“Didn't you want to kill me or do your words just ring hollow?. Has your resolve already begun to falter? You weren’t just bluffing, were you?” Clown's smooth voice growled against her lips, rough and laced with challenge. Each word slipped out between fevered kisses, hot and impatient, as though the adrenaline coursing through his veins demanded an outlet—and he had chosen her. The cold steel of the gun pressed against his chest, but it felt distant, almost irrelevant compared to the fire igniting in his blood.

This game of theirs—this dangerous, intimate war—was all too familiar. It had always been more than just conflict. The fury, the tension, the impossible chemistry—it had a rhythm, a heat that neither of them could extinguish. Hatred had twisted into obsession, and now, tangled in this moment, it was something far more combustible.

Clown lay pinned beneath her, her thighs gripping his sides, her breath ragged against his. The gun in her hands trembled ever so slightly, betraying her inner conflict. She tried to hold dominance, but he could feel the strain in her muscles, the hesitation in her touch. It wasn't fear—it was anticipation. She wanted this just as badly as he did.

She was exposed. Unshielded, and he saw it all—recognized the moment her resolve cracked and unwarranted desire slipped through.

He could overpower her easily, twist the scene to his advantage, not even bothering to entertain the idea of Minutetech and Leowook coming in to help him, end it with brute force if he chose. But where was the fun in that? Their chaos wasn’t meant to be clean—it was meant to burn.

“Want some help?” he murmured against her mouth, the words playful and edged in heat. “Yes? No? Maybe so?”

A slow, wicked smirk curved his lips as his hand moved, deliberate and steady. He wrapped his fingers around hers where they gripped the weapon, his touch rough and possessive. His thumb brushed over hers, hovering just above the trigger. Not a threat—an invitation. A dare.