Ace POV:

Frustration and anger surged through me like a fucking storm.

No—worse than that. Like a wildfire I couldn't put out, burning everything from the inside out.

Her words—those words—cut deeper than any blade I'd ever taken.

The way she looked at me... like she didn't even see me anymore.

Like I was a memory she couldn't wait to forget.

I always knew this moment would come, but hearing it from her lips made it real.

Made it unbearable.

"Leave."

She didn't even scream it. Just said it while staring at the floor, like my existence was too ugly to look at.

I stormed out of the bathroom without a word, rage barely contained in my spine.

Slamming the door behind me, I walked fast, aimless, desperate to get away from that goddamn room.

My heart was still beating. But every beat came with a tightness in my chest, like it was trying to tear itself free.

I stopped mid-hallway, sucking in a shaky breath.

It's okay. It's okay. It's oka—

"Ace."

I turned, jaw clenched.

Leo stood there, casual like always. Unaware.

"Alex was looking for—"

I didn't let him finish.

I slammed him against the wall so hard and my hand wrapped around his throat, fingers digging into his skin like I was trying to crush something that wasn't his fault.

His eyes widened. Not from fear. From surprise.

He moved fast—hands not clawing, but controlling—twisting my wrist to break the angle, turning my strength against me.

Bones flexed under pressure.

Good.

I gritted my teeth and held tighter.

Leo's knee jerked up, aiming for my ribs, but I anticipated it and stepped back just in time, dragging him with me.

Still, the impact was enough to jolt my grip loose for a split second.

He dropped his weight low, planting his feet, trying to pivot out of my hold.

He was fast. Clean. Trained.

But not faster than me.

I slammed him again. Harder.

A picture frame crashed beside us, glass exploding like gunfire.

"LIAM!" he roared.

My hand didn't let go. But it trembled now.

Not from weakness. From restraint.

I looked at him. Through him.

But all I could see was her.

Her face. Her eyes. Her voice.

"I hate you with all my heart. And that hatred won't leave even if I die."

Something inside me cracked.

Then—hands gripped my shoulders, yanked me back.

Leo collapsed, coughing and gasping, hitting the floor like dead weight.

And I...

I froze.

Because something changed.

A wave of sweetness—yes, sweetness—washed over me like poison honey.

My heart kicked into a rhythm that wasn't mine—too fast, too loud, too wrong.

My thoughts stopped swirling. They just... collapsed.

Everything else faded into static.

"Boss!"

Ares.

His hand was on me. I blinked at it like it didn't belong there.

The second he felt my stare, he let go and took a step back, uncertainty flashing in his eyes.

"Did you finally lose it?!" Leo yelled, voice shredded by coughs.

Alex stepped in, pulling him back. "Leo, don't."

When the fuck did they all get here?

"Are you doing drugs again?" Alex asked, frowning hard.

I dragged a hand over my face, over my temple, pushing my hair back as I walked toward my room.

Drugs.

I fucking wish it was drugs.

At least there's a cure for that.

Rehab. Withdrawal. Time.

But this?

This tightness in my chest—this itch under my skin, this burn in my throat?

There's no cure for what I have.

As I slammed the door behind me, the sound cracked through the empty corridors like a thunderclap.

It echoed back at me—mocking, deafening, final.

I tore the coat from my shoulders and flung it over the chair, then snatched the water bottle from the table and drank.

Some of it burned down my throat; the rest splashed over my chin, soaking through my shirt like cold guilt.

I hurled the bottle across the room.

Her voice—Do you want to break me again?—played on repeat, like a cursed loop I couldn't silence.

My fingers curled around the chair finial. I panted, jaw clenched, teeth grinding.

With a violent snarl, I lifted the chair and smashed it across the room.

Wood split against the closet door, the crash echoing like gunfire.

The finial broke loose, spinning off and clattering to the floor.

It should've satisfied something. It didn't.

Tears blurred my vision, but I didn't stop them.

They burned.

Just like her words.

Just like her eyes when she looked at me like I was filth.

I wiped them away. Rough. Sharp.

Then–

The silence.

The cruel, suffocating kind that wraps around your throat.

I needed to break something else.

The basement welcomed me like a tomb.

Cold. Damp. Reeking of mold, rust, and old sins.

Every step I took echoed like a heartbeat underwater—slow, suffocating.

In the corner, curled like a discarded thing, was Ivan.

Pathetic. Quiet. Too whole.

He was a pitiful sight, his spirit crushed by the knowledge that his fate was in my hands.

Yet, despite his fear, he appeared healthy— too healthy, considering the pain and suffering that roiled within me.

The sight of him, so undeserving of the torment I felt, only served to stoke the flames of my anger.

My hand found the lock and twisted it. The metal screamed in protest as the door swung open.

Ivan flinched and looked up, his eyes wide with terror as I stepped into the cell.

I grabbed his arm. Hard.

