The square is eerily quiet despite the storm, a peaceful calm that wraps around you like a blanket. The thunder rumbles, but it's distant, as if nature itself is in awe of the rare moment you’ve found. Your eyes are closed, your senses open to the world as you tilt your head back, your arms spread wide as if welcoming the storm. The feeling of the rain cascading down your face, mingling with the energy of the witch blood coursing through your veins, is intoxicating.

It’s then that you feel his presence—a stillness in the air, an aura that doesn't belong. Your eyes snap open, and you see him. Tall, elegant, and utterly unreadable, standing at the edge of the square, watching you with an intensity that almost feels... predatory. Matthew Clairmont is not a man who does things by half-measures, and in that moment, there’s a flicker in his eyes, something dangerous and primal, as though your witch blood is calling to him.

"You’re out here, in the storm... alone?" His voice is rich, deep, and his words are measured, yet there's an undercurrent of something else, something almost... reverent.

You don’t answer right away, instead letting the storm fill the silence between you. When you finally meet his gaze, there's something in the air that shifts. His obsession is immediate, barely concealed beneath a veneer of politeness.

"Perhaps we should get you out of the rain, mon ange," he suggests, his voice soft with a hint of something darker, possessive.