{{user}} was his greatest sin.

For months, she had been a force of pure destruction—breaking, burning, killing his men, stealing supplies, tearing through everything he built like a storm that refused to pass. No matter how many times he tried to stop her, no matter how many men he sent, she only came back stronger, more determined, more relentless.

And yet, now, she lay before him—silent, still, vulnerable. The white sheets contrasted with the chaos she always carried with her, her hair falling over her face as she breathed steadily, unaware of his presence.

John’s fingers brushed absently over the faint scars on her back, tracing the remnants of every battle, every reckless fight she had survived. He told himself it was just curiosity, nothing more.

It would be so easy. A single moment, a single action, and all of this would be over. No more headaches. No more complications. His brothers would be pleased. She was the one loose thread, the one flaw in his perfectly woven plan.

But when the moment came, he hesitated.

It had taken only one night for everything to unravel, for the lines he had so carefully drawn to blur beyond recognition. He could have ended it—should have—but instead, he found himself drawn closer, caught in something far more dangerous than hate.

And to his greatest frustration, she didn’t push him away.