Vicious — 25 (Patreon)

Author's note: If there’s anything you’d like to see more of — whether it's certain dynamics, steamy moments, fluff, angst, or just pure drama — don’t be shy! My inbox is always open for blurb or one-shot requests.’d love to bring your ideas to life! Thank you again for being here — you’re the best. 🌞🏝️

The breeze coming off the water was soft, warm, and laced with salt. Inside the villa, everything still smelled like sunscreen and sea air. Y/N was sitting at the kitchen island, hair still damp from her afternoon swim, lazily stirring a cup of tea as the golden hour lit the room in amber hues.

From down the hall, she heard Harry’s voice. Quiet. Tense. That alone was enough to make her spine straighten. He’d been on the phone for the past ten minutes, speaking in low, clipped tones. Not the usual kind of business chatter. This was different.

He stepped into the kitchen a few moments later, barefoot, shirtless, towel slung around his shoulders, swim trunks still clinging to his hips from the pool. But the relaxed look was deceiving—the set of his jaw said everything.

She watched him silently as he reached for the whiskey bottle, poured two fingers into a glass, and tossed it back like water.

When he finally looked at her, there was no softness left in his expression.

“We leave tomorrow.”

The words landed like cold water.

Y/N blinked. “That’s… sudden.”

Harry exhaled through his nose, leaning on the counter, arms tense. “Something came up back home. Lex says there’s been movement in London. Small stuff for now, but enough to raise a flag.”

She didn’t say anything at first. The honeymoon had been—surprisingly—something close to normal. Intimate, even. And for a moment, she’d let herself forget what waited for them outside this pocket of peace.

“So that’s it?” she asked after a beat. “We pack up, fly back, and pretend this never happened?”

Harry’s eyes met hers, sharp and unreadable. “No.” His voice was steady. “We go back. But I don’t forget anything.” He stepped closer, resting his hand on the back of the chair she was seated in. “We built something here. Not pretending that didn’t happen.”

Y/N’s expression softened slightly. She looked down at her tea, then back up at him. “Doesn’t mean it won’t change.”

Harry’s jaw worked. “It will. Because reality’s messier. But this—” he gestured between them with a flick of his hand, “—it doesn’t just disappear because the backdrop does.”

They stood like that for a moment, silent in the warmth of a villa that had just started to feel like something more than temporary. Outside, the waves kept rolling in like nothing had changed.

Harry finally straightened up. “We fly out at ten. Bags need to be ready by seven.”

Y/N nodded slowly, and as he turned to walk out of the kitchen, she called after him.

“Harry.”

He paused.

Y/N tilted her head, studying him. “You’re not the only one who won’t forget.”

His expression shifted just slightly—barely visible to anyone who didn’t know what to look for. But Y/N saw it.

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. Then he nodded once and walked away.

The private jet touched down just after sunset. England’s grey skies greeted them like an old grudge—familiar and unwelcome.

Y/N adjusted the coat around her shoulders as they stepped off the plane, the cold seeping through her clothes almost immediately. The chill wasn’t just in the air—it was in the shift of energy around Harry, too. He hadn’t spoken much on the flight. She could see the wheels turning in his head the whole time.

Two black SUVs were waiting at the base of the steps. Lex stood beside one, arms folded, sunglasses still on despite the dying light. He didn’t smile. That alone told Y/N everything she needed to know.

“Welcome home,” he said, holding the door open for her.

Harry didn’t look at Lex right away. Instead, his eyes scanned the area—the tarmac, the vehicles, the nearby hangar. Always watching. Always ten steps ahead.

Inside the car, the silence was thick. Lex sat up front with the driver. Harry and Y/N were alone in the backseat, the glow of the city growing stronger as they approached the estate.

It wasn’t long before Harry finally spoke.

“What happened while I was gone?”

Lex glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Three things. First, Augusto’s crew made a move near the docks. Our guys held them off, but it was sloppier than I’d like.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Who led?”

“Liam.”

“Tell him I want eyes on every inch of that pier. If anything shifts again, I want to know before it happens.”

Lex nodded. “Second thing—Silas.”

Y/N felt Harry stiffen beside her.

“What about him?”

“He’s back in London. No one’s seen him directly, but a few of his guys showed up at a gambling house we have in Shoreditch. Stirred up trouble. Sent a message.”

Harry’s voice was deadly calm. “What message?”

Lex turned slightly in his seat. “That he’s not hiding anymore. And he’s ready to take back what he thinks is his.”

Y/N’s heart dropped slightly, but Harry didn’t flinch. He simply stared out the window, jaw tense.

“And the third?”

Lex hesitated. “Giana says she found something in Arthur’s old study. Hidden papers. Files. She’s waiting for you.”

The car rolled through the estate gates just as Lex finished the sentence. The manor stood tall, cold, and imposing against the night sky.

Harry leaned forward, knocking twice on the glass between them and the driver. “Take Y/N upstairs. Make sure everything’s secure. I’ll deal with Giana.”

Y/N placed a hand gently on his arm before he could get out. “Harry.”

