Sweat forms on my forehead as I stare at the picture in my hand. Isaac rides a woman reverse cowgirl. I can't believe it. My own Isaac? My own fiancé? Tears blind my eyes instantly. I can't see the woman's face; whoever took the picture focused only on Isaac.

Tears threaten to spill. It's not real. Maybe it's just a photoshopped image, I tell myself. Whoever sent this just wants to destroy our happy relationship.

Is our relationship really happy? I wonder.

No, it isn't something I can describe as happiness. But it's normal. We're both very busy adults.

"What's it, Cilla?" Kaila's voice cuts through my thoughts. "What's that?" She leans forward, stretching her neck to see. "Is it a love letter?" Her brows lift playfully.

"No," I say curtly, squeezing the picture. My eyes dart around, searching for the men in white who brought the cake to the stage. They clearly aren't Isaac's. Isaac wouldn't sabotage our relationship. So who could it be?

"Cilla? You don't look right," Avery says, concerned. "Did-"

Gunshots explode in the air, cutting her off. Everyone scatters. Avery jumps down from the stage. I can't see where Kaila runs as I duck under the table holding the cake.

My hands tremble as I grab my phone from my bag and dial Isaac. It rings and rings. He doesn't answer.

Gunfire continues. I peek from under the table and see two groups of armed men shooting. Like this is some kind of battlefield?

One man almost catches me. I duck my head and pray they don't see me.

This is it. This is what happens when you defy the law in my family. My parents warned all of us-my siblings and me-never to go to clubs. One of the many strict rules they set for the Hayes girls.

I can already picture my mother's face if she saw the mess I'm in.

Bullets fly everywhere. I'm about to pee on myself. But I try calling Isaac again. This time, he picks up on the second ring.

"Isaac, please come get me out of here," I whisper, voice hushed and careful. I can't risk being caught by these killers.

They might think I'm calling the cops. God, I'm too young to die. I haven't even done half the things on my bucket list.

"Where are you, Druscilla?" he asks.

"What's all that noise?"

"I'm in a club," I whisper.

"What the hell are you doing in a club?" His tone is sharp, judgmental.

"Please come pick me up. This is not the time for judgment-" The phone nearly slips from my hand as a strong grip seizes me by the waist.

I shut my eyes tight. God, is this how I die? My mother will spit on my corpse if the police find me. And I probably won't even see heaven-that's what the pastor always says to rebellious youths.

My feet leave the ground as a body, solid as steel, lifts me into his arms. My heart somersaults when I see him.

Two eyes that don't match-one icy blue, one burning amber. His face is smooth as jade, jawline sharp and perfect.

Jet-black hair frames his face, yet a scar on his brow gives him a dangerously wild edge.

Is the devil this handsome?

I remember our Sunday school teacher saying the devil isn't always ugly. I never believed her-until now.

"Stay down," he commands, low and steady.

I obey instantly. He leads me to a door behind the stage, using his body as a shield from the bullets.

Finally, we are outside the club. I see Isaac opening a car door. When did he get here? I want to run to him, but Avery jumps into the backseat. Isaac climbs in immediately, and the car speeds away.

What the...? He didn't even check on me?

I want to chase his car, scream my lungs out, but Handsome Devil tugs me into his car. Well, he only tugs-but I'm distracted and land on my butt.

"Sit tight," he says, speeding into the night.

My heart races as he drives the opposite way from my destination.

Am I being kidnapped? Why is he taking me?

"Please let me go," I cry, tears streaming.

"What?" He raises a brow, glancing at me through the mirror.

"Please... I'll give you anything. Anything you want," I plead. "I don't want to die. I'm just an innocent girl."

"I don't get you," he mutters, confused.

"I don't know who offended you and your men... maybe it's my family or-" My voice falters. "I just don't want to die."

The car stops on a dark road.

He turns to me. I cringe.

"First, those men weren't my men."

Oh! My heart stilled. He belongs to another gang

"Second, I'm not kidnapping you."

"What?" My mouth drops.

"I saw you hiding under the table. It was too dangerous. You could've been hit by a stray bullet. So I came to rescue you."

Huh? My eyes nearly pop out. He saved me?

I slap my forehead. I've been crying like a fool when he hasn't even hurt me.

Through the tinted window, the street is dark and quiet. No cars, just dim streetlights.

"So, where are we going?" I ask, mouth dry.

"My hotel room," he says casually.

"What?" I gasp. "I can't follow you to your hotel!"

