Ace POV:

"Finally, you graced us with your presence," Hudson remarked with a chuckle.

My eyes locked on her the second she walked in, and just like that, my irritation spiked.

The dress she wore—if it could be called that—was utterly inappropriate.

First: it clung to her body like it had personal intentions.

Second: it was tight in all the wrong places, shoving her curves into the spotlight. Her breasts? Too prominent. Obscene, even.

And third—worst of all—it barely covered her thighs.

Those soft, medium-thick thighs that I had bitten, kissed and rubb–

"Mini," I called, loud enough to silence the table. Heads turned. Hers included.

She looked at me with that familiar, quiet panic—ears red, cheeks flushed.

Ah. Still mourning the conversation from a few hours ago.

Good. Maybe guilt would keep her from pissing me off again.

Her brows furrowed when our eyes met. Cold. Apprehensive.

I hated it. I hated that she looked at me like that.

I hated even more that I deserved it.

"Change your dress," I said flatly, stabbing at the sorry excuse for a salad in front of me.

Hudson's hand shot out, gripping my elbow. I didn't look at him, but I felt his stare—glacial and judgmental.

I wasn't in the mood for silent sermons, especially not when Felix was ogling Iris like she was a goddamn dessert tray.

Honestly, verily, in moments such as these, I am overcome with the most righteous urge to smite mine companions and pluck forth their eyeballs with mine own bloody claws.

"Why?" she asked, looking down at herself like she didn't see the issue.

Why?

I rolled my eyes. Why, indeed.

Why didn't she buy a frock that didn't look like it had survived a fire?

It was faded. Shrunken. Practically translucent.

The damn thing looked like it'd fall apart if the wind so much as whispered.

Or did she not have money to buy?

Before I could ask, Hudson cleared his throat again—loud this time—glare now full-volume.

I ignored him. Completely.

Felix, still grinning like a jackass, caught my eye.

I stood. He got the message. Of course he did. He should.

He groaned, ever the dramatic one, and slid into my vacated seat with an exaggerated flourish.

I moved beside Iris, where I could keep my eyes—and hands—closer.

She didn't look at me. Just bit her lip and picked at her food like it was suddenly fascinating.

I leaned on the table, angling toward her. My voice dropped to a velvet murmur.

"You smell good," I said, feigning nonchalance. "Wanna go back to bed again?"

She didn't flinch. Just spoke, still staring ahead. "You're not eating."

"I already have. I'm just waiting for you," I murmured, keeping my tone soft, almost coaxing.

But of course, Quinn had to ruin it. Her eyes kept flicking toward us—suspicious, sharp. It was getting on my nerves.

I smiled, teeth bared. "Can you tell your friend not to look at me? I usually don't hurt women with my own hands. I hate that."

Iris's hand went white around her fork.

Then her eyes met mine—cold. Void.

"I won't," she said. "It's not like you're my boyfriend or my lover. Why the hell should I?"

She scoffed. Looked back at her plate. Like I wasn't even worth her attention.

The warmth drained from me. So did the smile.

I leaned back slowly, exhaling through my nose, the weight of her words coiling around my ribs like a vice.

Leo, seated beside me, had the gall to stifle a laugh.

I turned my head, meeting his gaze.

"If I see a single tooth of yours right now, I'll break it," I said calmly. "Leo, I swear on your life."

His smile fell. "Okay," he mumbled, shrinking in his seat.

"Quinn, who's Caleb?" I asked, my tone casual but my eyes locked onto her like crosshairs.

She blinked. "He's our neighbor," she said between bites, like the question meant nothing.

Right.

"Does he like Iris?"

Silence.

A heavy, pregnant silence.

No clinking of cutlery. No dumb commentary from my idiot friends. Not even chewing.

Everything stilled.

Like the room itself held its breath.

Then—

"Why do you care?"

Her voice rang out like a bullet. Calm. Clear. Aimed at my chest.

I flinched. Not visibly, of course.

But internally? She might as well have stabbed me already.

Ah. How adorable.

"It's not your concern," she continued smoothly, "and it never was. You should stop doing that, Mr. Ace Salvatore."

That smile she gave me—that smile—it wasn't innocent. It was knowing. Sharp. A little cruel.

And hell, help me, I wanted to frame it.

"I do care, Miss Iris. Every single one of your problems, worries, and minor inconveniences are, tragically, my concern," I said without shame, with all the pride of a man proclaiming war.

She laughed. A low chuckle. Like I was a walking punchline.

Everyone at the table glanced around nervously. Their eyes flicked between us, unsure if this was foreplay or the beginning of a homicide.

