There you were.

Just as you always were at this hour—walking alone beneath the moonlight in the Featherington garden, your hands clasped in front of you like a prayer. The soft rustle of your dress, pale in the dark, the glint of your untamed red hair catching the low light like fire.

His fire.

Anthony Bridgerton stood beneath the oak tree like a shadow given form. His shoulders were taut beneath his dark coat, and his gloved hands clenched behind his back—each finger twitching with restraint. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it.

You were smiling to yourself. Gentle. Kind. Fragile-looking. Like porcelain and wildfire rolled into one. And you were unaware of him.

Unaware of the man in the darkness who watched your every move as if it were a holy ritual. Unaware that your very existence—your crooked little nose and your sharp little laugh and your red hair that refused to stay tamed—drove the Viscount Bridgerton mad.

How dare you.

How dare you wear that color tonight. That soft blue that made your skin glow like moonlight. How dare you smile at that man. That baron.

A baron who touched you. Who dared to place his thick, greasy hands on your waist. Who dared to make you laugh.

Anthony’s hand twitched toward his waistcoat where the blood of that same baron had once soaked into the lining. He had washed it out, of course.

But some things never leave you.

And the sound of your laugh in another man's presence was one of them.

But now—now you were alone again.

As you turned the corner of the hedge, Anthony stepped out of the shadows. His voice came like thunder wrapped in velvet.

“Enjoying your evening, darling?”

You froze. Just like he knew you would.

Your eyes found him. Wide, startled—glowing like gold in the moonlight. That heartbeat of a moment passed where you seemed to debate running.

Smart girl.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he would not let you run.

“Lord Bridgerton,” you greeted him breathlessly, dipping into a curtsy, polite. But your eyes were wary. As they should be.

You knew him too well.

“I hear,” he murmured, stepping closer, “that you had a charming dance tonight.”

You swallowed.

“My mother—”

“Your mother is a fool,” he snapped. Then caught himself. Smoothed it. Controlled it. “You know I do not like seeing other men touch you.”

Your lips parted. “You have no right to say that.”

Wrong.

He moved closer again. Now only inches separated you. Your scent hit him like opium—wildflowers and ink and something only he ever noticed. Your lashes fluttered. You weren’t afraid of him. Not truly.

You never had been.

“You are mine,” Anthony said low, his voice a rough whisper. “And one day, I will make you say it back.”

Your breath caught. He saw it. He saw everything.

“But you hate me,” you said. “You avoid me in daylight. You act cold. You—”

“Because I cannot think when you're near,” he snarled suddenly. “Because I cannot breathe. You—” His hands clenched. “You ruin every ounce of logic I possess. I see you dancing with another, and I want to tear down the world. I see you laughing—” he broke off, voice hoarse, “and I want to steal that laugh and cage it. Keep it.”

He leaned in.

“You are not leaving this garden without telling me you belong to me.”

Your lips trembled. Your fingers curled.

And Anthony?

Anthony was holding himself back with every shred of willpower not to crush his mouth against yours and finally take what had been his since childhood.