"Then step out and find your way back," he says calmly, as if we weren't on a lonely highway in the middle of the night.

"No. I'll follow you." What am I saying? Follow a man who looks this dangerous? What if he kills me? What if he's a serial killer lying about saving me?

He starts the engine and continue driving.

I glance at a bottle of rum. Perfect.

The only thing that might dull my fear. If I'm drunk when he shoots or stabs me, at least I won't feel the pain.

I reach for it.

"What are you doing?" He smirks, eyes on me and the road.

"I want to drink," I grunt.

He chuckles. "I wouldn't, if I were you. The alcohol content is too high for your tiny frame."

"Better." I gulp. The liquid burns, and I cough violently, shivering.

Handsome Devil frowns and snatches the bottle.

My eyelids feel heavy. "That's right." I smile, tipsy. "It's working."

"You're unbelievable," he mutters.

The car stops atop a hill.

He climbs out and opens the door.

I stumble out, legs wobbling like a newborn lamb.

"Let's go in," he says.

I try to follow, legs shaky.

"What's wrong with your legs?" He looks amused.

"They're... not cooperating," I stammer.

"You're drunk," he grumbles.

"I'm not drunk. My feet are just being disobedient."

He smirks. "That's what drunk people say."

"Let me help you, beautiful." He scoops me into his arms, carrying me to the receptionist.

A key card exchanges hands, and we enter a cozy suite.

"Put me down," I groan.

He sets me gently, standing still, eyes devouring me.

He cups my face, fingers brushing my hair. I shut my eyes, expecting a snap, but he tucks stray strands behind my ear. Warm hands on my neck.

"Beautiful hair," he says.

"Thank you," I whisper.

He steps back, sits on the bed. I stay by the door, curious.

"Why are you staring at me?" His arrogant smile appears.

"Why did you save me?" I ask.

"Because you're beautiful," he says.

I frown. "So if I weren't, you wouldn't?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

A psycho?

"Stop standing there," he says. "Come sit down."

I stay silent. Throat burning, stomach tight.

"I don't bite." He rises, unbuttons his black shirt, tossing it aside.

Tattoos crawl across his skin-dragons, serpents, burning skulls. My eyes widen.

Who is this man? Mafia? Criminal? Mobster?

Run! My instincts scream.

But I can't. I'm rooted, captivated.

"Wanna touch?" he asks.

"Yes-No!" I stammer.

"Why the contradiction, sweetheart?" He smirks, a dimple flashing.

I avert my gaze.

My eyes catch something black, shiny, with a nozzle. I freeze.

Those damn pictures and gifts haunted me the whole drive to work, like ghosts I couldn't shake. My eyes stung, threatening tears for what felt like the fifth time that morning. I blinked hard, gripping the steering wheel tighter. Isaac wouldn't do that. Not him. He couldn't cheat on me. Could he? The doubt gnawed at me, sharp and relentless. Those photos had to be some kind of mix-up, a cruel joke.

I pulled up in front of the venue, the grand hall I'd booked for my client's blowout birthday bash. I killed the engine and stepped out into the biting winter air. Inside, the decorators were already buzzing around, hanging streamers and arranging tables.

I made my rounds, eyes scanning every detail: the corners, the setup, even the back storage room. Funny thing, I thought, weaving through the clutter. Here I am, orchestrating these perfect events for strangers, but when it came to my own wedding, I handed it off to another planner on Patricia's advice. Saved me the headache, sure, but it stung a little.

I was poking at some stacked chairs in the storage room when the door clicked shut behind me. My heart jumped. "Hey! I'm in here! Somebody's locked in!" I rushed over, twisting the knob frantically. It wouldn't budge. Locked tight. Shit. How the hell was I getting out? I had a client meeting lined up, and now this?

I yanked my phone from my pocket, fingers fumbling. My boss? No, she was out of town for the weekend. Damn. The cold from the AC mixed with the winter storm outside, seeping through the walls, chilling me to the bone. Isaac. Yeah, call Isaac. I dialed him, my hands shaking, teeth chattering.

"Hey, Dru... I'm busy right now," he answered, voice clipped.

"Please, I need your help right now," I said, my words tumbling out, grinding my teeth against the shiver.

"I'm in the middle of a meeting. I'll call you back," he groaned.

"Isaac, I'm..." The line went dead. He hung up without letting me finish. Just like that.

My legs wobbled beneath me. What now? I'd freeze in here, and no one would find me till tomorrow morning. My mind raced to dark places: curled up, forgotten, gone. No, God, please no. I sank to the floor, bones feeling like jelly, eyelids heavy.