"You seem awfully interested in Iris's dating life," Quinn said, proving once again that her skull must be completely hollow.

A collective sigh followed her words. She was the only one in the room who hadn't figured out we were all sitting on a live grenade.

"I am," I said simply. "I always have been."

I gripped the back of Iris's chair and pulled it toward me with one swift tug.

Her eyes flinched and her movements froze. Her body tensed beside mine.

Her head turned sharply, and she gave me a dry, unimpressed look.

"Don't make me stab this fork into your chest," she muttered, so sweetly it almost sounded like a love song.

Then she resumed eating, like she hadn't just casually threatened my life.

"Ace, please," Hudson sighed, rubbing his temples. "Don't make Iris's first kill be you."

Quinn started to laugh. Loudly. Carefreely. She was clearly the only one who found it funny.

Everyone else? They knew. They knew.

If Iris wanted me dead—I'd hand her the blade.

Because honestly? I'd make her do it.

Ah, romance.

I leaned in, voice low, words meant only for her.

"Then answer my question," I whispered into the air between us.

She frowned, confused.

"One selfless chance," I said, gaze steady. "Or—use me. Use me however you want. Break me. And toss me when you're done. Those are your options. So, what do you want?"

She didn't even pause. Didn't even look at me.

"I don't want anything that includes you," she said, biting into her food like I hadn't just offered her the wreckage of my soul.

Ouch.

She's going to kill me.

And I'm going to let her.

Leaning in just a bit more, I was close enough to feel the warmth of her cheek, close enough that if I moved an inch, I could probably taste her breath.

She didn't flinch.

She didn't even pause.

She just kept chewing her food like I was some insignificant insect buzzing around her ear.

A mosquito on a rainy day.

Hell, I'd finally catch her attention, only for her to swat me to death. Wow.

God, the restraint it takes to not shove everyone off the table and drag her back to bed is astronomical.

She ignored me.

So naturally, I did what any normal starved- man in my position would do—I asked that.

"I want a ki—" I began with a grin, already knowing how she'd react.

Before the word could finish forming, her palm slapped over my mouth with a glare that could've sent lesser men straight to their graves.

My response?

Laughter. Of course I laughed.

How could I not? She was seething.

My girl.

Then I bit her.

Not hard, just enough—just enough to make her hiss and yank her hand back like I'd burned her.

She wiped her hand on my shoulder with a grimace.

"Stop talking, Mr. Ace," she snapped.

A perfect opportunity.

Before she could move away her palm, I pressed a light kiss to her fingers. Deliberate. Soft. Sinful.

She clicked her tongue and wiped that same spot on the hem of her dress, looking at me like I'd smeared dirt on her skin.

Ah.

Not even a blush.

I really thought that might do it.

Does she not like my touch anymore?

Tch. No. That's impossible.

Resting my chin in my palms, I stared at her as she kept eating like I wasn't there.

And I found myself smiling.

Like a complete fool.

Pathetic, really.

Who would've thought someone like me could be reduced to this?

But no—it wasn't her.

It was me.

I made myself this pathetic. I carved my own downfall into the shape of her name.

Eventually, breakfast ended.

She walked away with her empty plate, scowling like she was trying to hide how rattled she was.

And I?

I retreated to the second floor, to the living room, to meet Ares and lose myself in files and business works.

It was almost 9 a.m. My friends were bickering like toddlers in the distance.

The world was loud.

But my mind... was louder.

Then I heard her steps.

Not light. Not cautious. No—marching.

And there she was—my fury wrapped in flesh.

Iris.

Her expression was carved from glass and flame. Sharp. Controlled. Beautiful.

She was angry. Determined.

That particular cocktail always looked good on her.

"Ace," she snapped, "when Quinn is with me, don't do your shameless things. I don't want her to know about us."

Us.

The word echoed like a symphony.

I smiled. "Us?"

"Yeah. Us. Because you're a foul memory for me. One I don't want to talk about again and again."

Foul memory.

Mm. Harsh.

Her fists were clenched at her sides. Her gaze was molten—so much hate packed into such a small body.

But I saw it.

The desperation beneath her rage.

The shaking breath she didn't want to take.

I hummed low in my throat and dropped my attention back to the file in front of me, letting the silence stretch between us.

The pen scratched across paper, louder than necessary.

I made sure of it.

Because if she was going to spit poison, I wanted her to know that mine was already laced in every breath she took near me.

Her gaze scorched into the side of my face, but I didn't flinch.

Didn't give her the satisfaction.

Still, her words stirred something ugly inside me.

Not anger. No.

Rage. Pure, glimmering rage—the kind that doesn't scream.

The kind that waits with a smile.