He looked at her—still guarded, still unreadable.

She squeezed his wrist, her voice low. “Don’t forget to breathe.”

A small pause. Then a nod. The door opened, and Harry stepped into the cold.

Y/N watched him go, knowing full well that the peace they’d found in the Maldives had been a fragile thing—beautiful, but fleeting.

And now, back in the lion’s den, it was time to find out if what they’d built could survive the fire.

The manor was just as they’d left it—grand, silent, and unnervingly cold.

Y/N walked up the familiar staircase, flanked by one of Harry’s men who had been stationed at the estate even in their absence. He didn’t speak, just nodded once before taking his post at the end of the hallway. Silent shadows. That’s what the place was full of now.

The bedroom still smelled faintly like Harry’s cologne, but the sheets were fresh, and the curtains drawn shut against the early night. She paused in the doorway, setting her bag down, glancing around the room like she was walking into someone else’s life. The same room where they’d spent awkward nights. The same room where, just before the honeymoon, things had started to shift.

Now it was too quiet.

Downstairs, Harry stepped into the study. Giana was already there, standing by the fireplace, arms crossed over her chest. Her usual heels were gone, replaced by boots; her makeup subtle, but her expression sharp.

“You’re late,” she said as he closed the door behind him.

“I’m here now.” He moved past her, eyeing the desk. “What did you find?”

Giana didn’t waste time. She pulled out a thick manila envelope from under her coat and dropped it onto the desk. “Your father kept more than records. There are maps, coded letters. Bank statements. Half of it I don’t even know how to decipher. But someone did.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Someone?”

“There’s writing in the margins. Fresh ink. Someone’s been down there before me. And recently.”

“Silas.”

Giana nodded. “That’s my bet. The locks weren’t forced. He knew where the key was. Hell, he might’ve had his own.”

Harry clenched his jaw, flipping through the first few pages. Names. Accounts. Locations in Italy and France. Old deals. Some with people who were supposed to be dead. Arthur had always been five steps ahead, even from the grave.

“Burn it all?” she asked quietly.

“No,” Harry said, voice flat. “Not yet. I want every name cross-checked. Every address. I want to know what my father was planning.”

Giana watched him closely. “You think he was setting something up behind your back?”

“I think he never stopped playing the game.” Harry paused. “And Silas may have picked up the pieces.”

There was a long silence between them.

“You going to tell Y/N?” Giana asked eventually.

Harry looked up, his face unreadable. “Not yet.”

“She’s smart. And she’s not just an accessory.”

“I know what she is.” His voice softened just slightly, but his eyes didn’t. “I also know what she doesn’t need to carry yet.”

Giana didn’t push. She just gave a small nod, then turned to leave, her boots silent against the wood.

Back upstairs, Y/N had changed into something more comfortable—an oversized sweater and shorts—curled up by the window in the sitting area, trying to read, though the words refused to hold her attention.

The door creaked open, and Harry stepped inside, his presence filling the room immediately.

She looked up. “Everything alright?”

He didn’t answer right away, just crossed the room, stopping by the liquor cabinet. Poured a drink. Stared out the window beside her.

“Just pieces,” he said finally. “From a puzzle I didn’t know my father was still building.”

Y/N set the book aside. “Is it dangerous?”

Harry looked at her. Really looked. “It might be.”

She reached for his hand without hesitation.

“I didn’t marry you to be protected from everything, Harry.”

His mouth twitched. “No,” he said, quietly. “But you also didn’t marry me to get dragged into a war.”

She gave a soft, sardonic smile. “You say that like I had a choice.”

Harry’s chest rose slowly with a breath. He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed the back of it once, then set it gently back on her lap.

“Get some rest,” he said. “We might not have many quiet nights left.”

And with that, he walked toward the wardrobe, already shifting into the armor he wore so well.

The afternoon sun had warmed the marble floors of the estate, casting long gold streaks through the tall windows. The manor, though grand, had fallen into a tense rhythm since an attempted attack. Men patrolled more frequently. Voices were hushed. Everyone was waiting for the next move.

Y/N, however, had grown tired of waiting.

She knocked once on the office door before nudging it open with her shoulder, balancing a tray with two plates, a folded linen napkin, and a glass of water.

“Peace offering,” she said lightly.

Inside, Harry was where he’d been all morning—seated at his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly tousled, a scowl creasing his brow as he pored over maps, notes, and surveillance photos. Lex was leaning over his shoulder, pointing at a marked zone in Naples.

Harry barely looked up. “Not now.”

Y/N blinked. “You’ve skipped breakfast. And lunch, apparently.”

“Not hungry,” Harry muttered.

Lex, ever the buffer between them, turned with a sympathetic grimace. “Sorry, Y/N. It's a bad day. There's a shipment delay, a leak in Rome, and Augusto's crew just went quiet.”

“That’s all the more reason to eat something,” she said, placing the tray on the corner of the desk. “You’re no use to anyone if you pass out in the middle of drawing lines on a map.”

