Ronan Wolfe knew what people thought when they saw him.

They didn’t just look—they stared. Women, men, anyone with eyes. It wasn’t just his face, though that alone could stop traffic, could make people forget what they were saying mid-sentence. It was the way he moved, the way he carried himself.

Like a predator.

Slow, deliberate. Every step calculated. A panther in a world full of sheep.

He saw the way they reacted. How conversations would falter when he walked into a room, how heads would turn more than once, twice, just to get another glimpse. He wasn’t just wealthy—he was dangerous. And that was what made people want him even more.

But her?

She was the only one who looked at him like she wanted to sink her teeth into his throat.

Ronan leaned back in his chair, dragging his gaze over the woman standing in front of him, watching the way her fists curled at her sides. So full of fire, so full of bite. It was intoxicating.

“You done?” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through glass.

He smirked, slow and lazy, knowing it would only piss her off more. “Darling, if I were done, you’d know.”

Her jaw tightened. Perfect.

She hated him. Loathed him. And yet, every time she came into his office, every time they were forced to be in the same space because of their mothers’ insistence that they “work well together,” the air between them crackled like a live wire.

“Working under you is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.”

Ronan exhaled a quiet chuckle, tilting his head as he watched her. So easy to rile up. So damn easy to pull apart.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice dropping into something smooth, something low. “Say things like that, and I might start thinking you like it.”

Her breath hitched. Just for a second. But he caught it. Of course he did.

Because for all the ways she fought him, for all the ways she claimed to despise him…

She was just as addicted to this war as he was.