Dragged him out. He collapsed, knees hitting the floor with a sickening thud.

I didn't wait. Yanked him up again.

Every inch of his resistance only sharpened my grip.

We moved through the shadows. My chest heaved, breath ragged, vision swimming in red.

Then—gleam.

In the corner of the room, half-hidden by shadows, was a pocket knife.

It was small, dull. Almost forgettable. But not tonight.

I reached out and snatched the knife from its resting place.

The weight felt right. Too right.

Cold steel grounded me—cut through the emotional storm that threatened to devour me whole.

Ivan's breath hitched the moment he saw it.

The blade caught the low light, gleaming like it had a soul of its own.

His scream tore through the silence, jagged and raw, bouncing off the stone walls like some dying animal.

I should've felt pity. I didn't.

Instead, something dark and hollow cracked open in me, and his terror poured right into it.

I crouched, the knife grazing his face, letting him feel every inch of my control.

His eyes—wide, glossy, pleading—reflected my madness back at me.

"My Mini is here," I said, voice shaking with everything I couldn't say. "But she hates...despises me."

I slid the blade across his cheek—not cutting, not yet—just letting the coldness speak for me.

"The way she looked at me..." My voice broke, low and uneven.

"Like I was filth. Like she'd never loved me at all." I paused, close enough to see every tremble of his lip.

"I want her to see me like the old days. Just once. Before she gets out of this house."

He whimpered something incoherent, but I wasn't listening anymore.

"You know, when she looked at me like that—" I drew in a shuddering breath, "—I wanted to..."

The knife moved before I fully registered it, guided by a storm I couldn't contain.

Gore

With a sudden, savage motion, I plunged the knife into his eyes.

Ivan's scream tore through the basement, raw and piercing—like something primal being ripped apart.

Blood surged. The air thickened with it.

He writhed beneath me, hands clawing at nothing, blinded by pain, consumed by it.

As I withdrew the knife, his right eyeball dangled grotesquely from its socket, hanging by a thread of tissue.

Each blink caused a fresh cascade of blood to spill from his eyes, the viscous liquid flowing freely down his cheeks, mingling with his tears.

"Look," I hissed, crouching low, my voice trembling with something between madness and grief.

"It hurts, doesn't it? That's what I wanted for her." My voice shook with deranged satisfaction.

The confession spilled out, unfiltered.

The darkness that had rotted inside me for too long now crawled up my throat.

I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a low snarl.

"I wanted her to scream like this. To see me, really see me—and break."

With a frustrated snarl, I tore the eyeball free from its moorings, the action swift, brutal, and final.

It popped out with a sickening squelch, the optic nerve dangling like a string of wet thread.

I stared at it—this grotesque, bloodied orb—like it meant something. Like it proved something.

But it didn't.

I flung it away, sulking.

Because it wasn't enough.

Not nearly enough.

My rage demanded more, and I obliged.

My thumb plunged into the empty socket, the flesh yielding like soft fruit beneath the pressure.

Ivan's shrieks fractured the silence, each cry cutting jagged lines through my skull.

And I liked it. Loved it.

His agony was a mirror. A reflection of what I felt inside

"I want to stab her again and again until her breath slows down and her body looks bland and colorless," I confessed, voice raw with a mix of longing and despair.

The words rolled out without resistance. I didn't even flinch.

Because they were true.

And also a lie.

Everything was both, now.

The moment shattered.

The high—the sick, burning release—collapsed into something slower. Thicker.

Regret. Horror. Love.

"But I can't..."

It came out of me like a sob I refused to shed. My voice cracked, barely audible over the wet sounds of Ivan's suffering.

The sound of his screams was grating on my nerves.

"Ivan, I am fucking talking! So stop fucking screaming!" I bellowed, snapping back. My voice echoed, bounced off the damp stone like a weapon.

But he didn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

"I love her, Ivan. I want to make it right, but how..." My voice broke again.

The air smelled like rust. Like rot. Like me.

I leaned close, grabbing him by the collar, forcing his ruined face toward mine.

"Tell me," I whispered, voice hoarse. "Tell me what to do. Since she won't."

His mouth opened—no words. Just a wet, shuddering cry from a throat torn raw.

But for a fleeting moment, it wasn't Ivan's sobbing I heard.

It was hers.

Soft. Accusing. Sweet.

"You can't fix this," the hallucination whispered again, curling around the edges of my mind like smoke.

My chest caved in.

"I have to," I snarled, eyes squeezed shut, as if I could shut the truth out too. "She was mine before all this. Mine."

I rose to my feet, unsteady. Every movement felt like dragging a corpse behind my ribs.

The weight of her absence pressed against my spine.

Her scent—imagined or real—clung to my shirt like a ghost that wouldn't let go.

"Fucking hell," I muttered, pacing the cell like a man trapped in his own skin. "If Liam had said that he invited—tricked—her here, I would have prepared something." My words splintered with fury.

"Anything."

She'd been so close.

