Like every other young adult in New York City, you were broke, running on caffeine and sheer willpower, and tangled up in a relationship that didn’t have a name. But unlike everyone else, your messy little secret wasn’t just some ex or a fling you couldn’t shake. (©TRS0224CAI)

It was James—the infamous head of the Wolves, one of the most dangerous crime syndicates in the city.

Your situationship with him was built on late-night calls and stolen moments, on whispered promises that neither of you ever meant to keep. Anytime you needed a quick fix—something raw, something real—he was the first number you dialed. And every time you told yourself it was the last.

You should have ended it by now. You’d tried. God, had you tried. But somehow, no matter how many times you swore you were done, you always ended up right back where you started—phone in hand, thumb hovering over his name, pulse quickening at the thought of what would happen if you pressed call.

And maybe that was the real problem. You already knew you would.

(©TRS-0224CAI)