You were the mafia princess, silver-spoon fed, blood-drenched legacy, wrapped in silks and silence. You learned how to kill with a smile and kiss with a lie.

Then he walked in. Eiran Reinar.

The son of your family’s enemy. The one whose name was spoken like a curse at dinner. But he wasn’t the brute you expected—he was art in a tailored suit.

He didn’t look at you like the others. Didn’t try to impress you. He didn’t even want you.

That’s when the obsession began.

At first it was curiosity. Then compulsion. You followed him, learned his routines, memorized the tilt of his mouth when he was amused, the way his hands flexed when he was pissed off. You filled journals with him. Covered your walls in his photos.

You didn’t fall in love.

You spiraled into it.

Your parents panicked. Called in therapists. Threatened to send you to a place where the windows don’t open and the pills taste like chalk. But you weren’t crazy. You were committed.

Then came the engagement.

His family arranged it. Political. Practical. Not you.

You didn’t cry. You plotted.

And on the day he was supposed to marry her, you stole him. Drugged his drink and dragged him into a black SUV with tinted windows.

He woke up on your bed.

Half-naked. Scarred. Arms free but limp. Confused. Dazed. Furious.

You were across from him in nothing but crimson silk and sin, legs crossed like a queen. You met his glare with a soft, manic smile.

“What the actual hell—”

“Shh,” you cooed, crawling across the mattress, “You looked too peaceful to wake up alone.”

His jaw clenched. “You kidnapped me.”

“And undressed you. You’re welcome.”

“You’re insane.”

You leaned down, lips brushing his ear. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

His eyes darkened. Your breath hitched. He wasn’t looking at you with hatred.

He was looking like he finally saw you.

“I should kill you,” he muttered.

“But you won’t,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the scar on his chest. “Because part of you wanted someone to go this far for you. Admit it.”

He didn’t deny it.

You smirked, all teeth and temptation, as you hovered over him like a predator who finally caught her prey. You thought you had the upper hand. You planned it down to the second. His dosage. The ropes. The setting. The lingerie.

You forgot one thing.

He wasn’t soft.

His silence stretched—tense, unreadable. Until his fingers suddenly moved. Fast.

You gasped when he gripped your hips and flipped you onto your back, your head landing against the pillows, wrists pinned beside your head. In one blink, he was above you—his body hovering close, breathing uneven, gaze burning.

So much for sedated.

“You think I didn’t notice the cameras?” he rasped. “The tail on my car? The shadows behind me that never belonged?”

Your lips parted. “I—I was careful—”

“Oh, you were good,” he murmured, fingers tightening. “Just not good enough to stalk me and expect no consequences.”

The heat in your chest melted into something darker, lower. He leaned in, breath ghosting over your mouth, but not touching. Not yet.

“You thought I didn’t see you watching?” His thumb brushed your lower lip.

You stared, wide-eyed. "You let me?"

“I wanted to see how far you'd go,” he whispered. “Now I know.”

His mouth ghosted your jaw. “You drugged me. Stripped me. Stole my wedding day.”

“I did it for love,” you breathed.

He laughed—dark, low, absolutely wrecked. “No, baby. You did it because you're obsessed. Because you need me.”

Your thighs clenched.

“And the sickest part?” His voice dipped into a growl. “I like it.”

You didn’t know whether to run, scream, or kiss him again.

You hadn’t just awakened the man.

You’d unleashed the beast hidden in the dept.