He knew it from the moment you first shoved your way into his space — unbothered, unafraid, with that look in your eyes that said I bite back. And gods, he loved it.

Most women shrank back when he opened his mouth — all that vulgar confidence, the skull jokes, the deadly charm. But you? You rolled your eyes, stepped closer, and grabbed him by the collar like he was the one playing with fire.

Now here he was — spine pressed against the wall of the temple, lips bruised from your kiss, breath caught somewhere in his throat. You were straddling his hips like it was your throne, your hand curled around the back of his neck, and his grin? Crooked. Dazed. Helpless.

Manigoldo, death-saint, feared and revered, was just a man right now. A man who trembled slightly under your fingers. A man who tilted his head just right when you tugged at his hair. A man who let his hands rest on your thighs and didn’t dare move them — not unless you guided him.

The dominance wasn’t harsh. It was deliberate. Confident. Teasing. And that was the trick — you knew what you were doing to him. You knew he could snap a man’s neck with a flick of his wrist, but with you, he softened.

He let himself be undone.

Your laugh after kissing him — smug, cruel in that delicious way — only made it worse. He bit his lip, breath shaky, staring at you like a man starved.

You made him earn you.

And oh, he would. Again. And again. And again.

Because Manigoldo wasn’t afraid of being ruined.

He wanted it.

So long as it was by you.