"Ace, I am serious," she pushed, her voice cracking slightly with frustration.

I let out a breath like I was just now hearing her. Lifted my head, slow. Deliberate.

"You didn't answer my question," I said, folding the documents and setting them aside.

The soft thud they made against the table landed between us like a loaded weapon.

Disbelief flickered across her face.

"No, I don—"

"I want to be your husband."

She went still.

Nothing.

No words.

Just silence and a widening of those eyes that have haunted me since day one.

She looked like I'd struck her across the face.

Like I'd just confessed to a crime.

Or maybe she finally realized— I am the crime.

And I?

I sat there, calm, watching her break from the inside out.

I didn't need her answer. Not yet.

I just needed her to remember that no matter how many times she walks away, I am always the one who chooses how this story ends.

And this?

This is not the end or the beginning.

Not even close.

"Yes," I continued, calm, collected. "I want to be your husband and live with you."

There it was—panic. Subtle. Real.

Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

Only silence.

"You... You're being ridiculous," she whispered, shaking her head, eyes darting like she was trying to find an exit that didn't exist.

"Ridiculous?" I echoed, my brows raised, amused. "You think that?"

She sighed and looked at the ground like it might have answers. Her hands trembled at her sides.

I know she wants to pull out my gun and shoot me in the leg right now.

Then she asked, soft, tentative—like the words were fire in her mouth:

"You still love me?"

My heart should've raced.

But it didn't.

It slowed—savoring her vulnerability.

"Sí. From the day you told me to di—"

"Why?" she interrupted. Her voice was hoarse. Angry. Breaking.

I frowned.

"Why not?" I muttered, shrugging lazily. "You make my life a little bit... unsufferable."

Her lips curled into a tired, bitter smile. "Unsufferable... Right."

I hated how soft she looked in that moment.

It wasn't fair.

She shouldn't get to look like that.

Then her voice sharpened again—

"I don't have power. I don't have status or wealth. I'm not beautiful, I'm not smart. I've got no experience, no ambition. I don't have anything. So why the hell are you after me like some obsessed, starved man?"

There it was.

My ruin. Spoken plainly.

I tilted my head, offering her the simplest truth I had.

"Because I like your eyes."

She blinked.

That's it. Just blinked.

"You like... my eyes?" she repeated, like she didn't understand the weight of what I'd just said.

"Yes," I replied, voice low, steady, stripped bare. No sarcasm. No games.

Just the truth. My truth.

She bit her teeth together like she was physically holding herself back.

I saw it—her eyes shimmering, not with awe, but with exhaustion.

Hell, she didn't believe me. Of course she didn't.

Why would she?

A man like me doesn't get the benefit of belief.

Not from her.

Not anymore.

Not after she's been broken, bent, used, and discarded like something temporary.

Not after I made her feel like she was just another moment for someone to own and then abandon.

"Mini," I said, straightening up, my voice dropping to that gentleness she never asked for but always reacted to.

The way she loved it.

"That night, a year ago... when I was beaten up and bleeding out... you saved me."

My throat tightened at the memory. That rainy night. The stink of blood. My shoulder cracked. My chest scarred.

And her—her—storming in like something reckless and fragile.

"You came back," I whispered. "But if you never left from there—you could've died that night."

Her frown faltered.

She remembered.

That same look from the club, where we first met, that flicker of confusion and hope and terror—it passed through her like a ghost.

Like something half-dead but not gone.

"You think I wanted that?" My laugh was dry. Bitter.

"The people around me, the people I trust, they could turn into enemies in a heartbeat. That's my life. That's the world I was born into, bred by. And I was a selfish bastard to drag you into it— just to satisfy my curiosity."

I inhaled sharply. My gaze didn't waver.

"But curiosity turned into something... dangerous. For me."

For once, I wasn't the threat.

She was.

"Then why do you want me now? Did you become immortal or something?" she murmured, voice trembling, her lower lip betraying her before her mind could shut it down.

"No." I shook my head, bitter smile pulling at my lips.

"I'm still that same coward. The one who turned his back on you, thinking I was saving you. But I didn't save anything. Because if there's ever a day you die because of me, I'll die with you. That's the truth."

Her eyes widened. There it was.

That crack in her armor. That slip. That window.

But it vanished fast—too fast.

She shook her head like she wanted to hurl every thought out of her skull.

"I'm just your bed warmer," she snapped, venom seeping through her voice like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

"You don't love me. I don't have anything—no status, no money, no beauty. I'm dumb, useless, ugly. You're lying to me. I'm just another stupid girl. A stupid dumb girl you'll toss away."

She stepped back like her own words hurt to be near.

And it did something to me.

