Emperor of Rage: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance

A smile lifts the corners of my lips as I crack the door open and peer into the hospital room. Kenzo is sleeping again in his hospital bed, Annika curled up against him, her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling softly.

They made it. They’re alive. Mostly because my friend is a certified badass.

They almost died down there, between the explosion, the poisonous air, and a flood of water. But Annika managed to escape through an old sewage line carrying a near-dead Kenzo on her back. I’m also pretty sure she broke some sort of breath-holding record getting them both out of there.

I shudder when I think how close I came to losing her. But then I allow myself to smile, watching the two of them sleeping together, hand in hand.

It’s going to be okay.

The antiseptic scent and the fluorescent lights of the hospital fade into the distance as I step out into the cool night air, my body crumpling with exhaustion. My muscles ache, my nerves are frayed, and all I want is to collapse and let go of everything weighing me down.

But as I walk out into the quiet parking lot, I startle as my eyes lock with his.

Mal.

He’s leaning against a black Jeep with the top down, watching me with an intense, unreadable expression. There’s something about his presence that always sends a shiver through me, but after everything, I’m not sure how to process it. I’m not sure how to deal with or even come to grips with what’s between us.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. Then he nods toward the Jeep. “Get in.”

I hesitate, my hands curling to fists, feeling the tightness of the bandages on the backs of them. There’s too much left unsaid, too much hanging in the air between us.

Mal’s gaze sharpens, his jaw clenching like he’s losing patience. Fucking fuck, why is that so attractive on him?

“Just get in, Freya.”

His voice cuts through the silence, low and rough, making my heart pound. He’s not asking for a conversation. He’s just driving me home. But there’s still that weight between us as his eyes burn into me, as he commands the space around him without saying a word.

“What happened today… It doesn’t change anything,” I murmur, my voice soft, barely audible.

“I’m not asking for a sermon,” he grunts, pushing away from the car. “I’m giving you a ride.”

For a moment, I think about refusing. But I’m too tired and drained to argue. And despite everything, despite the chaos of the day, I crave his presence. It’s irrational, but I feel steadier when he’s near.

So without another word, I open the door and slide into the passenger seat.

We drive in silence, the unspoken tension hanging heavy as the cool night air ripples through my hair. I sit stiffly, my bandaged hands folded in my lap, my eyes glued to the passing streets.

My body aches from the crash. I’ve got cuts and bruises all over, not to mention the burns on the backs of my hands, my shoulder, and a few on my legs. The adrenaline that kept me going while we were looking for Kenzo and Annika is now utterly drained, leaving behind a raw vulnerability that I can’t shake.

But it’s not just the silence. It’s the energy between us, simmering beneath the surface, waiting to erupt. I steal a glance at Mal, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his jaw set in that hard, unyielding way that makes him impossible to read.

And then, without warning, one of his hands goes slowly and deliberately to my thigh.

The touch is firm, possessive, his fingers resting just above my knee. It’s not “a move”. It’s not even sexual. It’s just comforting. Like he’s giving me a bit of his strength, since mine is so obviously failing.

He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say a word. But the weight of his hand sends a surge of heat through me. It’s a silent claim.

I don’t move. I don’t want to.

My pulse quickens, the warmth from his hand seeping into my body, igniting something deep inside me. It’s dangerous, this pull he has over me, and yet I find myself craving more, wanting more, even when I know I shouldn’t.

I try to focus on the road ahead, but my body betrays me. My mind spins with thoughts of what might happen next if I let this go further.

If I asked him to go further.

The car slows, and we pull up to the front tori style gates of the Mori compound.

We’re here.

When we finally stop, my mind is racing, torn between exhaustion and the tension coiling ever tighter between us. I half-expect Mal to say something: to bring up this still undiscussed tension between us that’s been simmering since the night I went to him and he almost broke me in the most insanely perfect ways imaginable before I left without a word.

But instead, he silently steps out of the car, comes around to my side and opens the door, my heart skipping a beat when his hand reaches to help me out.

I let him pull me to my feet. Before I can even take a step toward the main house, Mal’s hand wraps around mine, guiding me toward the guesthouse.

Oh.

I feel my lip retreat between my teeth. The touch is gentle but insistent.

The unspoken power he holds over me makes my breath hitch. I know I should resist, tell him no, walk away, and keep whatever shred of control I have left. But the truth is, I don’t want to. Not after today.

Maybe not ever.

Inside, the dim light casts shadows across the walls, and I can feel my heartbeat quicken as I stand in the entryway. His hand still holds mine, and I’m painfully aware of how close we are, how the air between us feels like it’s about to crack beneath with the weight of everything unspoken.