And I wasn't ready.

Not to be seen. Not like this.

"In these past months, some boy proposed to her," I sneered. "And fucking Caleb is her... what? God knows—some secret stalker? A stupid little lover boy?"

Each word burned my tongue.

The thought of her being adored by someone else, smiling at someone who wasn't me, letting someone touch her—

It was poison.

Corrosive.

Rage curled in my gut and pressed hard against my ribs.

"I knew if I saw her again, I'd behave like this," I spat. "And Liam—he knew too. He knew it would play out like this and still made her stand in front of me."

All those years of pain, of bleeding myself from the inside out.

Of staying away.

Of choosing the long road, the silent road.

Because I knew what I'd do if she ever came close again.

"I would kill her," I whispered. "Rot her down to bone and ash. Just to keep her. To own her."

But now...

Now I couldn't even if I wanted to.

Not when she looked at me like that.

"I'll make her love me again," I said, breathless. "I will."

A manic laugh slipped out, unbidden and sharp.

It echoed across the stone like a taunt from the devil himself.

"I'll fight for her—claw through glass, through skin, through hell—until she sees me. Really sees me. As I am."

I clutched my chest, as if the bones there were cracking open.

"As her one true love."

Even if it meant sacrificing everything.

Even if it meant tearing apart the very empire I built.

"Friendships? Fuck 'em. Wealth? Take it. Status? Worthless."

My mouth twitched into something like a smile, and I leaned against the wall, staring into nothing.

"I mean, come on... I built all of this to kill him," I laughed, shaking my head, "but now? That hag seems cheap compared to my Mini."

All of it—everything I was, everything I had—it was dust without her.

"The sacrifices I'm willing to make..." I trailed off, my gaze unfocused. "They're nothing. Less than nothing. If it means I get to taste her love again."

"Our worlds may be different," I admitted, staring at my bloodstained hands. "But I don't care anymore."

I looked up. Imagined her there again.

This time not silent. Not cold.

This time, smiling.

"She's the one."

The words left my lips like a vow.

A prophecy.

A curse.

"And this time," I whispered, voice curling into something dark, "I will stop at nothing to make her mine completely."

Even by manipulation.

Even by lies.

Even by force, if she made me.

"Because she wouldn't believe the truth anyway," I said, laughing bitterly.

"As she said—" I tilted my head, voice trembling with a mockery of affection.

"—I'm just a coward."

"Why?..." The voice came from the floor. Weak. Shattered. Barely clinging to consciousness.

I scowled.

Ivan.

His body was curled inward, trembling and slick with blood.

His hands twitched helplessly near his ruined eyes, as if trying to grasp the pain and throw it away.

"You're ruining my moment," I muttered, annoyed.

I turned my back and walked toward the sink, dragging a hand down my face.

The water sputtered and hissed when I twisted the knob, but I didn't turn it on. I just needed the distance.

Behind me, a wet, rasping growl of pain clawed its way from Ivan's throat.

"She... she's not even worth anything," he croaked, voice hitching on every syllable. "She didn't do anything to you... then why... why this?"

I turned, lips twitching.

"I get it, I get it," I said, waving my hand lazily. "You're trying to make sense of it. There's none. So stop wasting your breath."

He groaned, folding into himself again, body wracked with tremors.

I walked closer, crouching near him, not out of pity—out of the thrill of control.

"I don't know, Ivan," I murmured. "She doesn't have money. She doesn't have power. Not even status. Just this old hoodie, pants and a scowl and the ability to walk into a room and not care that no one's looking at her."

My gaze unfocused for a second—drawn inward.

"I noticed her first when I saw her eyes. Not love at first sight—nothing so poetic. No, it was loathing. And... curiosity."

I chuckled. "She was small. Sharp. Wore defiance like perfume."

Ivan whimpered, but I was too deep in the memory to care.

"She made me mad. Her voice, her faint stubbornness, her absolute refusal to break completely like she didn't know who I was. Or worse—like she knew and didn't give a damn."

I stood again, pacing, speaking more to myself than to him now.

"But with time, it changed. It got under my skin. She started to impress me... to haunt me."

"She was the most boring, weird, simple girl I had ever met—and still, she got under my bones like rot."

"She's all wrong, Ivan. That's the truth."

"Too quiet. Too much patience. Too real."

I turned my head slightly, eyes glazed.

"But she's strong. So strong. She gets back up even when the world begs her to stay down."

"She talks like she doesn't care, but her hands always tremble and heart beating like it's gonna burst out"

"She's like a little bear," I said softly, almost fondly. "Fierce. Unpredictable. Clumsy. Protective."

Ivan whimpered again, a low, gurgled sound—half agony, half disbelief.

"She's not a weapon. She's not a saint. She's just..."

I exhaled through my nose.

"She's Iris. My Iris. And I think she was carved from the same damn chaos that made me."

I crouched beside him again, voice low.

