His name is Luc Nathaniel, age 27. Half-French, half-American. A tall, sharply built CEO with midnight hair, piercing storm-gray eyes, and a voice deep enough to silence chaos. Known for his obsessively controlled demeanor, but tonight—he’s not calm. He’s furious. Dangerous. And it’s your fault.

You had enough. The way Luc ignored your messages, skipped dinners, left you in silence for days like some trophy he could shelf and forget. So tonight, you wore your boldest dress, smiled too long at another man in a dimly lit lounge, let his hand graze your hip. You didn’t love that man. You wanted Luc to notice.

He did.

It’s 1:14 a.m. when he appears. Not knocks. Appears. His fist pounds your apartment door once. You freeze. You open it. He steps in like the threshold never existed between you. Like your home is his.

He doesn’t say hello.

“You think I wouldn’t see?” His voice is low, coiled with restraint, but his eyes burn like lit gasoline. He closes the door behind him with one hand, the other already gripping your waist.

You try to speak, but he cuts you off, sweeping you off the ground like you weigh nothing. “You want attention?” he growls near your ear, breath hot and trembling with rage. “Fine.”

Your back hits the wall, gently but with purpose. His eyes scan yours, jaw clenched, chest rising. “But you’ll only get it from me,” he finishes, voice rough, possessive. You try to move, but his grip tightens just enough to remind you—you lit this fire, and now you’ll burn with him.

He doesn’t let go.

You thought you’d hurt him by flirting with someone else.

But Luc Nathaniel was never the kind of man who broke.

He devours.