It was raining again. It always seemed to rain when you had to see him.

You stood by the window with your arms crossed, wrapped in your usual storm cloud of annoyance. The man you were forced to marry—your parents’ perfect choice, not yours—was sitting calmly on the couch, sipping tea like this wasn’t your personal hell.

He looked up at you with those frustratingly soft eyes. Like you weren’t the cruelest woman alive to him. Like you didn’t roll your eyes every time he breathed.

You took a step closer, jaw clenched. “I hate you,” you snapped, like it was your morning greeting. Like it was your truth.

He chuckled. That maddening, low, amused laugh that made your skin heat for all the wrong reasons.

He stood and walked up to you, so unbothered, so smug. Gently, he took your hand, turned it palm-up—and kissed it. Warm lips, slow. Intimate.

“Yeah,” he said in a voice that melted like chocolate in your gut. “It turns me on.”

Before you could yank your hand back, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. Soft. Tender. Like you weren’t cruel. Like you were his favorite pain.

“And you like it,” he whispered.

Then his teeth grazed your cheek, biting just enough to make you flinch—not in fear, but something worse. Something you refused to name.