"She's not worth anything to you," I said, eyes narrowing, "but to me? She's worth every drop of blood leaking from your fucking face."

Iris POV:

Warm. Too warm.

Like someone had turned the heater on full blast and wrapped me in a giant human blanket.

Which, okay, would've been a terrifying surprise... if the human blanket wasn't actually a human.

I cracked my eyes open, blinking slow. The world was fuzzy, but something was wrong. Off.

Real wrong.

There was a heavy weight pressed up against my chest, like someone had fallen asleep on top of me—no, not someone. Ace.

My heart dropped straight into my stomach.

His face was right there, smashed against my boobs like he paid rent for that spot.

His cheek was tucked against my nipple, all soft and peaceful like he hadn't just committed an entire felony in his sleep.

His arm was around my waist, lazy. Like I was his pillow. Like this was his bed.

One of his legs was shoved between mine, warm and way too casual, and I swear to God—his thigh was doing things it had no business doing.

I froze. Mind blank. Body stiff. A whole second passed before my brain caught up with what my eyes were seeing.

And then—

"ACE!" I screamed like the room was on fire.

He flinched but didn't move. Just groaned, like I'd disturbed his precious nap.

Muttered something that sounded like, "...'m piss," and tried to nuzzle back in like I was his favorite blanket.

I slapped his hand off my waist so hard I probably dislocated my finger. "What the actual hell?!"

The blanket was yanked off before I could second-guess myself, and sure enough—he was half-naked.

Just boxers. That was it.

All lean muscle and smugness, even unconscious.

And my top? My favorite black top with the faded snail print? Torn and shoved underneath him like trash.

My heart was beating so loud it hurt my ears. I was shaking all over, mostly from rage. Or panic. Or both.

What the hell did he do while I was out?

How did I not wake up?

How the hell did I not notice him sneaking into my bed like some deranged Greek god?

"Mini, les tiss," he mumbled again, voice so slurred it sounded like his mouth was full of jam.

I leaned in, squinting. "What? Speak English, you jerk."

No answer. Just a dopey smile. Great.

Then his hand shot out.

"Ack—YAHHH! Leave me!" I screeched as he yanked me down like some feral beast claiming his prey.

My elbow smacked his ribs in the process, but he didn't even flinch.

"Get off!" I barked, squirming like a trapped raccoon while he pinned me underneath him like I weighed nothing.

Which, okay, rude.

I have density.

My arms were forced above my head, and his damn smile grew, like he was the one being seduced.

I turned my face away fast, jaw locked, heart punching against my ribs like it was trying to escape and leave me here to deal with the consequences.

Everything stilled.

No breath against my face. No smug words. Just... stillness.

I peeked. Just a little.

He was staring down at me like I'd just told him the moon belonged to us.

His whole face softened—no arrogance, no fire.

Just this... tired, gentle look that made me forget how to blink for a second.

What the hell?

"Get. Out." I hissed, hoping my voice didn't sound as shaky as it felt.

It probably did. It totally did.

He didn't respond.

Just hummed, all low and sleepy, and then—WHAM—his face dropped into my neck like a wrecking ball of bad decisions.

Wait, wait— did he pass out?!

Did I... kill him?

Is he dead?

Oh my God, did I hit him that hard?!"

But no. No.

His grip tightened around my waist like I was a damn security blanket, and he started stretching.

Stretching.

Oh, hell no.

My eyes went wide as his whole body shifted and pressed into mine like he was getting comfy for winter.

Breathing suddenly became a luxury item.

I laid there, stuck, arms still pinned, face full of confused rage and mild suffocation.

He looked—God help me—vulnerable for a second. Like a stupid, sleepy panther who didn't know it just sat on a butterfly and crushed it.

And then.

Just like that.

Poof. That soft, cuddly moment was gone.

"I said, let's kiss," he mumbled, low and breathy against my ear.

I froze. My soul froze.

Was that—was that supposed to be comforting?

Because it sounded like a serial killer offering you a lollipop before the stabbing.

I stared up at him, absolutely, utterly, soul-crushingly lost.

What if I stab him? Just a little?

A warning stab.

What if I die in this position?

Will I haunt him?

Will I show up in his bathroom mirror like, "remember when you smothered me to death with your abs?"

"Why are you yelling, Mini? It's not like I haven't seen your body naked before," he whispered, lips brushing against my ear like the smug menace he is.

My entire brain glitched.

"...What?"

"When did you even come in here?" I demanded, heart trying to climb out through my throat.

"Two in the morning," he answered, casual as ever. "I couldn't sleep."

Oh....okay. Makes perfect sense.

Damn it, Iris. Punch him.

"Leave," I said, voice tight, breath tighter.

But of course he didn't move.

No, instead this absolute lunatic props himself up on his elbows, face close enough for me to count every goddamn eyelash.

"I want to stay here. With you," he murmured, like he wasn't currently trespassing on my sanity.

