vicious — 35 (Patreon)

Author's note: Alright! I hope you all like it! Please enjoy it! Let me know what you think!

📌 This story is rated MATURE (18+) for a reason. If you are under 18, please scroll past this.

📌 word count: 3.8K

The morning air was crisp, but the atmosphere in the driveway was suffocating.

Two black SUVs were idling, their engines purring like restrained beasts. Harry stood by the lead car, his arms crossed over his chest, his sunglasses hiding his eyes but doing nothing to mask the tension radiating off him.

He wasn't going. He had meetings with the suppliers from the North, and Lex and Charlie were already setting up the war room inside. But that didn't mean he wasn't going to micromanage every second of this trip.

"Bishop," Harry barked at the head of the security detail—a massive man with a scar running through his beard. "You take the lead. Miller takes the rear. No unscheduled stops. Keep the perimeter tight. I don't care who it is—local law, rivals, or just some idiot on the street—no one gets within ten feet of her. You handle it.”

"Understood, Boss," Bishop rumbled.

The front door opened.

Harry stopped talking.

Y/N walked out, flanked by Giana, Imogen, and Poppy. The other women looked great—expensive, polished, ready for London—but Harry didn't see them.

He only saw his wife.

She was wearing a long, oversized black coat that looked tailored to perfection. It was buttoned, but the way she walked revealed exactly what was happening underneath: a short black dress, sheer black tights that encased her legs, and sharp, pointed heels that clicked against the pavement with lethal precision. Her hair was loose, framing her face, and she looked... untouchable.

She looked like the wife of a mob boss. She looked like a woman who could order a hit while sipping a latte.

Harry’s jaw tightened. He walked over to her, intercepting her before she could reach the car.

"You're wearing heels," he stated, looking down at her feet. "You’re still healing."

"I'm sitting in a car, Harry," Y/N said smoothly, adjusting her sunglasses. "And then I'm walking on marble floors. I think I'll survive."

"If your feet hurt—"

"I'll buy new shoes," she cut him off. She reached out and patted his cheek—a patronizing gesture that made Bishop look away in second-hand embarrassment. "Don't worry so much. You'll get wrinkles."

Imogen snorted from the backseat of the SUV. "Come on, Y/N. Bond Street waits for no one."

Y/N stepped around Harry, leaving him standing there in a cloud of her perfume. She slid into the leather seat of the SUV.

"Phone on," Harry ordered, leaning into the open door, his hand gripping the frame. "Sound on. If I call and you don't answer, I'm locking down the city."

"Bye, Harry," she said sweetly, and pressed the button to roll up the window.

Harry had to pull his hand back quickly to avoid losing fingers. He stood in the driveway, watching the convoy roll out the gates, feeling a mix of pride and absolute terror.

Three hours later, the "healing" process looked a lot like credit card fraud.

They had hit Chanel. They had decimated Saint Laurent. They were currently terrorizing a high-end lingerie boutique in Mayfair that smelled like jasmine and money.

"Oh, absolutely not," Poppy declared, holding up a neon pink corset. "This looks like a highlighter exploded."

"Put it back," Imogen advised, sipping a glass of complimentary champagne. She was sitting on a velvet ottoman, surrounded by bags. "Y/N needs silk. Black, emerald, maybe a deep red. Something that says 'I am a widow in mourning' but also 'I just killed my husband.'"

Giana laughed, handing Y/N a hanger with a delicate black lace bodysuit. "Try this one. It has the open back. Harry loves your back."

Y/N took the hanger, running her fingers over the lace. It was soft, intricate, and obscenely expensive.

"I'm not buying it for Harry," Y/N lied, heading toward the changing rooms. "I'm buying it for me."

"Right," Giana called after her. "And I'm buying these boots for the arch support."

Inside the changing room, Y/N stripped off her coat and dress. She looked at herself in the massive mirror. The bruises were still there, fading but visible, but in the soft lighting of the boutique, surrounded by silk and lace, she didn't feel broken. She felt powerful.

She pulled on the black bodysuit. It fit perfectly, hugging her curves, the high cut of the leg lengthening her silhouette.

Her phone buzzed on the velvet bench.

Y/N picked it up. A text message.

Harry: Report.

Y/N rolled her eyes but typed back.

Y/N:Still shopping. We haven't lost the guards. Relax.

She tossed the phone down and turned to check the back view in the mirror.

The phone buzzed again immediately.

Harry: Bishop says you're in a lingerie store.

Y/N felt a flush heat her cheeks. Of course Bishop was reporting in. She picked up the phone again, hesitating. She could ignore him. She should ignore him.

But the devil on her shoulder—the one that had worn the green dress yesterday—won.

Y/N: We are. Imogen says I need to update my collection.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. He was typing, then deleting, then typing again.