Harry’s jaw ticked as he tried to focus on the papers. “I said I’m fine.”

The plate of food sat untouched. The air was thick with tension, the scent of warm bread and roasted chicken doing nothing to soothe it.

Y/N waited a beat. Then another. And finally, something snapped.

She walked around the desk, stood between Harry and the map, and planted her hands on the surface.

“Out. Both of you.”

Lex looked up, blinking. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she said sharply. “Get out of the office. Ten minutes. I’m not asking.”

Lex hesitated, eyes darting to Harry, who had now leaned back in his chair, arms folded, brows lifted slightly—amused. Maybe even impressed.

“Go on,” Harry said after a moment, nodding to Lex. “Give us the room.”

Lex opened his mouth, then thought better of it. He gave Y/N a tight nod and disappeared without another word.

As the door clicked shut behind him, the tension shifted. Harry tilted his head, studying her with a kind of quiet curiosity.

“Didn’t know you had that tone in you,” he murmured.

Y/N stepped closer, arms crossing over her chest. “You forget I come from a family like yours. You think I don’t know what it’s like when men use business as an excuse to bleed themselves dry?”

Harry smirked faintly. “You sound like Giana.”

“She’s not wrong.”

A pause settled between them. Then, she reached forward and pushed the plate a little closer to him.

“Eat,” she said, softer now. “Please.”

He stared at her a moment longer, then finally, silently, picked up the fork. She watched as he stabbed a bite of chicken, chewed, then swallowed.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Relieved,” she said. “You’re a lot harder to argue with when you’re starving.”

His mouth twitched into something that almost passed for a smile. She saw it. And for the first time all day, something eased in his shoulders.

She perched on the edge of his desk, watching him eat. “You don’t have to do it all alone, you know.”

Harry didn’t look at her. But the muscles in his jaw tightened.

“Maybe not,” he said quietly. “But most of it still lands on me.”

She didn’t push. Not yet. But her presence lingered, solid and sure.

Harry set the fork down slowly, his green eyes lifting toward her as she lingered on the edge of his desk. A long pause stretched between them—his gaze unreadable, hers quietly defiant.

Then, he leaned back in the massive leather chair, the kind that practically swallowed him whole, and patted his thigh once.

“Come here.”

Y/N arched a brow. “You want to reward me for making you eat?”

“No,” he said, voice low. “I want you close. That alright with you?”

Her lips twitched at the corners. She didn’t answer—just stood and stepped between his legs, then carefully settled on his lap, straddling him. The chair creaked under the shift, and his hands instinctively moved to her waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her skirt of her dress where warm skin met his touch.

Harry tilted his head slightly, studying her up close now—her bare face, the faint furrow between her brows, the way she still tasted like the iced tea she’d sipped downstairs.

“You’ve gotten comfortable here,” he said quietly, thumb brushing her hip. “In the house. With me.”

Y/N met his gaze. “I didn’t really have a choice, did I?”

A corner of his mouth curved. “You’ve never been one to settle. So don’t give me that.”

She hummed in response, fingertips sliding along the collar of his shirt. “Maybe I just figured out there’s more to this place than stone walls and guards with guns.”

His hands moved slowly, deliberately, until one was resting between her shoulder blades, keeping her close.

There was a brief silence—comfortable, this time.

Then Harry leaned in just enough for his nose to brush against hers, his voice lower now, darker.

“If you’re going to sit here like this,” he murmured, “you’re not allowed to look at me like that and expect me to focus on anything else.”

Y/N smiled, slow and wicked. “Good. I didn’t want to talk about business anyway.”

He chuckled softly, the sound rare and warm against her neck as he kissed just below her ear.

Y/N shifted slightly in his lap, the silky fabric of her dress bunching up her thighs, riding higher with every movement. Harry's hands stayed planted on her waist, firm, grounding, but his eyes dropped to the way the dress hugged her curves.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he muttered, voice low and rough like gravel, lips grazing the edge of her jaw.

She smiled, her fingers slipping into his hair, slightly damp from the shower. “Doing what?”

His hands slid lower, dragging the hem of her dress with them. “Sitting here like this. Pretending you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

“I’m not pretending,” she said, tilting her head as her lips brushed his, teasingly. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

A groan rumbled in his chest, and in one swift motion, Harry leaned forward, pushing her back just enough to stand up from the chair with her in his arms. She gasped, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he walked them toward the couch near the fireplace. He sat down with her straddling him once more, his hands now trailing under her dress, exploring warm skin, pausing only when he reached the lace between her thighs.

She bit her bottom lip, watching the way his eyes darkened when he discovered she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

“Planning to kill me this afternoon, were you?” he murmured.

Y/N smirked. “Depends. Is it working?”

His answer was wordless—a sharp breath against her neck, a strong hand in her hair pulling her mouth back to his. The kiss was no longer soft or exploratory—it was possessive, filled with weeks of slow-burn tension and unspoken need. Her hands were everywhere, clawing at his shoulders, nails leaving marks across skin still flushed from sun and salt.