Call him, a voice whispered in my head. Call Ivan.

My weird, crazy-hot stepbrother.

I snatched my phone again, scrolling through contacts. Did I even still have his number? There it was. But was he using the same one? It'd been ages since we talked on the phone. Ivan had cut ties with everyone when he left home, no explanation, just gone.

I hit call without a second thought, praying it'd ring. It did.

Ring.

Ring.

"Druscilla?" His voice came through, low and steady, filling the speaker.

He still had my number? Wow.

"Dru...?"

"Hi, Ivan... Please, I need your help right now," I whimpered, teeth clenching hard.

"Where are you?"

"I'm locked up in a cold storage room. I'm trapped," I whimpered again, voice breaking.

"I'm on my way," he said, and just like that, he hung up. To my shock. How would he even know where? I hadn't told him the address.

Exhaustion hit me then. I must've dozed off on the cold counter, body numb.

A loud crack jolted me awake. The door frame splintered, wood groaning as it gave way. The whole thing crashed down in a heap. And there he stood. Ivan. Looking scorching hot even in this freezing winter mess, blood trickling from his hands.

He rushed over, cupping my face with those bloody palms, his chest heaving. "I'm sorry I'm late," he said, eyes searching mine.

Late? I'd called him maybe ten minutes ago. How'd he get here so fast?

He scooped me up, hands firm around my waist, not seeming to care about the blood. Carried me like I weighed nothing.

"Let's get you warmed up," he murmured.

Out in the main hall, he set me down gently. Then he shrugged off his winter jacket and draped it over my shoulders. Warmth flooded me instantly, along with his scent: coffee, chocolate, whiskey. It wrapped around me like his arms had, pulling me in.

How he'd gotten through the front doors with all those security locks?

Ivan was full of mysteries.

"How did you get here so fast?" I asked.

"Tracked your call," he replied casually, rising to his feet.

A very good girl

I know what that black thing is.

A gun.

In an instant, the faint tipsiness swirling in my veins vanishes. My eyes dart to him-Handsome Devil-just as he catches my stare and quickly tucks the weapon beneath his bed.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, his tone awkward, like he just spilled coffee and not revealed something dangerous.

I blink, unsure how to respond. Who apologizes for being seen with a firearm?

This man baffles me.

A yawn escapes me, and I rub at my face. My stomach twists in protest-hunger clawing at my insides. I haven't eaten anything since that miserable piece of toast and lemon tea in the morning. My knees tremble beneath me.

"Are you planning to stand there all night?" he asks, a teasing curl lifting the corner of his lips. "Come sit." He pats the space beside him on the bed.

I shake my head immediately. "No, I'll stay here."

His brows lift. "Why?"

"Because..." My chest heaves. "Because I don't trust a man like you."

He chuckles, low and amused, as if I just told him a secret. "I never asked you to."

"Yes, but I can't," I murmur, eyes flicking over the tattoos etched across his chest. "You look like trouble."

"Dangerous, you mean?" he smirks. "Sweetheart, I just saved your life."

"That doesn't make you harmless," I say before I could hold back my tongue.

He rises from the bed, and I instinctively press my back against the wall. Every step he takes toward me is unhurried, deliberate-his gaze steady, unreadable.

When he stops in front of me, the air thickens. He lifts his arms, placing both hands against the wall above my head, trapping me there without touching me.

His scent-coffee, cedarwood, and something darkly masculine-wraps around me like smoke.

God, he smells divine.

His breath brushes my ear when he speaks. "You're right," he whispers, voice husky. "I'm a bad man. And I'm about to do very bad things to you, little bird... if you let me."

He tilts my chin up with a single finger, his touch featherlight but commanding. My pulse leaps. His gaze traces the curve of my neck, then returns to meet my eyes.

"Stop," I breathe, though my voice trembles with uncertainty rather than fear. "Don't go further."

He stops.

"I'm not the kind of girl you can just touch the way that pleases you," I say, my voice shaking slightly, but I hold his gaze.

He leans back and chuckles, low and deep. "Really?"

"Yes," I shoot back, though my heartbeat drums against my ribs. I don't even know what this man is up to, or why his voice feels like silk against my skin.

"I'm a good girl," the words slip out before I can stop them.

His lips curve into a smirk that could melt ice. "Good girls don't go to clubs or wear this kind of dress, darling," he murmurs, his tone dripping with mockery and sin.