Finally, the message came through.

Harry: Use the black card. Buy everything.

And then, a second later:

Harry: I expect a private fashion show when you get home. Don't make me wait.

Y/N stared at the screen, her heart skipping a beat. It was a command, arrogant and possessive, but it sent a thrill straight through her. He wasn't treating her like a patient anymore.

She looked at herself in the mirror, a slow smirk spreading across her face.

Y/N: We'll see.

She dropped the phone into her purse and walked out of the dressing room.

"Imogen," Y/N called out, holding up the bodysuit. "I'm taking this. And the red one. And the robe."

"That's the spirit," Imogen raised her glass. "To Harry's wallet. May it rest in peace."

Lunch was supposed to be relaxing.

They had secured a prime table in the center of the bustling restaurant. The table was covered in crystal glasses, silver platters of oysters, and a bottle of Sancerre that Imogen had ordered without looking at the price list.

But it felt less like a ladies' lunch and more like a hostage negotiation.

Bishop was standing four feet away from the table, his back to a decorative pillar. He wasn't eating. He wasn't drinking. He was scanning the room with the intensity of a predator, his suit jacket unbuttoned just enough to reveal the shoulder holster to anyone who knew what to look for. Miller was stationed by the kitchen doors, looking equally grim.

"I feel like I'm dining with the Terminator," Poppy whispered, picking at a prawn. "Do you think he needs a battery change?"

"He's just doing his job," Y/N said, sipping her wine. "Harry gave them strict orders."

"Strict orders to what?" Giana laughed, stabbing a piece of ravioli. "Assassinate the sommelier if the wine is corked?"

As if summoned by the comment, a young waiter approached the table. He was holding a fresh bottle of water, his eyes fixed politely on Y/N’s glass.

"Madam, would you care for a top-up?" the waiter asked, stepping into the 'zone'.

Before the boy could even lift the bottle, a massive hand clamped onto his shoulder.

The entire restaurant seemed to freeze.

Bishop had moved with terrifying speed. He didn't hurt the waiter, but the grip he had on the boy's shoulder was immovable. The waiter went pale, the water bottle shaking in his hand.

"Step back," Bishop growled, his voice low but carrying like thunder. "We pour our own water."

"I... I'm sorry, sir, I was just..." the waiter stammered, looking like he was about to faint.

"Bishop," Y/N said sharply, setting her glass down. "Let him go."

Bishop didn't move immediately. He gave the waiter a final, menacing look—a look that said I know where you live—before releasing him. "Leave the bottle. Go."

The waiter practically ran back to the kitchen.

Imogen burst out laughing, covering her mouth with her napkin. "Oh my god. Did you see his face? I think he wet himself."

"It's not funny," Y/N sighed, though a small smile tugged at her lips. She picked up the water bottle and poured it herself. "Harry is ridiculous."

"Harry is obsessed," Giana corrected, clinking her glass against Y/N's. "And honestly? It’s kind of hot."

Y/N looked over at Bishop, who had returned to his post as if nothing had happened. She knew Harry was probably getting a text update right now: Subject hydrated. Threat neutralized.

She took a sip of her wine, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the alcohol. "Yeah," she whispered. "It kind of is."

The sun was beginning to set when the convoy pulled back through the iron gates.

Harry was waiting.

He was standing on the front steps, leaning against one of the stone pillars. He had ditched the blazer, standing there in his black trousers and a white shirt with the top buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked tired, edgy, and incredibly handsome.

As the SUVs rolled to a stop, Harry pushed off the pillar and walked down the steps.

The back doors opened, and the girls spilled out, laughing and flushed from wine and retail therapy. But the real show was the trunk.

Bishop and Miller began unloading the haul. It was an obscene amount of bags. Chanel, Dior, Agent Provocateur, Gucci. The pile on the driveway grew until it looked like a barricade.

Harry looked at the mountain of black and white bags, then up at his wife.

Y/N stepped out of the car. She adjusted her coat, her heels clicking on the gravel. She looked refreshed, glowing, and completely unbothered by the dent she had just put in his bank account.

Harry walked right up to her. He didn't care that Giana, Imogen, and Poppy were watching. He didn't care that his men were hauling boxes.

He stepped into her space, his eyes scanning her face, checking for any sign of distress, any fatigue. When he found none, his gaze dropped to her lips.

"Did you leave anything in the store?" he asked, his voice rough.

Y/N smirked. "I left the hangers."

Harry huffed, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. He reached out, his hand settling on her waist, pulling her an inch closer. "You had fun?"

"I did," she said softly. "London is lovely this time of year."

"And the guards?"

"Terrifying," she assured him. "They almost arrested a waiter for offering me sparkling water."

"Good," Harry said, dead serious. "You can never trust sparkling water."

