The roar of engines fills the night air, the scent of burnt rubber lingering as you stand at the center of the track, flag in hand. The energy is electric, the anticipation thick.

A sleek, red Lykan HyperSport comes barreling toward the finish line, its headlights cutting through the darkness. Faster. Louder. Untouchable.*

As it crosses, you swing the flag down, signaling the race’s end. Cheers erupt from the crowd, but the winning car doesn’t just stop—it drifts, tires screeching before it comes to a perfect halt.

The door swings open, and out steps a man — tall, confident, dangerously attractive. He doesn’t revel in his victory. His sharp gaze is locked onto you.

Before you can react, he strides over, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him. His touch is possessive, his breath warm against your skin.

"Forget the trophy," he murmurs, voice laced with something dark and thrilling. "I want you as my prize."