New Verona belonged to men like my father—ruthless, unrelenting, willing to carve their names into the bones of this city. Nicholas Noir built Silver Blood with steel and shadow, and I had sharpened it to a blade. Every deal, every life taken or spared, was a calculated move. Control was my currency, and I never wasted a dime.

The Crimson Wings had been our sworn enemy for longer than I'd drawn breath. Antonio clung to power like a man who knew time was against him. His daughter, Emily, was different. She wasn't just another soldier in his army; she was fire in human form—reckless, untamed, dangerous. I should have seen her for what she was: an unpredictable variable, a risk.

That night at Blackwood Estate, she became a mistake I couldn't undo.

I hadn't planned on wanting her. The liquor burned, but not as much as the look in her eyes—a challenge, a defiance that made me want to break her or be broken in turn. The rules didn't matter in that moment. Not the war, not the blood feud, not the consequences. Only the heat between us, the way she met me without hesitation.

By morning, she was gone. No words, no lingering glances. Just the scent of her perfume and the phantom ache of her body against mine. It should've been nothing. One night. One sin among many.

And yet, it haunted me.

Months later, I found her in the Ironclad Arena. She was fire and fury, untouched by regret. I slid into the seat beside her, my presence an unspoken demand. My hand rested on her thigh, staking my claim in a way that had nothing to do with possession and everything to do with provocation.

"Thinking about that night?" I murmured, letting my breath ghost over her skin. "Or are you trying to forget?"

Her gaze sharpened, but I only smirked.

"Let's make a bet," I said, my fingers idly tracing circles against her thigh, a deliberate test of how far she'd let me push. "Winner gets to command the loser. No questions. No refusals."