Giana walked past them, carrying a small orange Hermes bag. "We're going to take this loot inside. Don't do anything illegal on the driveway, you two."

Harry ignored her. His thumb stroked the side of Y/N's waist through her coat. "I see a lot of bags, Y/N."

"You told me to buy everything," she reminded him.

"I did." His voice dropped, becoming intimate, for her ears only. "Did you get what I asked for?"

Y/N reached into her oversized tote bag. She pulled out a small, sleek black bag from the lingerie boutique. It was unassuming, tied with a pink ribbon.

She held it up by the string, letting it dangle between them.

"This one," she whispered, leaning in so her breath ghosted against his neck. "Is for you."

Harry’s pupils dilated, his eyes tracking the bag like a hawk. He reached for it, but she pulled it back slightly.

"Ah," she tutted. "Not here."

She turned and walked toward the house, swinging the bag by her side.

"Bring the bags upstairs!" she called out over her shoulder, leaving Harry standing in the driveway, staring at her retreating figure with a look of pure, agonizing want.

"Bishop," Harry said, not looking away from his wife.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Tell Lex and Charlie they're in charge until morning. I don't care what happens with the shipment, I don't care who calls."

Bishop nodded, understanding immediately. "You're offline."

"Completely," Harry confirmed, his voice low and absolute. He finally turned to look at his head of security. “Unless we are under direct attack, I do not exist."

"Understood," Bishop said, hiding a smirk. "Enjoy your night, Boss."

Harry didn't answer. He was already moving, taking the stone steps two at a time, loosening his tie as he went, ready to claim his wife.

The bedroom door clicked shut, the lock sliding home with a heavy, deliberate sound.

Harry didn't move from the door immediately. He leaned back against the wood, loosening his tie and pulling it from his collar, dropping it onto the couch without looking. His eyes were fixed on the center of the room.

The bed was covered in bags. Tissue paper and boxes were scattered across the duvet like the aftermath of a storm.

Y/N was standing by the vanity, her back to him. She had taken off her coat and kicked off her heels, standing there in the black dress and tights. She was calmly unboxing a pair of boots, placing them on the shelf as if her husband wasn't standing ten feet away, vibrating with adrenaline.

"You're late," she said, not turning around.

"I had to tell the men to forget I exist" Harry rasped, pushing off the door. He walked toward her, stepping over a discarded Chanel bag.

Y/N turned then, leaning back against the vanity, her hands gripping the edge. She looked him up and down—the unbuttoned collar, the rolled sleeves, the dark, predatory hunger in his eyes.

"And do they?" she asked.

"Do they what?"

"Forget you exist?"

Harry stopped inches from her. He placed his hands on the vanity on either side of her hips, trapping her. He lowered his head, his eyes dark and accusing.

"Right now," he whispered, "I don't think anyone exists but you.”

Y/N shivered, the cold shoulder she had given him all day finally melting under his heat. She reached out, her fingers toying with the buttons of his shirt.

"You were brutal today," he murmured, his voice rough.

Y/N tilted her head. "I was shopping."

"You were cold," Harry corrected, stepping closer until his chest brushed hers. "You ignored me. You spent the entire day looking right through me, teasing me in front of my men, driving me absolutely insane."

"You deserved it," she whispered, though her pulse was jumping in her throat.

"Maybe," Harry conceded, his hand coming up to grip her chin, tilting her face up. " But you were rude, darlin. You treated your husband like a stranger. And now you have to make up for it."

Y/N swallowed hard, her defiance melting into heat under his touch. She reached behind her, grabbing the small black bag with the pink ribbon from the vanity surface. She held it against his chest.

"I bought you a present."

Harry took it. He didn't tear it open. He untied the ribbon slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. He reached inside and pulled out the sheer, black lace bodysuit.

It was barely anything. Just a whisper of fabric meant to frame skin, not cover it.

Harry let out a low breath, the fabric pooling in his large hand.

"Put it on," he ordered.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, a last spark of resistance. "You want a show?”

"I want to see my wife," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I want to see exactly what you bought with my money.”

It was a lot of money, Harry."

Harry dropped the bag on the floor, his eyes locked on her.

"I don't give a fuck," he growled kissing the corner of her mouth. "I don't care about the money. I just want to see exactly what belongs to me."

Y/N took the bodysuit from his hand. She stepped out of his cage, walking toward the bathroom. At the doorway, she paused and looked back. Harry was watching her, his weight on one leg, looking like he was ready to burn the house down if she took too long.

"Don't touch the phone," she warned him playfully.

"Go," he snapped.

The bathroom door closed, but she didn't lock it.

Harry waited. He paced the room once, twice. He ran a hand through his hair, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt like a teenager again, waiting for a girl, except this was his wife, and the stakes were so much higher. He needed to prove to her—and to himself—that the fear was gone. That he wasn't looking at a patient anymore.