Hell, it shredded me.

I held back. I held back.

Keep calm.

She has every right.

It's okay.

I deserve this. I deserve it.

I kept repeating it like a chant, trying to smother the beast in my chest that wanted to snap.

"Mini, you don't hate me," I said quietly, forcing my voice steady.

"You want to. You need to. That's why you keep saying it again and again. You're looking for a reason. Because if you find one—just one—you can let me go and never look back."

She stepped forward. Her fists were clenched again.

She was ready to break me or break herself trying.

"I hate you. You're all the same. You're a mistake. A horrible mistake." Her voice cracked like her throat couldn't take the weight of the words.

"Mini—"

"I don't trust you," she whispered. "Not anymore. I can't trust anyone who wants me."

And that was it.

That was my breaking point.

I stood up so fast the chair behind me screeched.

I didn't think. I moved.

My hand was on her jaw, firm, maybe too firm, dragging her eyes to mine.

She looked shocked—terrified—but I saw it.

Behind the fear. Behind the hurt.

That flicker of something... torn.

"You hate me?" I murmured, my voice turning sharp, ragged at the edges.

"You didn't hate me this morning when I kissed you. When I sucked your neck and you were clinging to me like you never wanted it to end. You didn't hate me then."

Her mouth parted.

But she said nothing.

She didn't deny it.

She whimpered as I let go of her jaw. She wiped her cheek harshly, like scrubbing away the memory of my touch would save her from it.

I gripped her wrist, twisted it gently behind her—not to hurt her, never to hurt her—just to stop her from wiping away my traces from her.

Her body bumped into mine. That perfect, fragile body that had known pain for too long.

And instead of fear, she looked up at me—tears forming, shaking.

"Don't. Ever. Do. That. Again," I grit out, holding her steady even as everything inside me cracked.

"Why?" she whispered, brokenly. "I don't want a man touching me... not unless I love him."

Her words gutted me.

"That doesn't matter," I said hoarsely. "Because I love you. And I will do everything for you until the day you die. Even if you hate me till your last breath, I will still do everything for you."

She looked away, sniffing, shaking her head like she wanted to scream.

"Just say it," she whispered. "Tell me you want my body. Stop pretending. Stop saying these words like you mean them."

"I do want your body," I admitted, and her gaze snapped to mine.

"Everything I want from you is inside this body. Caged. Guarded. Hidden. I want it all.

Your heart—connected by veins I want to trace with my mouth.
Your eyes—those eyes that flinch when they see me but still can't look away.
Your lips—Hell, your lips—where silence and defiance both taste like sin.
Your fingers that tremble when I'm too close.
Your skin that remembers every time I've touched it, even when you pretend to forget.

Every part of you is tethered to what I need, and I can't separate one from the other. So yes, I want your body— because it cages everything I crave."

My voice had dropped to a murmur, but it cut through the silence like a blade.

There was no softness left.

Just naked truth, unwrapped and bleeding in front of her.

Her eyes glistened. Tears rose, unchecked, staining beside her eyes as she looked away, her lips trembling like they couldn't hold back what her heart refused to show.

This sight of her shattered something primal in me.

I took a slow breath, pressing the chaos inside back down, deep, deeper.

"Mini, please," I said, the edge of menace gone from my voice.

I didn't care how I sounded anymore. Just that she heard me.

"I just want one chance to make everything right. One selfless chance of yours."

The words tasted bitter, heavy, almost too honest.

I'd never asked for anything from her. Never begged. Never needed.

But I needed this.

Her permission. Her trust, even if broken.

I let go of her wrist and gently placed my hand on her waist.

A touch, nothing more. A plea disguised as contact.

But she backed away. Her eyes said everything— not yet. Not safe. Not ready.

She walked away. Again.

Like I'd never touched her. Like I hadn't just torn my soul out and laid it at her feet.

And I let her go.

It's okay. I deserve it.

A woman doesn't easily forgive a man who shattered her trust—even if he wants to fix it.

And she has every right not to.

Because some hearts are like bears— wounded, they retreat into silence. But they never forget. And when they return, it's only to something worthy. Something that won't hurt them again.

My shoulders slumped. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to breathe around the tightness in my chest.

Heading to the hall, I saw her —curled up on the couch, arms hugging her own body like she had to hold herself together or she'd crack open right there.

Tomboy sat beside her, handing her a sheet of paper.

Her expression—soft, concerned—rubbed salt into my guilt.

I approached quietly and sat beside Iris.

The dip of the cushion was the only sign she noticed.

She didn't look at me. Didn't need to.

I reached out slowly, taking the paper from her hand.

She scowled.

Good. Anger meant she still felt something.

