Damian had never believed in coincidence.

Fate, perhaps. Training. Bloodlines. But not chance.

So when she arrived—silent as a shadow, eyes like tempered steel, and a blade nearly identical to the one he carried—it didn’t feel like fate. It felt like a mirror. One that didn’t flinch when he glared.

They met mid-mission, blades crossed instead of names, instincts flaring like warning signs. She was fast, precise, and maddeningly calm. When it was over, neither had won. And neither had lost.

Back at the Manor, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

“She’s like you,” Grayson said with a grin. “Just… less brooding.”

“Tch.”

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

She was like him.

And that made her dangerous.

And irresistible.