"Get out, Ace." I glared. Then, I smirked, eyebrows raised like I was in charge of anything anymore.

"Also—why are you warming my bed? Do you want to become my bed warmer or something?"

I was fishing for a reaction.

I wanted to hurt him.

I wanted him to feel that tightness in his chest.

The kind that eats you from the inside out.

The kind that makes you ask, "why does this girl haunt me?"

And oh, did I get one.

His jaw clenched. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Jealous?

Tsk. No way. He's too cold for jealousy.

Right?

I was just a timepass for him.

I was.

Then—

His lips curled.

A twitch. A smirk. Something dark and unhinged that made my blood run cold.

"Make me then," he whispered, voice low and wrecked. "Make me your bed warmer, your whore, anything. But no other boy or man will warm your bed other than me, Iris."

"....."

His pupils were fully blown, black and endless, staring right into my soul.

He's lying, my brain screamed. He's tricking you again. Don't fall for it, don't—

His hands released my wrists.

But the ghost of his touch? Still there. Burning like it had branded me.

I shoved at his stomach—hard. I meant it to be angry, forceful, a get-off-me-you-emotional-terrorist kind of push.

But then my palms met his abs.

His very hard, very defined, very... Greek-God-level abs.

Oh no.

They were solid. Like... granite.

Wait.

Were they always like this?

Who else touched these in the past year?

WHAT THE HELL, IRIS. GET A GRIP.

My dignity? Dead. Missing.

Probably hiding under the bed like, don't look at me, I'm embarrassed for you.

I shook my head furiously like that would banish the traitorous thoughts leaking into my brain.

Focus. Focus.

I couldn't let him get to me like this.

He always did this– says the most blunt and shameless thing, ripping the floor out from under me, left me dizzy, and scooped me up gently.

But not this time.

Not again.

"Mini, focus," he said smugly, like he knew.

Like he could see the mess inside my head and decided to pull up a chair, sip tea, and enjoy the show.

"I'm focused," I snapped back, lifting my chin with determination.

He hummed again—of course he did—the sound lazy and amused, like he was watching a puppy trip over its own feet.

"Then why are you tracing my abs?" he asked, voice thick with smugness.

I blinked.

My hand. My traitor hand.

"I'm not—I'm trying to push you off!" I huffed, shoving at his chest with all the strength of a wet napkin. "You're heavy!"

He didn't move. Just smirked harder, like that was some sort of love confession.

Then, out of nowhere—like he flipped a switch—his voice dropped.

"Mini, I apologize."

And it wasn't teasing.

It wasn't fake.

It was the kind of soft that made my stomach twist and my chest ache.

I frowned, confused, cautious—until my eyes landed on something small and silver peeking out from his chest.

The pendant.

My pendant.

It was the one I had gifted him so long ago.

A key-shaped thing—black, with sharp edges and silver outlining.

Something that looked more like a weapon than a romantic token, but that was exactly why I picked it.

The sight of it now, resting against his chest, caused a lump to form in my throat.

Why is he wearing it?

I saw him looking between me and the pendant, softly.

I even saw it yesterday, but I was suspicious—was it the one I gifted to him?

But now... I was sure. That was mine.

The cheap, custom thing I spent all my savings on.

All that nagging and whining to get the edges just right, the black polish to match his rings, the silver trim because I thought he'd like that kind of detail.

Then—

"I never take it off," he said, brushing it gently with his fingers like it was holy.

Like it had teeth and could bite if he let it go.

His eyes met mine—quiet. Honest.

And suddenly, I wanted to cry. Or throw up. Or both.

I stared up at him, my whole brain a tornado of what the hell do I do with this?

No.

No..

No...

NO....

I looked away, eyes on the ceiling. My voice dropped to a whisper. "You're making me want to stab you but at the same time confuse me.... Leave, please."

I laid back. Let every inch of my body sink into the bed.

Not because I was relaxed.

Because remembering that pendant? Remembering why I gave it to him?

It made my bones heavy. It made the memories claw out of the corners I'd stuffed them in.

"Whatever I said that day..." he started, voice cracking around the edges. "I apologize. I didn't mean any of it."

I didn't say anything. I didn't have anything to say.

Because I remembered what he said that day. Every word. Every expression. Every pain.

And hearing this now—him sounding human, real—it made something inside me tilt.

Not quite forgiveness. Not quite understanding.

Just confusion.

A silence settled between us, loud as thunder.

And I hated that part of me wanted to believe him.

Worse?

That I still wanted him to mean it.

"I was scared," he admitted, voice breaking slightly.

"I was scared I would lose you... because of me. Because of the mess I've created all these years. I've already destroyed everything I've ever touched, everyone I've ever loved. I couldn't save them... even after that."

"I will kill you," he said, the words falling like broken glass. "I was afraid of me. Yes... I am afraid of me."

His regret, his fear, his pain—it slammed into me like a wave I didn't see coming.