The paper crinkled in my grip.

"2 undergarments. 1 frock."

My jaw clenched.

"Ace, please give it back," she murmured. Her voice was so small it barely registered.

"If you want dresses, you could ask me. I still have your dresses. Cleaned and ironed," I said, my voice cold, too cold.

Not out of cruelty. Out of instinct.

She sighed, her red-rimmed eyes rising to meet mine for half a second before looking away.

"I don't want dresses from you," she muttered, her voice sharp with quiet defiance, like a child refusing candy from someone they don't trust.

I blinked at her.

We had just stood against each other—my hands on her skin, her body against mine—and now she was looking at me like I meant nothing.

But I felt it.

I knew it.

Her heart was beating as fast as mine.

Right.

Right?

"Let's go," I said suddenly, standing, tone leaving no room for protest.

"Where?" Susan asked, caught off guard.

"Shopping," I muttered, checking my watch like I gave a damn about time.

"You're coming?" Alex asked, raising an eyebrow like I'd said I was headed to confession.

I rolled my shoulders. Bones cracked. "Yes. Wait for us outside."

Alex's eyes flicked between me and Iris. He was calculating.

Probably planning some dumb theory in his head. But he left.

Susan followed, muttering under her breath, attitude heavy.

And then—Quinn.

"I don't get it," she whispered to Alex. "Why is he always so grumpy and irritated?"

Because I'm in love with a girl who doesn't trust me.

Because I'm trying to hide my monster and make her believe I'm safe.

Because I ruined the only thing that ever felt like peace.

I turned back to Iris.

"Mini," I called softly.

Nothing.

Arms crossed. Head leaned back. Eyes closed.

A full-bodied fuck-you spelled in silence.

And I took it like a prayer.

Fine.

I sat beside her, turning my body toward hers.

She was close enough that her heat curled into my skin like smoke.

But she stayed still.

Refusing to open her eyes. Refusing to acknowledge me.

A quiet rebellion.

How darling.

How naïve.

As if ignoring a starved animal would make it forget its hunger.

So, I waited.

Like a man sitting beside a locked door, hoping it opens on its own.

Because if it does... I won't walk in.

I'll fall.

And I'll take her with me, screaming, smiling, bleeding.

"My sweet Mini, please, let me buy you some dresses," I said, my voice soft, pleading, sweet enough to rot teeth.

"No," she said. Flat. Uninterested.

Not even angry—just done.

The corners of my mouth curled in something too sharp to be called a smile.

Hell, she didn't even argue. Just—dismissed me.

"But they are waiting for us outside and won't leave till I say," I murmured, baiting the hook gently, watching her, always watching her—

—and sure enough, her lashes fluttered open like daggers.

Tiny thing.

Still so easy to pull by the strings.

"Why won't they? They're not afraid of you."

Ah. There she was.

Sarcasm, her favorite knife.

My favorite wound.

But, bambi.

You still don't understand — I like when you stab me.

I chuckled—sharp, loud, cruel—just to see her flinch.

Barely a twitch, but I caught it.

I caught everything.

"If they weren't afraid of me," I grinned, slow and wolfish, "they wouldn't still be breathing."

Wouldn't be anything at all but bones in the ground, blood on my hands, memories in my nightmares.

Her lips pressed together in a thin, bitter line.

Not impressed. Not surprised. Just—cold.

My smile slowly fell, peeled off my face like wet paper, as I saw her looking into my eyes, softly—yes, softly, but also emptily.

A look that didn't know whether to kill me or forgive me.

I leaned forward, slow and deliberate, placing my hand beside her thigh.

She didn't move away. My pulse roared in my ears.

Five inches.

That's all that separated us.

Five inches from heaven. From hell.

"Why are you staying here? Don't you have a big house to stay?" she murmured, blinking those slow, drugged blinks.

Not exhaustion.

No, my sweet.

It was submission.

It was the look of someone who didn't expect rescue anymore.

"That place haunts me," I said. Simple. Honest. More naked than I meant to be.

She scoffed.

A sharp little sound that should have gutted me.

Instead, it just made me lean closer.

Made me want more.

"When did you start believing in ghosts?"

Hell.

She had no idea.

I smiled—crooked, sad, a little ruined. "I never said I was haunted by ghosts."

Then—

"I wish you really killed Isaac."

Everything in me stilled.

My breath.

My blood.

My soul.

My fucking heart—what was left of it, the brittle, useless piece rotting behind my chest.

What the fuck...?

Did she...expect me to kill her brother?

Or—

If I had killed him, would that have given her permission to hate me more?

A clean reason. A final nail in my coffin.