I pull my hand free, taking a step back before I can let myself be consumed by it.

“Before this goes any further⁠—”

“I wasn’t exactly planning to fuck you on the floor right now, Freya.”

My face floods with heat as I chew on my lip.

“I—I know that.”

“Do you?” he growls. “Because you’ve been looking at me ever since the last time you were over here like I might do exactly that. Like I’m a fucking animal who’ll drag you into the nearest bushes and have my fucking way with you.”

I arch a brow.

“Would you?”

“Maybe.”

I grin.

So does he.

“I just…” I look away. “I know what I said, but I need more, Mal. Beyond the physical. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the physical is…I mean…”

“Yes?”

“Fucking insane,” I blurt before I can stop myself.

Mal smirks smugly.

“But I need more from you,” I say quietly.

It’s the truth. I can’t keep pretending that what’s happening between us is just physical. There’s more to it, and I need to understand it. I need to understand him.

Mal’s jaw tightens, his eyes flickering with—frustration, maybe? Hesitation? Then, to my surprise, he nods.

“Fine,” he says quietly. “What does more entail?”

“I…” I shrug, shaking my head.

Mal eyes me. “I mean, do you have a list or something?”

I roll my eyes. “Asshole,” I grin. “No, I just… I don’t know. I want to know more about you.”

He eyes me again, running his fingers over his jaw before shoving them through his hair.

“Fine.”

I grin. “Yeah?”

“Yes. You get one question.”

“What happens after one question?”

His gaze darkens, his voice turning low and gravelly. “I take you into the bathroom, clean your wounds, and bathe you.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s the trade.”

The words send a shiver down my spine, the heat between us flaring back to life. My mind races, but I can’t seem to think of anything else beyond the intensity of his offer. There’s something raw, something deeply intimate about the way he says it. And for the first time, I realize that even with all the walls between us, even with my own armor?

…I’m defenseless with this man. Always.

“Fine. What’s your earliest memory?” I ask softly.

He scowls, clearly not expecting that. “I was thinking favorite color,” he grumbles back.

I shrug. “Well?”

He grunts, his lips twitching. “Is that what you want to know? My favorite color?”

“Nice try, but no. I want to know what your earliest memory is.”

Mal’s gaze narrows, his expression hardening. Then there’s a flicker of something else—something deeper. He’s quiet for a moment, his brow furrowed, searching for the right answer.

“I was five,” he finally says, his voice low, almost hesitant. “My mother took me to the beach. We spent all day there, just the two of us. I remember the sand, the waves… I think it was the only time I ever saw her truly happy.”

The rawness in his voice takes me by surprise, and my heart aches at the unexpected vulnerability. I want to ask more, but I know better than to push him. Instead, I stay silent, letting the weight of his words settle over us.

“That’s it, that’s your question,” he says, his tone final.

Before I can respond, he grabs my hand, pulling me toward the bathroom. The heat between us thickens again, and I follow, my pulse quickening with every step.

Mal leads me upstairs, through his spacious, glass-walled bedroom and into the master bath. It’s lit softly with low, warm lights casting long shadows over everything. Mal moves with quiet precision, turning on the water, testing the temperature, and grabbing a clean towel.

I stand frozen, watching as he prepares the bath with a level of care that feels out of place for someone like him. Like an elephant crafting fine china, or a wrecking ball painting a canvas.

Without a word, he turns to me, his hands reaching for the zipper of my jacket.

There’s nothing forceful in his movements this time—nothing aggressive. He’s slow, gentle, his fingers carefully peeling the riding suit away from my bruised skin. Mal’s touch isn’t about control now.

It’s about care.

His eyes move over my body as he peels the rest of my clothes away—my shirt, my yoga pants, my bra and panties, until I’m standing naked in front of him. His look right now isn’t one of lust. It’s something far deeper that makes my heart race for a different reason.

“Sit,” he commands gently, guiding me to the edge of the tub.

I sit, my heart pounding in my chest as Mal tends to my wounds, his fingers brushing over the cuts and bruises with a tenderness I would never have thought him capable of. He re-dresses some of them with waterproof bandages and wraps the worst of the burns on my hands and shoulder with tape to keep them dry.

Every touch sends a shiver through me, and by the time he lifts me into the bath, I’m completely undone.

My face heats as I turn and watch him undress with unhurried movements, stripping naked before he climbs in after me. He sits behind me, pulling me against him.

