. The way the cotton drapes over her body, hinting at the curves underneath without revealing them, is more enticing than any lingerie could be.
She pads into the kitchen and begins pulling ingredients from the refrigerator and cabinets—eggs, butter, sausages, a loaf of bread. I settle onto one of the stools at the kitchen island as I check my phone for any new developments regarding the Baekho Pa.
This is something I never expected to have. These simple, quiet mornings. The domestic rituals that feel foreign to a man who grew up without a home.
…without even a family to call his own.
But I’ve come to appreciate them with Monroe. Even crave them.
The smell of toast and frying eggs fills the apartment as Monroe puts together breakfast, softly humming a song under her breath. She pours two cups of coffee—black for me, loaded with cream and sugar for her—and slides a plate in front of me before taking the stool beside mine.
“So,” she says, spearing a bite of eggs with her fork. “What’s on the agenda for the fearsome Baekho-je today?”
“Meetings. Business as usual,” I answer, taking a sip of coffee. “I may be late for dinner tonight.”
Monroe’s gaze sharpens, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth. She studies me for a couple seconds, the gears visibly turning behind her dark eyes.
“Conducting business, huh?” she asks, her tone light but knowing.
“That is what we tend to call it, yes.”
She hums and takes her bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I’ll keep your dinner warm, then. For when you’re done... conducting business.”
I appreciate that she doesn’t press. She understands what my life demands, even if I shield her from the bloodier details.
“Just tonight,” I say. “Tomorrow we’ll spend the entire evening together, Tokki-ya. I promise.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
“You have your doctor’s appointment today, don’t you?”
“The one you insisted I make? Sure do—it’s at eleven.”
“Your official pregnancy diagnosis.”
Monroe sighs dramatically. “Is it weird I’m a little nervous? I’ll finally find out exactly how many weeks along I am.”
“It’s important that you start seeing a doctor regularly now,” I say, reaching over for a caress of her shoulder. “We have to make sure you and the baby are healthy. Part of being pregnant, Tokki-ya.”
“I know, I know,” she mumbles. “I’ve just never been a fan of doctors—or needles. But this is bigger than me now. It’s about the baby.”
“Bigger than both of us.” I press a kiss to her brow then rise from my stool. “I need to go. But call me after the appointment. Let me know how it goes.”
“Yes, Silent Hunter,” she teases.
I grab my leather jacket from the coat hook by the door, pausing long enough for a final look back at her. She’s still perched on her stool in my shirt that she’s swimming in, coffee cup cradled in her hands, looking so cozy and naturally beautiful.
The urge to stay—to abandon my responsibilities and spend the day wrapped up in her—is almost overwhelming.
But I am Baekho-je. Which means there’s always work to be done.
Tonight I have a message to deliver…
The streets of Sasang-gu are dark and quieting down late into the evening.
The industrial district sits on the contested border between Baekho Pa territory and the zones the Bulgeomhoe have been foolish enough to claim.
Warehouses and shuttered factories line the narrow streets, their windows like dead eyes staring out at the night.
The air smells of diesel and rust, undercut by the briny scent of the nearby port.
I changed my mind about attending the strike personally.
Originally I had planned to coordinate from the Claw Lounge, receiving reports as my men carried out the operation.
But sitting in an office while others do the bloody work has never suited me.
I am not Jae-hyun, content to drink himself stupid while his subordinates handle the violence.
The men of the Baekho Pa need to see their Baekho-je in the field.
They need to know I’m willing to get my hands dirty alongside them.
Fear is most effective when it has a face.
Park Min-gyu moves beside me, his bulky frame surprisingly agile as we navigate the maze of back alleys. Behind us, Choi Woo-sik and a dozen other hubaes follow in tight formation, their footsteps thudding against the cracked pavement.
We find the Bulgeomhoe exactly where our intelligence said they’d be.
Six of them, clustered near the loading dock of an abandoned warehouse. They’re armed but relaxed, clearly not expecting trouble. Cigarettes glow orange in the darkness as they laugh and joke among themselves, oblivious to the danger closing in around them.
My men swarm all at once.
Within seconds, we have them surrounded. Guns materialize from under jackets, the metallic clicks of safeties disengaging suddenly the loudest sound in the night air.
The Bulgeomhoe’s laughter dies at the same time, replaced by the stunned silence of men who have just realized they’re outmatched.
“On your knees,” Min-gyu barks.
Most of them comply immediately, dropping to the ground with hands raised. But one—a man in his thirties with heavily tattooed arms and spiky gelled hair—remains standing, his jaw clenched with defiance.
I recognize him as Yeo Dong-chul, one of the Bulgeomhoe’s newer captains.
Exactly the man I was hoping to find.
Min-gyu and Woo-sik seize him by the arms and force him to his knees. He struggles briefly, a snarl twisting his features, but goes still when I step forward into the dim light.
“Seo Jin-tae,” he spits with loathing.
“Dong-chul,” I reply, regarding him with cold detachment. “We’ve been patient with your organization. Perhaps too patient. You’ve been encroaching on Baekho territory for months now. Harassing businesses under our protection. Testing boundaries you have no right to test.”
His lips curl into a sneer. “This is contested ground. Always has been.”
“It was contested,” I correct him. “Now it belongs to us. Which means you’ve run out of chances to learn that lesson peacefully.”
Some of his men shift nervously, exchanging glances with sweat beading on their foreheads despite the cool night air.
“Do you know what happens,” I ask calmly, “when the Baekho runs out of patience?”
Dong-chul thinks he’s defiant refusing to answer. But I don’t need him to play along. He has no control, no say in the matter.
What’s done is already done, and their fate has already been decided.
I glance at one of the hubaes standing nearby—a young man with a steady hand and cold eyes—and give a single nod.
The gunshot is quick to follow, ringing out through the industrial neighborhood’s empty streets.
One of the kneeling Bulgeomhoe men crumples sideways, a hole torn through his skull, blood dribbling onto the dirty concrete beneath him. The others flinch, one of them letting out a strangled sob.
Dong-chul’s defiance wavers. Fear flickers across his face as his bravado crumbles and reality sets in.
I produce my knife—a sleek blade I’ve carried since my days as a street enforcer—and approach him slowly. His face reflects in the steel as I bring the knife up and taunt him, trailing it down the bridge of his nose. Across the width of his jawline.
Then finally against the pulse point of his throat.
“When territory lines aren’t respected,” I say coolly, “I’m forced to make an example.”
His breath comes in shallow bursts, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the blade. He rasps, “You’ll start a war.”
“Yes,” I answer, then I lean closer. “A war I’ll win.”
The knife slashes in a single, fluid arc.
Blood sprays from Dong-chul’s severed jugular and paints the concrete in morbid fashion. He collapses forward, hands clutching uselessly at his throat, choking on his final breaths.
I step back, wiping the blade clean on a handkerchief before tucking it away.
The remaining Bulgeomhoe stare in stunned horror, frozen in place like rabbits caught in the path of a predator.
None of them move or utter a word. They barely dare to breathe.
“Deliver a message to your leaders,” I say. “The Baekho Pa does not tolerate disrespect. Cross into our territory again, and what happened tonight will seem merciful by comparison.”
I turn and walk away without looking back.
My men fall into step behind me, leaving the survivors to contemplate the bodies of their fallen brothers.
The night’s darkness swallows us as we disappear into the maze of alleys, our work complete.
The message has been sent.
Now we wait to see if they’re wise enough to heed it.