All the things I'd buried, shoved into the back of my brain like forgotten garbage... they clawed their way back up.

I couldn't even blink. I just listened.

"I was wrong," he went on, his voice strained, wrecked. "I'm rotting inside without you. I thought if I didn't see you, I could let you go... but I can't."

"The thought of anyone else receiving your stupid care, your selfless patience, your weird-ass kindness... your shining love—it makes me sick. I want to be the one who gets it. All of it. Every second of your life."

His words echoed like thunder through my head. I didn't move. I didn't breathe.

Because he wasn't wrong.

Rotting. Yeah. I was rotting too.

Quietly. Pathetically. All this damn time.

I had tried to convince myself that I could hate him, that I could move on, but truth was—I never stopped wanting him.

His glance—it wasn't just a glance. It was a kneeling. He didn't need to drop to his knees.

His eyes did it for him.

And now he's saying it out loud? Admitting it?

Like we're both bleeding out and just now realizing we were stabbed by the same blade?

"Iris," he whispered. "Hell, I'm not even a good person. Do you really expect me to be good with words?"

His fingers brushed my cheek—so soft it made my heart ache. "I want to show you how much I want to worship you. Be the only man in your life. The only one you'd crave... need... always."

My breath caught. I hated that he could still make me feel like this. That one gentle touch could burn straight through every wall I built.

Our foreheads touched, and I wanted to push him away—but my body betrayed me. It melted.

Why now?

Why does he sound like he's finally telling the truth?

He didn't mean the words.

He didn't mean it.

He didn't—

"You kidnapped me. Twice. When you didn't even know who I was, clearly." My voice was trembling, cold, sharp.

"And after knowing everything, you stayed silent. You didn't come to me. Because what—you were scared?"

I wanted to scoff. But all that came out was a brittle whisper.

"Then what changed now, huh? You changed your mind just by looking at me? That's your whole speech? It sounds like a damn joke."

Because I'm pathetic. Shameless. No dignity left when it comes to him.

I say all this but I'm still lying here. Listening. Waiting. Loving.

I'm a loser.

"I know you won't believe a word I'm saying," he murmured, "because even I wouldn't believe it if I were you. It sounds childish. But just once, Iris. One selfless chance. I'll make it worth it."

I didn't have time to react.

His lips brushed against mine—soft, careful, like he thought I might shatter if he kissed too hard.

And that terrifying, traitorous part of me... laid back and let him do it..

Just for a second.

Just to remember.

I opened my eyes, expecting his to be closed— as always.

But they weren't.

They were open, locked on mine, like he was trying to memorize me. Every breath. Every blink.

To this day, I never forgot the physical things we had done.

Truth?

I never disliked his touch.

Or his kisses.

Or the way his hands cradled my body like I was something holy—and breakable.

He backed away slightly, breath ragged, shaking like he was barely holding himself together.

Then, his voice, hoarse and raw, whispered against my lips:

"Then use me... I'll do anything. You want someone dead—I'll do it. I'll do anything. I'll warm your bed too."

My lips parted.

What the—

Don't give me hope.

Don't give me hope.

Don't give me—

"Throw me away after you're satisfied with me."

The words sliced through my chest, sent a violent shiver crawling down my spine.

And then he kissed me again—gentle, careful, pleading.

This time, his eyes were closed.

Mine were wide open.

What the hell happened to him?

Where was the Ace I knew?

Where was that untouchable pride, the godlike ego, the icy arrogance that used to walk before him like a shadow?

Why is he talking like I'm his owner and he's just a beaten animal waiting to be leashed?

His kisses were like a slow burn.

Like putting a pan on the stove and turning on the flame.

It doesn't hurt at first.

But then, inch by inch, it heats up until it's untouchable.

Scalding. Dangerous. Irresistible.

I took a shaky breath, my lips parting as I tilted my head into him.

A numbing sensation hovered over my eyelids—like I hadn't slept in weeks.

His hand slid around my neck, his grip firm but reverent, holding me like I was both a lifeline and a curse.

Then, suddenly—he pulled away.

My eyes snapped open.

"I didn't let any girl touch me...even Susan," he breathed, then kissed me again, harder.

I wanted to slap him.

I should have slapped him.

But all I felt was... relief.

Twisted, pathetic relief.

There wasn't a single day I hadn't imagined him with someone else.

Someone prettier. Smarter. Experienced. Less broken.

Doing all the shameless things we used to do— maybe more.

Is there more?

Why did that thought always hurt worse than everything else?

Stop.

Stop, Iris.

But I couldn't.

Didn't want to.

I pushed my head up, kissed him aggressively, hungrily—like I was starved and he was the only damn thing that could feed me.

My toes curled like I'd been struck by lightning.

Raising my knees, I pressed my thighs against his hips, panting between breaths.

Itching. Burning.

That was all I could feel.

My hand slid over his abdomen—tracing those hard, familiar lines I'd pretended not to admire for far too long.