The warm water swirls around me as Mal holds me close, his strong arms wrapped securely around my body. For a moment, I close my eyes, letting the warmth seep into my bones, letting the exhaustion from the day drop away. His chest presses against my back, steady and firm, a quiet strength.

It’s strange, being like this with him. I’m used to Mal being aggressive, dangerous; the one taking control of every situation. Right now, he’s almost gentle. His hands move carefully, his touch soft as he runs his fingers through my hair, wetting it with the warm water.

“Tip your head back,” he murmurs, his voice low.

I do as he says, reclining against him as he begins to massage shampoo into my scalp. His touch is careful, soothing, and for the first time in forever, I allow myself to relax completely. The tension I’ve been holding in my shoulders, in my chest—it all melts away under his fingers, and I feel like finally I can breathe.

Mal’s hands work through my hair, massaging the shampoo into a lather, his fingers moving with slow, deliberate care. The sensation is both comforting and oddly intimate, but not in the way I expected. It’s not about desire—it’s about trust. And I realize, as he rinses the shampoo away with warm water, that I do trust him.

Implicitly.

He may be dangerous, with more darkness in him than I can comprehend. But in this moment, he’s not a monster.

When he’s done with the shampoo, he does the same routine with the conditioner. After that, Mal reaches for the washcloth hanging by the side of the tub. He dips it into the warm water, then squeezes out the excess before gently running it over my skin, starting with my shoulders. The cloth is so soft against my bruised body, and his touch is so light and careful, it almost makes me want to cry.

He moves slowly, methodically, washing every inch of me with quiet attention. My arms, my back, skipping over any bruises, cuts or burns. I shiver when his hands slide to my front, washing my breasts, the cloth teasing over my nipples before he moves down to my stomach, then to my legs.

Then between them.

I bite back a soft gasp as the cloth gently rubs my thighs and grazes over my pussy, his fingers brushing against my skin as he works.

I watch him in silence. He’s not just washing away the dirt and the grime of the day, he’s washing away something much deeper: the walls I’ve built around myself, the fear, the uncertainty. It all seems to slip away under his hands.

Then, without speaking, Mal reaches for the razor on the side of the tub.

“Mal?” I whisper. I freeze for a moment, not sure what to expect.

He just shakes his head as he slips around me, until he’s sitting facing me in the tub.

“Sit back,” he commands, his voice its usual deep, rough growl, but edged with a softness now. I lean back against the edge of the deep tub, flushing as Mal lifts one of my legs out of the water. He lathers up rich cream on my legs.

Then he starts to shave me with the same tenderness. There’s nothing rushed in his actions. His focus is absolute, his touch completely steady as he glides the razor over my legs, wiping the blade clean after each stroke.

He does one leg, rinsing it off and setting it back into the water before he does the same with the other: more lathered cream, more soft, slow, focused strokes until my skin is glistening and smooth.

When he finishes with my legs, he looks up at me, his blue eyes sparking with a little fire.

I know what comes next.

“Sit,” he murmurs gruffly, nodding at the edge of the tub. Then his hands are there anyway, lifting me out of the sudsy water and setting me on the porcelain edge. He pushes my legs apart. More lathered cream.

Fuck…

My eyes flutter and roll back. My mouth opens slightly as Mal uses his fingers to rub the shaving cream over my most intimate area, massaging it into every fold.

“Hold still,” he says quietly.

He works meticulously, like an artist painting a masterpiece. I sit there spellbound, frozen, growing wet as his fingertips and the razor-sharp blade glide over my soft, sensitive skin, washing away the stubble, rinsing each individual inch of me as he goes.

It’s this bizarre, heady mix of sensual and selflessness—like foreplay meeting a trust exercise. By the time he’s dribbling water over my freshly shaved, pink pussy, I’m on the edge of insanity, my knees shaking as his fingers stroke over my skin.

“Mal…”

His tongue takes his fingers’ place. I moan softly in the low light of the bathroom, arching my back and gasping as he tongues my clit gently. My fingers slip into his hair, gripping his head tightly as I start to shake and writhe against his face. His tongue plunges into me, his fingers teasing and stroking my freshly shaved skin before curling into me and stroking my g-spot.

The feel of his strong, wet tongue stroking every inch of my extra-sensitive skin pushes me over the edge quickly. With a cry, my hips bucking, I explode on his tongue, his name tumbling from my lips over and over as he tongues me through the release and into oblivion.

I’m barely aware of him lifting me from the tub and wrapping me in a towel. I don’t say anything. There are no words or way to express the depth of what I’m feeling right now.

Instead, I let him pull me into his arms in his bed, my head resting against his chest as he holds me close.

For now, this is enough.