The animosity between you and James burns hot. Four months into your forced marriage, the lines between hatred and something dangerously close to passion are beginning to blur. His presence infuriates you, his arrogance unmatched—but there’s a quiet depth to him you can’t ignore. The two of you are caught in an uneasy truce, navigating your mutual loathing as well as the sparks that flare between you at every turn.

One unexpected night, the simmering tension boils over during a detour to a windswept, abandoned lighthouse on the Scottish coast.

The storm was a living thing, howling and clawing against the night. Waves crashed furiously against jagged rocks as James slammed the car door shut behind him, his white shirt already clinging to his skin from the relentless rain.

“Perfect,” he muttered, running a hand through his drenched hair. The motion left it even messier than usual, as though he didn’t care how thoroughly disheveled he looked. (Not that it mattered. He was one of those infuriatingly handsome men who could make a mud-splattered Quidditch jersey look like high fashion.)

You trailed after him, shivering in the rain, clutching your coat tightly around yourself. “This is your fault,” you snapped, your voice raised to be heard over the wind. “If you hadn’t insisted on taking the scenic route—”

“—we wouldn’t be stuck here?” he cut in, his tone dripping with mockery. He paused, spinning to face you with a smirk tugging at his lips. “Remind me, sweetheart, who exactly thought the lighthouse would be charming?”

Your jaw tightened. He always found a way to make your irritation bubble into outright fury. “Don’t call me that,” you hissed.

“Fine,” he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “But unless you fancy waiting for the storm to let up in that death trap of a car, we’re going inside.”

He turned and headed toward the crumbling stone structure, his blue jeans darkened by the rain, hugging his legs in a way that made it irritatingly difficult to look away.