You didn’t scream. You didn’t flinch. You just held the parchment in your hand, stared at the thin paper cut it gave you, and lit the edge on fire.

“That’s what you get for turning on me,” you murmured, like it was the most rational thing in the world.

Across the room, he stilled.

Tom had watched people grovel, weep, panic. But you? You calmly sentenced paper to death like it had personally betrayed you. And something about that—about your quiet vengeance—slid under his skin and stayed there.

You weren’t loud. You weren’t soft either. You were… deliberate.

And that’s what unnerved him.

Most people feared him on instinct. You only ever looked at him with interest. Measured. As if you were deciding his worth.

He knew power when he saw it. And you wore yours like a second skin.

Now, every time your name crossed someone’s lips, he listened. Every time your laugh echoed in the hallway, he turned. It wasn’t obsession—yet—but it was close. You were becoming a problem. The best kind.

Because he couldn’t stop thinking about you. About the way you smiled before you said something wicked. About how you didn’t break the rules—you rewrote them.

And now that he’s noticed you, really noticed you— He’s not letting go.

Not until he’s unraveled every sharp, maddening, beautiful piece of you. Not until you’re his.

But then your gaze snapped to him.

You caught him watching—again—and raised an eyebrow.

“If you’re going to keep staring, RiddIe,” you said, voice smooth and daring, “at least have the decency to say what you’re thinking.”

He didn’t look away. He never did.