Wait-this gangster is seriously judging me?

"I was there because we were celebrating my bachelorette," I say quickly, defensive, like I need him to believe me for reasons I can't explain.

"Interesting." His smile deepens, and I catch it again-that wickedly perfect dimple cutting into his cheek. His left eye, the amber one, glows a little brighter under the dim light.

"Since it's your bachelorette night, why don't you have fun instead of punishing yourself by standing here?"

My brow arches. "I was having fun-with my best friend and my cousin. At least until the shootout."

He chuckles, low and husky. "That's not the kind of fun I'm talking about, sweetheart."

Before I can react, his hand slides to my waist. My back leaves the cold wall, and suddenly there's barely a breath between us.

My pulse jumps. "What kind of fun are you talking about?" I whisper, trembling with curiosity I don't want to admit.

His mismatched eyes travel down to my mouth. The blue isn't cold anymore; it softens, warms, burns with something unspoken.

And the way he looks at me... God. I feel like I'm his favorite dessert-something dark, forbidden, and meant to be devoured.

He stills, the tension in his arms softening. He strokes my arm. "I want to teach you what real fun is, little bird."

Shivers run down my spine. Not from fear. But from excitement. From curiosity.

"You should have a memorable night, something good enough to blur the memory of that shootout," he trails his fingers to my neck.

I feel his pulse against my neck. I've never been touched like this before. I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of his hand on my skin.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says.

"I don't want to stop," I confess softly.

He smiles-slow, wicked, beautiful. "That's all I needed to hear."

When his lips brush my skin, I gasp. His kiss is gentle at first, a whisper of heat against my throat. My eyes flutter shut as his mouth moves lower, tasting me like something he's craved for far too long. Every breath I take seems to dissolve in the air between us.

My hands, unsure at first, lift to his bare chest. His skin is warm, his heartbeat fierce beneath my palms. He catches my wrists and guides them to stay there, pressed against him, as if he wants me to feel what he's feeling-every wild thud, every restrained urge.

"Do you trust me now?" he whispers against my neck.

"I don't know," I breathe. "But I don't want you to stop."

He draws back slightly, studying my face as though searching for hesitation. Finding none, he kisses me-slowly, deeply. It's not rushed; it's not desperate. It's the kind of kiss that leaves me trembling from the inside out, like I'm being unmade and remade in his arms.

He tastes of chocolate and coffee, dark and addictive.

The world blurs. The air conditioner hums somewhere in the background, but all I feel is his warmth, his breath, the rough edge of his voice when he moans.

Every motion, every sigh, feels like a confession.

When he finally pulls away, I can barely breathe. He rests his forehead against mine, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling against my own.

"You should tell me to stop now," he says softly, though his tone carries a thread of longing.

But I can't. My voice is gone, lost to the storm he's set loose inside me.

I'm not afraid anymore. Not of him. Not of what I feel.

Because for the first time in a very long time, I don't feel empty-I feel alive.

~ IVANOV ~

I was in the middle of a small meeting with a client at the VIP when three women walked in, their presence slicing through the smoke-filled room like a knife.

They slid into the table on my left. My eyes caught them immediately, but it was the one in the middle-the red-haired beauty from the party-that froze me in my tracks. Druscilla Hayes.

My enemy's fiancée.

Fate really had a wicked sense of humor.

Believe me or not, I didn't follow her here. I came on my own, wrapped up in the grind with a client who had paid a fortune for me to help him hack Interpol's logs. But apparently, I didn't need to stalk tonight. She had delivered herself straight into my line of sight.

I couldn't hear a single word my client was saying. My gaze was glued to her-Druscilla, moving with a reckless grace, taking shots, swaying her body as though she owned the world. She had no idea. She had no idea how hot she looked. No idea someone was watching her with hunger that bordered on obsession.

I had heard the stories about her, about the Hayes family-strict, disciplined, holier-than-thou types. And here she was, in a place that went against everything she had been raised to believe in. It was thrilling.

No, more than thrilling. Electrifying.

My eyes roamed over her body. She looked stunning in that dress, but I could tell she was uncomfortable. A tight corset, maybe, or just the eyes of a room full of strangers. And yet, every move she made had me leaning closer, wanting more.

The brunette with her got up and walked to the stage, announcing something. And that's when I got a proper look at the blonde sitting next to her, laughing and smiling-the same blonde Isaac Kaene had been parading around.

So she was Druscilla's friend? I couldn't believe it.

