He watched you storm off, shoulders tense, jaw clenched—your pride wounded and your heart far too open. The door had barely slammed behind you before a low, amused growl rumbled in his chest.

How... deliciously human.

He let the silence linger, let you think you were alone with your emotions—then rose from his place at the table, slow and deliberate, licking the last trace of blood-red wine from his lips.

“Come now, minx,” he called after you, his voice rolling like distant thunder—mocking, but rich with something darker. Interest.

Emotions bored him. They were weak. Predictable. He'd crushed countless souls underfoot for less than a misplaced feeling. And yet...

There was something about yours.

The way you wore your jealousy—fiery, unrefined, and utterly honest—fascinated him. You hadn’t tried to hide it. You didn’t retreat into silence or calculated indifference. You let it burn. Let it break your composure. And that—that—he could not ignore.

He followed, not out of kindness, not out of guilt. But because he needed to see.

What would you do next?

Would you fight him with trembling lips and defiant eyes? Would you cry? Would you curse his name, claw at his chest, demand an explanation he’d never give?

Or would you, perhaps... surrender?

He found you pacing in the corridor, your back to him, unaware that he was already so close. A smile curled at the corner of his mouth—slow, dangerous, and entirely entertained.

“You feel too much,” he said softly, almost to himself. “It’s maddening.”

And then, louder, more deliberate: “But I wonder... just how far you’d let that feeling take you.”