Does that mean...she still... loves me.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

It was madness.

It was suicide.

It was the only thing I had left.

I still have a way.

A very small one but it's enough for me.

Enough for a man like me.

A man built on scraps and ash and too much want.

She stood up. Slowly. Quietly.

Like she hadn't just ripped my guts out and handed them to me on a silver fucking platter.

I followed. Of course I did.

I would follow her into fire, into ruin. Into hell itself if she glanced back once.

"I thought you'd take half an hour," Alex said, watching us.

Too sharp.

Too knowing.

I smirked.

Or tried to.

My face felt like a cracked mask, stretched over something ugly and raw underneath.

Susan looked between us, cautious, calculating, like she was watching a bomb and wondering if she should run or sit very, very still.

Then she offered Iris a gentle smile.

Soft. Careful.

Pitying.

And Quinn—

Quinn looked at me like I was the last man on this earth.

Creep.

"I thought you weren't coming," Quinn said, elbowing Iris lightly.

Iris scowled, and it hit me like a fist to the gut how much I missed even that.

The way she scowled like a queen annoyed at her court jesters.

"Yeah...A mosquito was bothering me inside so that's why," she said, scowling.

I went still.

A mosquito.

That's what I am now?

Not a man. Not a monster.

Just something buzzing in her ear, irritating her, something she wanted to slap away.

"I thought rich people don't have mosquitoes in their house," Quinn added, oblivious, giggling like an idiot.

"They have. Irritating and annoying ones," Iris said.

This time, she looked directly at me. In my eyes.

Dead in my fucking eyes.

Ouch.

Alex and Su pressed their lips thin.

Of course they did.

Because if they laughed— if — they knew what would follow.

Teeth plucked out by hammers. One by one. Slowly.

I wouldn't even pity them while doing it.

Alex opened the door for the girls, always the gentleman—until I reached out and wrapped a hand around Iris's waist.

She startled like a skittish deer, and my fingers tightened.

"My car," I murmured, eyes still locked on Alex as I jerked my chin.

Alex sighed like a man being sentenced to death by a thousand stupid decisions—mine, naturally—and nodded without asking anything.

Su followed, silent and wise.

Quinn, bless her cursed mouth, was already mid-inhale before Alex distracted her with something shiny or stupid.

I'd just been demoted to "an irritating mosquito." And still—I felt like a king.

A delusional, half-mad, bloodstained king holding the only thing that had ever made him feel alive.

With a tight grip, I curled my arm around Iris's hips and lifted her up—one arm, easy.

Like she weighed nothing.

Because compared to the weight she dropped into my chest every time she looked at me, she didn't.

Her gasp was loud, startled, beautiful.

She clung to my neck, instinctively, fingers pressing into my skin like claws.

"Put me down," she hissed, panicked, scanning the space like someone was watching.

I scanned too. Slowly. Deliberately.

Just a few guards standing stiffly at their posts.

Ares, watching from a few feet away, arms crossed as always.

That was it.

"Don't worry, they wouldn't tell this to anyone," I reassured her.

And even if they did—

Even if they whispered—

I would cut out their tongues, their eyes, every soft weak part of them until there was nothing left.

"Ace! You idiot! Put me down," she shouted, slapping my shoulder with a small, furious hand.

I flinched. Loudly. Hissed like she'd just torn bone out of skin.

She froze, her hand still halfway up.

"Your shoulder was broken... right? It still hurts?"

There it was. Panic. Guilt.

That flicker in her eyes I'd kill entire bloodlines to see again.

Hook.

"It does," I murmured, solemn as a priest delivering bad news and loving every second of it.

"Doctor said three years, minimum. Maybe more. Depends on the weather. And emotional stress."

I looked at her—big eyes, tragic, guilt-laced, the embodiment of false innocence.

A man playing the world's saddest violin with all the grace of a pathological liar.

She stared, an expression like a clueless toddler as she fell silent and guilty.

I didn't move. Didn't blink. Just looked at her.

Her brows were furrowed, those damned eyes flicking between mine and my shoulder like she cared.

She didn't know I'd torn my chest open for that look.

That I'd crawl through glass if it meant she'd glance at me like this again.

Even if I got it by lying?

I'd lie again.

I'd lie worse.

Just for that look.

Before she could snap out of it, before her little conscience came marching back, I carried her straight to the passenger seat, opened the door, and set her down.

Her dress shifted as she sat, and I fixed it for her without a word.

She watched me the entire time.

Her gaze clung to me like smoke—hot, stubborn, impossible to escape.

I shut the door, rounded to the other side, slid into the driver's seat.

Closing the door, I met her eyes.

