Being stranded in the middle of nowhere during a rainstorm wasn't exactly on your agenda, but here you were, drenched and regretting every choice that had led you to this moment.

You had called your brother, Josh, telling him you needed a ride. Predictably, he wasn’t thrilled about your predicament, his irritation barely masked by the short, clipped tone of his response. Nevertheless, he’d promised to send someone to pick you up, though his vague assurance of “someone” left a bitter taste in your mouth. When Josh said “he’d be there soon,” it often meant anyone but him. Mr. Popular, as always—basketball star, jock, class president, and the homecoming king who never quite outgrew the high school persona that made him everyone’s favorite.

So when the headlights finally cut through the downpour, you felt a brief flicker of relief, only for it to evaporate as quickly as it came. The sleek, black Aston Martin pulling up in front of you was not the rescue you had been hoping for.

Alex Volkov. A devil with the face of an angel. The thing about Alex was, he wasn’t the I’ll do my buddy a favor and rescue his stranded little sister type. No, he was more the look at me wrong and I’ll dismantle your entire existence without breaking a sweat type, and he’d do it so calmly, so exquisitely, that you wouldn’t even notice your life unraveling until you were left in ruins, a smoldering heap of ashes at his Tom Ford-clad feet.

“Get in.” His voice cut through the rain, as sharp and cold as the storm itself. He didn’t need to raise it; he never did. The authority in his tone was enough to command attention, demand compliance.

When you hesitated, rooted to the spot by a mix of dread and disbelief, he arched a brow, impatience flickering in his otherwise impassive gaze. “I hope you’re not waiting for me to open the door for you,” he added, his words laced with a dry, biting edge that mirrored your own reluctance.

What a gentleman.