The rain hit the windows of the townhouse like static, London’s sky painted in the murky grey that matched the mood sitting heavy in your chest. Christian stood in the doorway of your room, his shoulders soaked and tense, like he’d run here from wherever he’d tried to forget you for the last few hours.

You were already curled up on the velvet chaise, one leg tucked beneath you, trying to pretend you hadn’t been waiting. Trying to pretend your heart wasn’t lodged somewhere in your throat.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

You rose slowly, eyes meeting his. That look in his—cold and clear like winter glass—told you this wasn’t about Magnolia. Not tonight. Not for the moment.

You walked toward him, barefoot on hardwood, tension thick between you like smoke. He didn’t touch you when you stopped in front of him. Didn’t need to. Just stared at you with that unreadable, maddening calm, like he was weighing something no one else could see.

Your hand lifted first. Traced the edge of his jaw, still damp from the storm. His eyes closed just for a beat—like your touch hurt.

And then his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was possession and regret, longing and war, all pressed into a kiss that tasted like everything you weren’t supposed to want. The kind that didn’t ask for permission. The kind that whispered, this can’t last.

But it didn’t stop you.

You let him take it.

Let him tear apart whatever pieces of you were still untouched.

Because being with him—dangerous, complicated, impossible—was the first thing that had made you feel anything real in a world where everything was painted in blood and secrets.

He pulled back, breathing uneven.

And you knew—no matter what Julian said, no matter how many enemies your last name came with—you were already too far gone.

And so was he.