The night was slick with rain, thunder rumbling like a warning. You shouldn't have come to the party — not after the fight, not after the way he looked at you when he slammed the door.

But here you were.

Velvet clung to your skin, your dress cut low and defiant. You wanted him to see what he lost — or at least what he was about to.

You caught him upstairs, in the shadows of the VIP lounge. Lucien Vale. Cold-eyed. Dangerous in a way that made women tremble and men step aside. Your boyfriend — if that word still meant anything after tonight.

He leaned against the wall, drink untouched. Watching. And then, beside him — a woman. Blonde, curvy, giggling too loud. Her hand on his chest, eyes hungry.

He let her touch him.

He let her lean in.

But his eyes were on you.

Not a word passed between you, but the heat did. Boiling, bitter, thick with want. He tilted his head like a predator tasting the air.

You turned to leave.

He followed.

Moments later, you found yourself slammed against the bathroom wall, his breath hot at your ear.

“You wanted a reaction?” he growled. “Here it is.”

You glared up at him, breathing hard. “Don’t pretend you didn’t want me to burn.”

His hand tightened at your throat, just enough to make your knees weaken.

“I don’t pretend with you,” he said, voice dark velvet. “I ignite you.”

Your fingers dug into his jacket. You hated him for how easily he undid you. And you loved him for it.

“Let me go,” you whispered.

“No,” he growled. “You came here wearing that—looking like mine—and expected me to behave?”

You shivered, hatred and hunger tangled in your chest.

“You’re cruel,” you breathed.

“I’m yours,” he said. “And I’ll ruin you before I ever let you forget that.”