Did anyone else trace these lines in the past year?

Shut up.

Shut up..

Shut up...

Leaving my lips, he dragged his mouth to my throat, his tongue trailing wet heat down the line of my neck.

My body arched, desperate and defiant.

I gasped.

Stop.

I couldn't fight it.

I didn't want to fight it.

His lips on my skin.

His hands on my ribs.

His body on mine.

It felt too good.

Too right.

Too much like home.

Baby Jesus, give me some power. Please.

Just a little.

Anything.

Is there no one to pull me out of this?

Suddenly, his fingers brushed against my nipple, and I gasped at the sensation—sharp, deep, like needles threading through my nerves.

My body trembled, back arching toward him, chasing the feeling without thinking. Craving more.

A faint moan slipped out—uncontrolled, humiliating—and I didn't even care.

His lips trailed fire down my neck, slow and deliberate, and I closed my eyes, letting the pleasure wash over me.

Just for a greedy second. Just to feel wanted.

His mouth was like flames against my skin, burning away every last shred of doubt I still clung to.

God—it tickled too much.

I wanted to open my eyes, to stop him, to say something, but I couldn't.

I was sinking into it. Drowning in it.

The tightness in my stomach coiled with every touch, every kiss, every whisper of breath against my skin.

My breaths came in shallow gasps, mouth open, like I was suffocating under the weight of sensation.

And then—

I cried out, sharp, faint and soft, as he pressed his hips into mine.

The sparks shot between my legs, blinding, making me shake with need.

"A-Ace..." I stammered, my voice cracking, shaky, unrecognizable.

The pleasure—foreign and overwhelming—was building too fast, too hard.

I didn't know how to stop it.

I pressed my thighs tighter around his hips.

He groaned.

God, that sound—his voice.

I loved it. I wanted to drag it out of him again and again.

But then... he stopped.

His hips stopped.

I frowned. Whined.

The sound escaped without permission—needy and pathetic and full of aching want.

Why did he stop?

The pleasure still buzzed through me, violent and unsatisfied.

I felt like I was about to snap from the tension. My limbs trembled, and I couldn't crawl out of the daze even if I tried.

His movements stilled, but his lips pressed a tender kiss to my cheek.

It hurt—so full of longing, so gentle it made my chest ache.

Then, softly, almost like a ghost, he murmured,

"Answer her."

"...Huh?"

I blinked, dazed, like I'd been dunked underwater and couldn't hear right.

He looked so composed—so devastatingly handsome, even in this moment, even while I was falling apart.

"Iris, are you dead or alive?!"

Quinn's voice slammed into the room like a bomb.

My body jolted. My heart skidded into panic.

I widened my eyes, the fog lifting all at once.

No.

No, no, no.

She can't see us. She can't see this.

"Deep breaths, Mini," he whispered, calm as ever.

I stared at him like an owl—wide-eyed, frozen, fully blown.

Heat exploded across my cheeks.

Scrambling, I yanked a shirt from my bag and threw it on, hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped it.

My brain was screaming run, hide, don't let her see you like this.

"Quinn, go away!" I shouted, my voice breaking, my chest heaving with anxiety.

I spun to face him again.

Ace was frowning now. Deeply.

"...What?" I asked, breathless, still trying to pull the fabric over my shoulder, unsure what made his whole mood shift.

Then, his gaze flicked to my chest.

And he said—with a completely straight face—

"Your boobs have grown big and satiny."

"..."

...What?

The silence was deafening. My brain short-circuited.

Heat crawled from my neck to my ears, my face burning with embarrassment.

He nodded thoughtfully, still staring. "You're growing up, my sweet Mini."

There was something in his eyes—something new.

Like he was seeing me for the first time.

And I hated how much I noticed it.

How much it made me flustered.

And scared.

And seen.

With a deep breath, he stood up, slipping into his trousers with maddening ease, like what just happened between us meant nothing to him.

Like he could just walk away from it, fully composed, while I was still reeling.

Panic surged through me, sharp and sudden.

I reached out and shoved him aside—not gently.

He didn't even flinch. Didn't look surprised.

Like he expected it.

"Stay here. Silently," I snapped, my voice low but firm.

I was holding everything together by a thread.

His eyes locked onto mine, and for one agonizing second, I thought he'd argue.

But then he gave a single, quiet nod, stepping back into the shadows beside the door like it was some kind of game to him.

I took a breath. Steeled myself.

Then opened the door.

Quinn stood there, her eyes narrowed, face twisted in suspicion.

Like a lioness catching the scent of something just off.

"What the fuck were you doing inside?" she demanded, voice sharp and accusing.

"Nothing," I lied easily. "What happened?"

My brain scrambled for an excuse. Something believable. Something safe.

But Quinn didn't care. This time.

"Breakfast is ready. Susan, Alex, and I are going shopping," she said, suddenly chipper. The tension melted from her face like it had never existed.

