**I never wanted this marriage. Neither did he. Andrew—my enemy since childhood—now my husband by arrangement.

The ceremony was cold. His eyes burned into mine, daring me to run. I almost did. But pride chained me still.

The first night in our shared bedroom was silent. Tense. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking. “You look terrified,” he teased, his voice low.

I glared. “Of you? Never.”

He laughed—dark, dangerous—and crossed the room in two strides. His hands grabbed my waist, pulling me flush against him. My breath caught.

“You think you hate me,” he whispered against my neck, lips barely brushing. “But your body says otherwise.”

His mouth found mine, rough, claiming, stealing every ounce of anger and turning it into fire. Clothes hit the floor faster than our defences. The night was a blur of whispered threats, breathless moans, and desperate touches.

Maybe hate wasn’t the only thing burning between us after all.**