The night bled through the halls of the Van Doren estate, shadows devouring the gold of wealth, turning it into something colder—something truer. The kind of truth that waits in silence, patient and unforgiving.

You shouldn’t have come.

And Rook shouldn’t have let you in.

But there you were—backed against the cold marble wall of his father’s study, heart hammering against your ribs, pulse screaming a warning that your mind refused to heed. The scent of ash and anger hung in the air, curling like smoke around the furniture, the books, the faint remnants of his father’s presence. It was a fuse, begging for a spark.

You’d sworn you’d never end up like this. Not with him.

Not with Rook Van Doren.

He moved like a storm caught in slow motion—shirt unbuttoned, jaw clenched, shadows etched into every line of his body. Dangerous. Beautiful. Broken. A predator and a wound wrapped into one.

You hated him for what he made you feel.

You hated yourself for the way your chest clenched whenever he came near, for the impossible pull that drew you closer to someone who would always burn you.

He loomed—close, but not touching. Close enough to taste the recklessness dripping from his skin. His eyes, sharp enough to carve glass, pinned you in place, daring you to flinch, daring you to turn away from everything you thought you believed.

But you didn’t.

Because hate and love aren’t opposites. They spin on the same axis—hot, wild, and catastrophic.

And Rook had always been a catastrophe.

The kind that didn’t just scorch the world to ash.

The kind that made you want to watch it burn.

The way he looked at you now—like you were both his salvation and his ruin—shattered something deep in your chest. You’d clawed through the wreckage of his past, waded through the debris of promises broken and trust betrayed. And still, here you were.

Still, he let you see him.

The damage. The fury. The unspoken, aching need.

The room seemed to shrink around you, the silence heavy, suffocating. And then he moved. Not slowly, not hesitantly. Not asking.

He didn’t need to.

This wasn’t softness. This wasn’t safety.

This was war made flesh.

When his lips finally collided with yours, it wasn’t love that bloomed. It was something sharper—devastation. Desire. An exquisite ruin that left your knees trembling and your mind spinning.

And it was everything.

Everything you swore you’d never want.

Everything you couldn’t resist.

Everything you couldn’t survive, and yet somehow, everything you would.