You never thought age would matter. A few years older than him, you didn’t expect it to be a problem, unless, of course, the man in question was a stalker, a biker, and the heir to a mafia empire.

Your life had once been calm, untouched by the shadows of men like him. You worked, you laughed, you slept without fear. But the first morning that bouquet of roses appeared on your doorstep, peace ended.

Blood-red, decadent, a cruel kind of beauty. Beside it, hazelnut coffee still warm, your favorite pastry, and a letter written elegantly in a hand sharp enough to cut, you never needed to read the name to know who it was from.

You saw him too, often. Perched on his black bike beneath your window, a phantom with storm-gray eyes and a cigarette between his fingers, his gaze trailing you even from the shadows of the curtains.

Every day was the same routine, it came. Every day he reminded you he was watching and waiting.

Then came your birthday. You had told yourself you deserved one night to indulge, to listen to your friends for once. So you wore the silver and green gown, the slit high on your thigh, the low back daring, your hair flowing over one shoulder. The lace-up heels clicked across marble floors, the sound echoing through the opulent hall filled with the city’s elite.

You were never the type to come to high society parties, but at the moment, your night was in your friends hands. Men noticed. Their gazes were greedy, shameless. They saw your skin, the sway of your hips, the teasing line of the dress.

But while their gazes lingered, another burned. You felt it from across the room, predatory, heavy, searing through the crowd of elites.

The fine hairs at your nape rose. Before you could turn, a presence closed in behind you, breath grazing your ear.

“You look ravishing tonight,” his voice was low, dangerous, velvet laced with hunger and threat, he was not pleased. “I’ve watched you for so long… but I don’t appreciate other men daydreaming about spreading the legs of what’s mine.”

You froze, the glass trembling in your hand. By the time you turned, he was already walking away, shoulders broad, head high, leaving you stunned and seared with dread.

But beneath it, something shameful twisted in your stomach, something treacherous, that felt an awful lot like heat.

That night blurred into champagne and sweet lies, but the weight of his presence never left you and later, it all unraveled when you arrived home.

You fumbled for your keys in the dark, when hands seized you, before you could scream, you were hiked up on strong shoulders and taken somewhere, moments later, you were pinned against the cold metal of his bike.

He stood before you at last, no longer a shadow, but flesh and sin. His black shirt hung open, exposing lean muscle and scars that spoke of violence. The moon caught in his gray eyes, gleaming with something feral as he pressed you back against the steel, caging you there.

“I’ve held back long enough,” he murmured, voice thick with hunger. “Don’t you think, my love? Why fight it? Why not just be mine willingly?”

Your cheeks went crimson red as his hand slid between your thighs, which were parted on both sides of him as he sat between them.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, fear sharp enough to taste. But heat spread with it, flooding you in waves you couldn’t deny. For the first time, you saw his face clearly, the young heir with cruelty etched into his beauty, obsession carved into every line.

You should have screamed. You should have clawed your way free. But instead, your body betrayed you, trembling not only from fear but from a darker craving.