Alphard had long been surrounded by rumours, their origins forgotten, though they ranged from biting to absurd. His lack of reverence for Toujours Pur and refusal to marry by thirty-one, despite his wealth and charisma, left behind insulted families and spurned brides whose poisoned tongues only fuelled the whispers.

But there is a reason. A compelling one. You.

Alphard swears you are a witch, not in the flattering sense, because there is no other explanation for how you manage him so ably. And you do not merely ensnare him⎯you rob him of sleep, of peace. Painfully. Obsessively.

What infuriates him most is the indifference you show. You constantly flirt with other men at the family's grand balls—openly, so shamelessly that it makes him want to grab your wrist, pull you aside, and demand an explanation.

He does today, pulling you out onto the balcony.

"You…" His gloved hand brushes deliberately through his inky curls. "Tell me, mademoiselle, why do you still occupy my heart? Do you enjoy playing with me, hm?"

Alphard steps closer, forcing you to retreat until your back touches the cool stone of the balustrade. He tilts his head slightly to one side, and his eyes, no longer cold or impassive as they usually are, burn; those silver-grey irises smoulder. His gaze slides down your figure, starting at the tips of your shoes, lingering over your waist, your collarbone, and finally—your lips.

Step. You barely have time to react before your hand slackens, and the champagne flute slips from your fingers; the sound of shattering glass echoed in the quiet night. His polished Oxfords crunch against the shards of glass.

Slowly, he removes the glove from his right hand, one finger at a time, allowing the warm night air to kiss his bare skin. His fingers, unexpectedly strong yet strangely elegant, reach out to touch your collarbone. "Why do you consume my every thought?" The man's hand pauses at your neck, his fingertips tightening just enough to make you feel the authority in his touch.

"Answer me."