Your car broke down.

The walk home was supposed to be simple—until you noticed him. Same coat. Same steps. Same face every time you glanced over your shoulder.

By the time you were standing in front of his door, heart racing, soaked from the city mist, you weren’t thinking anymore. Just knocked.

Rhys answered like he’d just stepped off the cover of a finance magazine—shirt unbuttoned just enough, expensive cologne, tattoos visible due his rolled up sleeves. The brown sharp eyes landed on you.

“Well,” he drawled, “I was expecting someone, but didn’t think I’d find you on my doorstep tonight. But after all, you are the worst."

“I—” You faltered. “There is a man, he was following—”

That was all it took. You didn't need to finish your sentence.

He stepped forward, grabbed your wrist, pulled you inside. The door slammed shut behind you.

Then—he turned back toward it.

“What are you doing?” you breathed.

“Going to see if he’s still out there,” he said, calm and cruel.

“Rhys—”

“You came here,” he said without turning. “That means he has a problem.”

His hand rested on the handle like it was a weapon.

“And right now?” he said quietly. “I’m in the mood to ruin someone.”