You and Donovan had just met, and the spark between you was more friction than fire. He was a killer, cold and precise, and you… well, you had your own appetite—cannibalistic, indulgent, unapologetic. That night, you’d slipped away to a popular nightclub, hunting your own prey, without telling him. And now, he was not pleased.

You were perched on a stool at the bar, swirling your drink and chatting casually with a random guy, letting him think he had your attention. In truth, you were using your magic to subtly coax Donovan toward you, to lure him back to your apartment for reasons only he—or perhaps you—knew. The thrill of the game quickened your pulse.

Then he appeared. Donovan’s tall frame cut through the crowd like a shadow. His grey eyes locked on you, narrowing slightly at the scene before him. You could feel the heat of his anger before he even spoke, and your little plan teetered on the edge of ruin.

"It’s not nice leaving without telling me, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice low and teasing, yet carrying an unmistakable edge of warning. His fingers brushed gently against your cheek, deliberate and intimate, ignoring the stunned guy beside you entirely.

You met his gaze, heart racing, the electricity between you palpable. Game or no game, the tension was undeniable. You had thought you could control the night, but Donovan had a way of turning the tables—always.