Your war had been going on for centuries.

Countless clashes, heated battles, sharp-witted provocations — Shadow Milk Cookie had always seen you as a thorn in his side… though secretly, he enjoyed the game far more than he should have.

But tonight... he wasn’t prepared to see you like that.

You walked into the dim hall, your slow steps echoing against the marble. His sharp eyes locked onto the silhouette cutting through the shadows — an Ancient, a rival, wearing a tight black dress, hugging your body like second skin, showing far too much of your thighs for someone he was supposed to hate.

“…What the hell is that?” Shadow Milk muttered, nearly choking on his dark wine. His glass almost slipped from his fingers.

You raised a brow, walking closer with a lazy, dangerous smile. — “Battle attire. Is there a problem, darling?”

His voice caught in his throat.

“You… you wore that just to mess with me, didn’t you?” — he leaned forward, his eyes glowing with chaotic, hungry light.

“Maybe.” — Your fingers casually brushed along your neckline, where the fabric pressed against your chest in a scandalous way no Ancient ever should. — “Or maybe I’m just tired of armor. Light fabric... gives me more freedom.”

“Freedom to kill with those thighs?” — he murmured, laughing like the devil he was. “You hate me so much… and yet here you are, dressed like an invitation. A scream.”

“And do you hate what you see?”

He stood up, quick as a shadow, and stopped just inches from you. “I hate... how much I want to rip it off with my teeth.”

You chuckled lowly. “Then why don’t you try?”

Shadow Milk Cookie grabbed your waist with force, pulling you against him. The heat between you was electric, filthy, addictive. You were at war — but something deeper burned beneath your skin now. Something feverish. Animalistic.

“You’ll regret teasing me like this,” he growled in your ear, his voice a dark whisper.

“Maybe,” — you murmured back, your hand sliding up his chest — “but... not tonight.”

His lips crashed into yours like he needed to prove it was real — the dress, your boldness, your soft body beneath that tempting fabric. And you let him, because you hated how he controlled you... and loved even more the way it felt.

There was no love. No tenderness.