I blinked, still caught between the fire and the flood inside me.

"I'm not coming," I said, sharper than I meant to.

She rolled her eyes. "I knew you'd say that. Didn't bother asking."

Then she paused—almost as an afterthought.

"Well, I just came here to inform you that I can't find Ace. If you see him, get his number for me. I mean, he's not my type, but he seems like a good person in bed."

She shrugged and turned away, humming to herself as she walked off, leaving a trail of WTH behind her.

I exhaled hard, only now realizing how tightly I'd been holding my breath.

I closed the door and turned.

Ace hadn't moved. But the shadows around him felt heavier somehow.

His expression had darkened—smoldering with something unreadable. Dangerous.

Then a crooked smile curled on his lips.

Not the charming kind. The maniac kind.

This is not good.

"Should I continue to warm your bed?" he murmured, poking his tongue between his lips, eyes gleaming with something sharp and wicked.

I. Am. Disgusted. And. Ashamed. Of. Me.

I squinted at him, jaw clenched.

Because what could I even say?

Anything out of my mouth right now would only dig me deeper into shame.

But still—because I had to say something—

"I don't want your service or anything. Go away and die," I hissed, words tumbling out, jagged and bitter.

But this time... the words didn't land the way they used to.

They didn't hit him.

They hit me.

My stomach churned, nausea curling at the edges of my anger.

Ace tilted his head slightly, his voice low and calm and infuriating as he murmured, "Le cose che dico e faccio per voi. Fa male al mio orgoglio, ma ne vale la pena (The things I say and do for you. It hurts my pride but it's worth it.)"

...What?

He turned away, walking toward the door.

But not before dropping one more line—this one lined with bitterness:

"I'm your dirty secret now."

...What?

Dirty secret?

"You came into my room and touched me and now you're telling me I made you dirty?" I shot back, fuming. "You're dirty. You're the dirty secret, or whatever metaphor that is."

He chuckled—actually chuckled—and looked back at me with that weird, adoring gaze that made me want to punch him and cry at the same time.

Weirdo.

And then he left.

I stood there, staring at the door like it had betrayed me.

Guilt slithered under my skin. I shook my head, frustrated, disgusted, wrecked.

God, why are you doing this to me?

I messed up. Let myself slip.

I swore I'd never let that happen.

Not with him.

I wouldn't let him get close again. I couldn't.

But even as I made that promise, the words he'd said kept echoing in my mind— "You're growing up, my love."

I scowled. Stupid Ace.

I hate him.

Yeah. That's it. I hate him.

But even as I repeated that to myself, again and again, I felt it—

That pull in my chest.

That traitorous warmth in my bones.

And I knew—deep down—it was never going to be that simple.

But I couldn't lie to myself.

Not about the way my heart had raced when he was close.

Not about the way his touch had lit something inside me I thought I'd buried long ago.

Something dangerous.

Something alive.

Ace POV:

I sighed heavily, irritation simmering just beneath the surface as I sank into the dining chair.

Everyone was already here—except for the one person I was actually waiting for.

My girl. My goddamn little girl.

She was taking her sweet time, and every second without her was clawing at my nerves.

Why is she taking so much time?

My fingers drummed against the table.

Across from me, Quinn kept shooting glances my way.

Unsettling, deliberate. Like she was trying to peel my skin off with her eyes.

What was worse—Iris didn't even react.

No jealousy. No narrowed eyes. Nothing.

Does she not get jealous?

I mean, observing from the very first moment—she wasn't jealous. Not even a flicker.

Not when I talked about other women, not when I met them, not even when I so much as looked. Nothing.

No narrowed eyes. No cold silences. No territorial nonsense I was so used to or I wanted.

Even that girl—what was her name?

The one Felix introduced to me at the club, pretending she had a personality. The one with those eerily similar eyes like Iris.

She stayed in my house for a week, and Iris didn't blink or gave a fuck about her.

Does that mean she doesn't give a fuck who I sleep with?

Ouch.

What a delightfully cruel realization.

I could drag someone into my bed right now, in front of her, and she'd probably just blink slowly like a sleepy bear and say, "Keep it down, I am sleeping."

Not because she's numb. No—numbness I could work with. But because she's indifferent.

She doesn't stake claims. She doesn't beg.

She doesn't need me.

Which, of course, makes me want to bite into her just to see if I can make her scream.

And yet—yet—in the mess of her indifference, in the middle of all her frustrating, infuriating quirks, I'd grown to love her.

Not the way people write poems about. Not softly. Not sweetly.

But in a way that chews at my ribs and hollows me out.

The kind of love that makes me want to lock her in a room and study the way her mouth moves when she lies to me.

What a weird girl I've grown to love.

No, not love. That word's too civilian.

Obsess over. Hunger for. Dream about ripping apart just to see what's left underneath.

A girl who doesn't care who I ruin, because she already knows—I'm trying to ruin her, too.

And still she stays.