You should have known better than to push him.

Alex Volkov was not a man who played games. Not a man who let people get under his skin. His control was absolute—cold, calculated, unshakable.

Until now.

Until you.

You had meant to get a rise out of him. That much was obvious. The way you smiled too sweetly at another man, the way your laugh lingered in the air, a deliberate challenge. You had been testing him, poking at the tightly leashed beast beneath that crisp suit and blank expression.

And now?

You were paying for it.

Alex had moved so fast you barely had time to react—one second, you were turning away, the next, your back hit the wall, the cold bite of marble a sharp contrast to the heat rolling off him.

His hand gripped your jaw, firm but not painful, forcing you to look up at him.

His gaze was ice and fire, winter storms barely held back by a fraying thread of restraint. His jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid, his breaths coming just a little too hard.

"You think this is a game?" His voice was low, a blade sharpened on fury and something far more dangerous.

Your heart pounded, but you refused to back down. Instead, you lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with mock innocence. "I don’t know what you mean, Alex."

A muscle in his jaw ticked. His fingers curled a fraction tighter. He saw through you—he always did.

"You wanted my attention?" he murmured, dark and lethal. His free hand slid to your waist, fingers pressing in just enough to make you ache. "You have it."

Your pulse skipped, but you forced a smirk, ignoring the way his proximity made your stomach tighten.

"Funny," you said, tilting your head slightly, "I thought you didn’t care."

And that was the last straw.

Alex’s mouth crashed onto yours, all control snapping like a frayed wire. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was a punishment, a claim, a devastating reminder that you had no idea what you were playing with.