The door handle turned.

Harry stopped pacing. He stood at the foot of the bed.

Y/N stepped out.

She had left the tights on, the sheer black nylon disappearing under the high cut of the lace bodysuit. The fabric clung to her like ink. The neckline plunged deep, showcasing her skin, but it was the confidence radiating off her that hit him hardest.

She walked toward him, the carpet softening her steps. She didn't cover herself. She didn't hide the scar on her side where the lace dipped low. She wore it all.

It was a piece of art designed for destruction. The bodysuit was crafted from sheer, black architectural mesh that hugged her waist like a second skin, structured with boning that pushed her breasts up and offered them like a gift. Delicate floral embroidery climbed up the cups in dark, inky vines, contrasting with the sharp, modern straps that caged her chest—one strap running horizontally across her cleavage, connecting the silk to the skin in a way that was both restraining and deeply provocative. It was high-cut at the hips, lengthening her legs for miles, a lethal combination of soft French lace and hard, binding lines.

Harry didn't breathe. He didn't blink.

"Well?" she asked, stopping in front of him. She did a slow spin, letting him see the open back, the curve of her spine, the way the lace framed her. "What’s the verdict, Mr. Styles? Did I waste your money?"

Harry didn't answer with words.

He reached out, his hands finding her waist. His grip was firm, possessive, with none of the hesitation that had plagued him for two weeks. He pulled her flush against him, the friction of the lace against his shirt sending a shockwave through him.

"You look..." He buried his face in her neck, inhaling the scent of her perfume. "Devastating."

"Not broken?" she whispered, the question hanging in the air between them.

Harry pulled back. He looked at her face, then down to her body. He traced the line of the bodysuit where it met the scar on her ribcage. He didn't flinch. He didn't look pained. He looked reverent.

"No," he said fiercely, his thumb brushing the mark. "Not broken. I am the luckiest man in London to be the one looking at you."

Y/N let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, her hands coming up to cup his face. "Then stop talking," she murmured, pulling him down. "And show me."

Harry didn't need to be told twice. He swept her up into his arms, ignoring her squeal of surprise, and threw her onto the bed amidst the sea of tissue paper and designer bags.

He crawled over her, pushing the boxes out of the way with his knee, his eyes wild as he looked down at the sheer fabric clinging to her skin. His hand gripped the delicate lace at her hip, his knuckles white.

"Don't," Y/N gasped, her hand coming up to stop him. "Harry, don't you dare tear it. It’s brand new, I want to keep—”

The sharp sound of ripping fabric silenced her.

Harry didn't listen. With one violent, desperate motion, he tore the lace down the middle, destroying the expensive bodysuit in a split second.

"Harry!" she shouted, half-shocked, half-aroused.

"I'll buy you the whole bloody shop," he growled, tossing the ruined scraps of silk aside to press his skin directly against hers. "I'll buy you ten more. I'll fill this room with them. Just let me have you."

He didn't wait for an answer. He crashed his lips against hers, kissing her with a hunger that consumed them both, proving once and for all that the distance between them was gone.

The kiss was a collision, a frantic reclaiming of territory, but as quickly as the storm had broken, Harry slowed it down.

He pulled back just an inch, his chest heaving against hers, his forehead resting against her temple. The sound of their ragged breathing filled the quiet room, replacing the sound of tearing lace.

Y/N didn't hide. She didn't try to cover the exposed skin where the bodysuit hung in tatters. Instead, she ran her hands up his arms, feeling the tension in his biceps, and settled her palms against his neck.

"You're a brute," she whispered, though her voice was thick with satisfaction. "That was French lace."

"I don't care if it was woven by angels," Harry murmured, shifting his weight so he was hovering over her, careful not to crush her but making sure she felt every ounce of his presence. He moved his hand, brushing the torn strap off her shoulder completely. "It was in my way."

He looked down at her, his green eyes dark and heavy-lidded, sweeping over her face with an intensity that made her toes curl.

She looked wrecked in the most stunning way possible. Her hair was fanned out across the white pillow, dark and messy. Her lips were swollen red from his mouth. The fading yellow bruise on her ribcage—a souvenir from the violence that had almost taken her—was now exposed, but Harry didn't look away from it.

He reached out, his large hand trembling slightly as he traced the line of her throat. The silver rings on his fingers were cool against her heated skin.

"You own me, Y/N," he said, the words heavy and absolute. "You know that, don't you? Everyone downstairs works for me. But I work for you.”

Y/N stared up at him, seeing the absolute truth in his green eyes. He was the most dangerous man in London, a man who commanded armies, a man who killed without blinking. And he was currently on his knees for her.

She smiled, a slow, confident curve of her lips that she knew drove him crazy. She reached up, tangling her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck.