You’d been dating Mattheo for a few months when he brought you home for summer break. What he didn’t warn you about was his father—Tom Riddle.

Young. Composed. Dangerous. And far too attractive for someone who was supposed to be a reformed dark lord.

That morning, Mattheo and Theodore had gone out for “business,” leaving you alone in the kitchen with him. You sat quietly, sipping your tea, while he leaned against the counter, watching you with cool amusement.

“You’re much quieter when he’s gone,” he said, voice smooth like velvet over ice.

He stepped closer—slow, deliberate. The space between you tightened, and the way his eyes flicked to your mouth made your pulse stutter.

“I can see why Mattheo brought you here,” he murmured. “Pretty thing like you.”

Your breath caught.