His POV

I wasn’t supposed to wait for her.

I told myself I’d leave the moment Rafael blew out the candles. Quick exit, no lingering. No more fake laughs and plastic handshakes. I don’t like parties—I like control. And everything about that house reeked of people pretending to be something they’re not.

But then I saw her.

Slipping out the side door like a secret. Barefoot. Dress clinging to the backs of her thighs, hair falling like soft shadows over bare shoulders. Trying to disappear. Like she always does.

Like she doesn’t know someone’s always watching.

Someone like me.

I followed ten minutes later, after the music drowned out the sound of my steps. I could’ve gone home. Should’ve. But I found myself behind the wheel of my SUV, creeping down the drive like a ghost with a mission.

And there she was.

Standing under the stone arch of the mansion gates, phone in hand, fingers tightening around the strap of her clutch like it was the only solid thing in the world. Pretending she wasn’t cold. Pretending she wasn’t waiting.

She didn’t need to turn around. I knew that posture like I knew my own reflection. She didn’t want to be seen.

Didn’t want me to be the one who saw her.

Too bad.

The tires crunched on gravel. The sound made her flinch—small, quick, like prey catching the scent of something that shouldn’t be near.

I honked. Once. Soft. Mocking.

She froze.

God, I loved that.

I rolled the window down slow, deliberately. Like I had all the time in the world. Like this wasn’t the only moment I’d been waiting for all night.

“Hey, sweetheart,” I drawled, smirking. “Hop in. Uncle’s not gonna bite.”

She turned toward the sound of my voice with that familiar scowl—eyebrows drawn, lips parted, arms folded like she thought she could guard herself from me.

But we both knew better.

She didn’t speak. Not yet. That’s my favorite part: the moment she hesitates. Like her body knows before her mouth does that I’m not the danger.

I’m the inevitability.

“Unless, of course,” I added, gaze trailing down her figure, slow enough to sting, “you’d rather freeze out here. Alone. In that little dress.”

She shifted her weight, glaring harder. Her toes curled slightly against the stone.

She was already folding.

“Come on, Bunny,” I murmured. “I won’t do anything you won’t beg me for.”

There. That twitch in her jaw. That almost-gasp. The moment where anger and confusion cross wires in her chest and short-circuit whatever sense of control she thinks she has left.

She doesn’t like when I say that nickname. Bunny. Too soft. Too small. Too hers.

But it’s perfect.

Because it reminds me what she is.

And reminds her what I am.

Still, she stayed planted. Testing me. Like always.

I leaned further out the window, resting one arm on the door. Calm. Composed. Patient—at least on the surface. Inside? My nerves were electric. Feral.

“Door’s unlocked,” I said softly. “You’ve got sixty seconds before I drive off. Ten are already gone.”

She didn’t move. But her eyes flicked to the car door.

We both knew she was going to get in.

She always gets in.

“Or…” I tilted my head, voice dipped to something darker, “you want me to carry you? Bridal style? Bet you’d scream the whole way to the seat.”

She gasped, finally. Sharp. Quiet. Like she couldn’t believe I’d say it out loud.

But I could. I would. I wanted her to hear it. I wanted her to picture it.

Because I already had. A thousand times.

I shouldn’t want her this badly. Shouldn’t burn with every second she’s not near. Shouldn’t count the ways her body reacts to mine like a habit I’m trying not to indulge.

But I do.

So I waited.

One hand on the gearshift, the other twitching with the urge to reach for her, to take what I’ve been pretending not to want since the first time she rolled her eyes at me like she didn’t care.

Because the truth is—she always does.

And tonight?

She’ll get in.

Like she always does.