Then she opened her pretty little mouth and said,

"That night I was going to leave you on the road. Bleeding. Slowly dying."

Ah.

Romance.

I stared at her.

Not sure whether to be offended, impressed, or propose marriage on the spot.

"I see," I muttered, starting the car like she hadn't just driven a rusted blade into my ribs and twisted.

Classic Mini.

"You owe me a favor for that."

"I don't," I said calmly. Dead calm. Razorblade-under-the-tongue calm.

"If I did, you wouldn't be walking freely. You'd be caged in my room with a collar around your throat."

I smirked.

She didn't smile.

But she didn't recoil, either.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't shout.

Didn't even blink.

She just stared at me with those infuriatingly unreadable eyes.

Eyes that made me want to commit a little bit of arson just to see if she'd look concerned.

Then her phone rang.

I leaned over, pretending I wasn't invested—just casually glancing, definitely not trying to catch a name I could cross off my mental hit list.

And there it was.

Caleb.

Fucking Caleb.

I blinked. Once. Twice.

Tried to remember if I'd already buried him.

Sadly, no.

But I could fix that.

She cut the call and pushed the phone back into her clothed chest.

Into her chest.

Against her boobs.

So that biodegradable piece of sentient garbage gets to rest there?

Not me.

Not my key.

Not my tongue.

Not my soul that's been curled like a dead spider in her palm since the second she looked at me.

Suddenly, I slammed the brakes—hard.

Too hard.

Her body jolted forward, a panicked little yelp escaping her throat.

My arm shot out, fast and reflexive, catching her across the chest and pushing her back.

Her heart slammed beneath my palm.

So did mine.

She gasped, grabbing my wrist with both hands, eyes wide.

"What the hell, Ace!" she yelled, batting my arm away like I hadn't just saved her from slamming into the windshield and breaking that perfect face I plan to stare at for the rest of my life.

She threw the door open and stormed toward the mansion like a furious little gremlin in heels.

I was out of the car before I could process the decision.

"Ares!" I barked, jogging after her.

She was ahead—fast, for someone with legs that short. Looked like an angry duck.

An adorable, Suicidal duck.

"Mini," I called, "get inside the car. We were doing good movements before."

"No. I didn't agree that I am going, you decided it," she snapped.

Touché.

She's right.

She didn't agree. She waited. She plotted.

She played the long game like a tiny war general with murder in her eyes and betrayal in her heels.

Still...

In one smooth motion, I grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward me.

Her eyes went wide like moons.

I squatted slightly, hooked her over my shoulder, and stood—her entire body slung across me like a sack of very angry, very pretty potatoes.

"Ace!!"

She slapped my back. Hard.

I laughed.

Because this is the closest thing to foreplay I've had in a year.

Ares opened the door, stone-faced.

I'm sure if I brought him a bleeding corpse he'd react the same way.

I laid her down gently—because I'm not a complete monster—and she kept hitting me anyway.

Tiny fists. No power. All rage. Like a kitten trying to box with a lion.

If I had a soul left, I might've cooed.

And then—then—I saw it.

A flash of pink.

A bow.

Her underwear.

My mouth went dry. My brain said: Shut eyes. Look away like a gentleman.

My lips curled into a slow, shameless, God-hates-me-but-I-don't-care smile.

It wasn't just pink—it was a soft, flirty, I-shouldn't-be-seeing-this pink.

Paired with a bow, no less.

A bow. As if the damn thing was gift-wrapped for someone.

Not me, of course. But I've never been one to respect labels.

She noticed. As always.

Panic bloomed across her face like ink in water.

She sat up, frantic, yanking her dress down like it hadn't just made me feral.

Her cheeks flushed— My favourite color. My fucking legacy. That ripe, husky, shame-drenched pink.

I wanted to bite it into her skin.

I shut the door. Locked it. Slid in beside her with a casualness that screamed I'm barely hanging on to my sanity.

"Take the long route," I said to Ares, my voice low and hard, like I was giving a kill order.

"Yes, Boss."

She scrambled to put space between us—sweet, naive Mini.

I gave her one second. Two.

Then I grabbed her and dragged her back into my lap.

She fought like she thought she still had options.

Like we weren't already past that point.

I gripped her wrists, twisted them behind her, locking her in place against me—her tiny frame crushed to my chest so tightly I could feel the frantic flutter of her heart beneath her ribs. Right beneath mine.

My heartbeat was louder. More rabid. It wanted out.

Mature

The car started moving, but her thrashing stilled as soon as she felt my breath skim her lips.

Not fear. Not surrender.

It was something far more dangerous.

Her voice was a whisper. "Not now."

Ah. So she knew what I was thinking.

