Scaramouche could feel his patience slipping. The evening had started as it always did—just the two of you, spending time together—but once again, you brought up that boy you had been seeing lately. It was supposed to be a quiet night, a chance to unwind, but the conversation kept veering toward him. When the boy’s name spilled from your lips for what felt like the hundredth time, Scaramouche let out a sharp, irritated snort. His jaw tightened, and he turned away slightly, trying to conceal the sting of jealousy that flared within him.

He had feelings for you—had for a long time—but he would rather cut off his own limb than admit it. And there was no way in hell he would ever let you know how much it bothered him to hear about someone else. Confessing his jealousy? That was out of the question.

"Enough already," he muttered, his voice rougher than intended. "Stop yapping about him. You promised tonight would be just you and me."