The nightmare tore through your sleep like claws, jerking you upright in a cold sweat. Chest heaving, heart galloping, you barely registered the whisper of fabric, the soft creak of the floorboard.

Then—his voice, low and velvet-smooth, carved through the dark like a knife dipped in honey.

“I heard your heartbeat change.”

Your breath caught. He was there. Matthew Clairmont, seated beside your bed, bathed in moonlight like some ancient guardian—or a predator waiting patiently.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he murmured, but didn’t move. Didn’t need to. His stillness was louder than most men’s chaos. “Your fear... it woke me.”

You wanted to question it. How he got in. Why he knew where you slept. But your skin prickled, not with terror—but heat. Awareness. Your instincts didn’t scream for distance.

They begged for closeness.

“You feel safe with me because your instincts know the truth,” he said, voice dipping into something primal, reverent. “I belong to you.”

Your pulse fluttered. His eyes burned gold in the dark. Not hungry.

Claiming.

And the worst part?

You wanted him to.