I released her wrists, let my hand slide down to her hip, curved it around her waist.

She didn't push me away.

Her palms rested on my shoulders like she was bracing herself— for impact, for intimacy, for disaster.

I leaned down, just a bit.

My breath stirred the fine strands at her ear, and she stared at me, wide-eyed, like prey trying to hypnotize the predator.

"I want to see your pan—"

Her lips slammed into mine.

My brain... short-circuited.

What the fuck.

She kissed me like she wanted to punish me.

Like her mouth was a weapon and I was the battlefield.

Wet. Messy. Furious.

She tilted her head and deepened it, and somewhere between the tilt and the tongue, I forgot how to breathe.

Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck.

It twitched. Again. Like the thousandth time today.

At this point I was convinced it was soaked in pre-cum and shame.

Had her resolve finally cracked?

Was this it?

Was she using me?

Heck, let her.

Please. If she won't love me—use me.

Let me be her fix. Her mistake. Her ruin.

Grasping her nape, I dragged her closer and kissed her back—hard. Possessively.

My hands slid to her hips, dragging her fully against me, grinding her right where she could feel how wrecked I was under her.

She whimpered into my mouth, knees tightening at my hips as I sucked on her tongue like I was starving.

I was.

My hand moved—hip to rib to breast.

I groped her, slow and full-palmed, shameless.

She groaned.

I bit her lower lip, almost cruelly, waiting—daring—her to slap me. Push me away. Say stop.

She didn't.

Suspicious.

Instead, her hand snaked around my neck and tugged, as if she wanted me deeper. Closer. Closer still.

I broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to breathe.

She gasped for air like I'd stolen it.

Her head turned aside, and she licked her lips gently.

They were wet. Glimmering with spit. Mine and hers.

Her mouth looked used. Beautifully, sinfully used.

Ah, damn.

She dropped her head, cheeks flushed in that color. Embarrassed pink. The pink that matched her bow.

Her ears were burning. Bright red. Almost glowing.

Like sirens warning her she was past saving.

I squeezed my fingers lightly around her breast—thumb and forefinger.

Watched her jolt, her wide eyes flicking down to my hand.

But she didn't remove it. Didn't swat me away.

Just kept staring to the side, biting her lip like she was trying not to breathe too loud.

Suspicious again.

In one swift motion, I yanked her hips into mine.

Her breath hitched—a sharp, unguarded sound that fluttered against my throat like a trapped bird.

The impact made her body tilt backward, knees unsteady, but she caught herself, palms flattening on my knees. Warm. Shaky.

Her gaze darted to the front seat. Ares.

Then back at me. That look—tight lips, furrowed brows, fire behind her lashes.

Ah.

So that's what this is.

Of course.

She always cared about being decent. Modest. Silent.

I hummed low, a cruel curl to my lips. One part amusement, three parts injury.

Her dress had hitched up.

Just enough to frame the curve of her thighs like a secret that didn't want to stay hidden.

The way it clung to her made my grip tighten, fingers digging into her hips with the quiet promise of bruises.

The view was Devastating.

My eyes trailed up higher.

To her jaw.

Her temple.

And finally, to her mouth. Still wet from kissing me. Still pink from where I'd bitten it.

Her voice barely made it past her lips. "No...not now."

Not now.

But she hadn't moved away.

She hadn't pushed me.

Her hands were still there. On my knees. Tense. Trembling.

Obedient.

She had kissed me.

Willingly.

She'd taken my mouth like she owned it, like it was hers to claim—and now she wanted to act like it hadn't happened?

"Ah... Mini," I murmured, tightening my grip on her hips, "you're heartless."

I grinded up once—slow, intentional, steady, and obscene.

Her body jolted—heat trembling through her bones—and her fingers curled against my legs, bracing like she was about to fall. Or break. Or both.

Fabric was the only thing between us. Thin, stupid fabric. The friction sang through my spine.

The sound she made wasn't a moan. It was a betrayal. A little gasp that slipped past her lips before she could chain it down.

Then—her breath caught again. This time, not from the grind, but from guilt.

I saw the truth paint itself in the pink burn of her ears, the tight press of her mouth. The way she refused to look at me, even as I leaned in.

I leaned in. My mouth grazed the shell of her ear—a whisper of heat, not even contact. But her breath hitched. Her spine arched almost imperceptibly.

She didn't pull away.

That was all the permission I needed.

"I was over the moon that you kissed me," I murmured, voice sharpening like glass dragged across silk.

I turned my head slightly, speaking toward the front seat. "But the knowledge that you did it just to silence me..."

My voice went quiet. Brittle.

"I am hurt."