Isaac. What a cheap, lying bastard. Two friends, a proposal to one, a secret fling with the other. He was a real piece of work.

I had planned to ruin Druscilla's relationship with him eventually, but until now, I'd done nothing. Tonight, though, the temptation to press that button was irresistible. He didn't deserve her. Not in the slightest.

I scrolled through my phone, ignoring my client completely, searching for every scrap of information on Druscilla Hayes.

Then I saw it. Tonight was her birthday.

"You haven't been listening to me?" Vincent frowned, his voice cutting through my haze.

I tore my gaze away from the screen to meet his. Vincent had been a client for five years-a politician with a cold face and an even colder heart, steeped in corruption and money laundering.

"Let's talk business tomorrow," I said casually, pulling out a cigarette.

"Come on, Ivan. That's bullshit," he protested, frustration etched into his sharp features.

I lit the cigarette, ignoring him.

"Tomorrow, Vincent."

He shook his head, scowling, and walked away, muttering under his breath. I didn't care. He'd be back. He always came back. Tonight, my attention belonged to one thing: Druscilla Hayes.

I called my assistant immediately.

"Pedro," I said, voice clipped. "Get a beautiful cake in five minutes and deliver it to this location."

"Yes, boss," Pedro replied without hesitation.

"One more thing," I added. "Open my drawer and put that surprise in the cake. I'll text you what to write on it."

"Understood. On it immediately," he said.

Five minutes later, my men delivered the cake. I watched from a distance as Druscilla's face lit up. That smile... hell, it made my chest tighten. Contagious, radiant, and entirely hers.

I bet she thought it was from Isaac.

They sang, cut the cake. Her smile faded. Slowly, the glow vanished, replaced by a frown when she saw my gift. Her hands trembled as she held the picture inside.

A little thrill twisted in my chest. She needed to know the truth. That cheating, worthless bastard didn't deserve her. I'd planted the seed; now I'd wait for it to grow.

Her eyes glistened, a tremble in her lips, as though tears might fall any second.

But then chaos erupted. Shots rang out. People screamed and scattered, diving for cover.

I looked around, instinct kicking in. The shooters weren't mine. They were small-time gangs with old grudges.

I rose, gun pinned to my belt. My eyes searched for her. She wasn't on the stage anymore. My heart skipped. I needed her safe.

I found her crouched under a table, phone in hand, fear written all over her face. Not dumb, that one. But not safe either.

I lifted her into my arms. The look of terror in her eyes only tightened my grip. Out we went, shielded by my body, moving through the chaos.

Outside, Isaac had arrived-but not for her. For the blonde. Perfect.

My mind raced. My safe nest. That's where she belonged.

So here we were, in my suite. I couldn't take my eyes off her. My hands itched to explore every inch of her body. I was supposed to be the predator, seducing her, showing her what a man like me could do. But it wasn't me controlling this anymore.

"Touch me," she whispered, her voice fragile and raw. Like an angel in need.

Her eyes begged.

I obeyed. My fingers traced over her thigh, feeling the delicate lace beneath my touch.

"Oh God..." she moaned.

I didn't stop. I pushed further, sliding a finger inside her. She was drenched, every movement begging for more.

Her shiver was delicious. "Oh... yes... uhm... you..."

I smiled, amused and aroused. Her face, the way she melted under my touch, was intoxicating.

I thumbed her clit, keeping a steady rhythm. Her moans grew, filling the room with the sound of want and surrender.

Just as she teetered on the edge, I pulled back. Her eyes opened, fluttering, wide and desperate.

"What?" she asked, voice shaking.

"What do you want, Doll?" I murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I don't want you to stop," she whispered, voice trembling.

"Unfortunately, Doll... this is all I can do... unless you want me to fuck you," I said, letting a smirk tug at my lips.

"Fuck me... please," she whimpered.

I slid her lace panties down and tucked them into my pocket. She wrapped her legs around me as I carried her to my king-sized bed.

I lowered her gently, pressing my weight against her, her legs splayed, inviting me. My cock hardened at the sight, the wet heat that called to me.

I wanted her. All of her. I wanted to mark her, consume her, erase Isaac from her life entirely.

"Damn, you look so... delicious," I groaned. My voice low, hoarse with need.

She blushed, looked away shyly. I lowered myself, teasing, not going further.

"What?" she lifted her gaze, needy. "Fuck me already."

"I want to fuck you when you're sober," I said, voice rough with want, the tension between us crackling like electricity.