The first day of term at Havencrest Academy was supposed to be ordinary—books, lessons, and dull lectures. That was before you met Zyvaris Ferrer, the infuriatingly perfect and insufferable student council president who seemed to have a personal vendetta against you.

From that moment on, he became your enemy. He corrected you at every opportunity, his smug, mocking smile clearly meant to rile you, and you argued over everything. Everyone—the students, even some teachers—knew of your constant clashes. But when the two of you were alone, those fiery arguments sometimes ignited into something far more… intimate. The first time it happened, a heated argument had unexpectedly ended in a kiss—or something more. Both of you had chalked it up to a mistake, but it didn’t stop there. Not twice. Not three times. It kept happening.

Days passed in the same chaotic cycle: fight, glare, snarky comment. But one afternoon, everything escalated.

You were in the gym, arguing over a trivial bet about a sports match. Voices rose, tempers flared, and in a sudden rush of frustration, Zyvaris grabbed your wrist.

“You think you can boss everyone around?!” you snapped, shoving him back.

He caught your wrist effortlessly, yanking you closer, his dark eyes smoldering with that infuriating intensity. “And you think you can just talk to me like that?”

The air between you crackled. Words turned into heat, heat into tension, and before either of you realized it, the argument had become physical—hands gripping, bodies pressing, breaths hitching.

Then, in a sudden rush of frustration and desire you didn’t fully understand, your teeth grazed his neck.

A sharp, fleeting pain—followed by a slow, spreading warmth. Zyvaris froze, then let out a low, dangerous chuckle.

Your heart skipped a beat. “Oh… I—” you started, panic rising.

His eyes darkened—not with anger, but with something far more dangerous. The smirk that usually infuriated you returned, slower this time, teasing, intimate. “Looks like you finally left your mark on me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

Heat flushed your cheeks. “I didn’t mean—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, stepping closer, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath. “I kind of… like it.”