– Prologue

That night, he was in more of a hurry than usual.

The moment the door clicked shut, he pulled Rosaline into his arms. The way his hands gripped beneath her thighs and hoisted her up said everything.

“Y-you…!”

They’d been intimate more times than she could count, but rarely had he lost his composure like this. Rosaline’s eyes widened in surprise, only to be caught in the heat of his mouth.

No words. Just a searing, impatient need.

He devoured her open lips, his tongue rough and unrelenting as it plunged deep, scouring every inch as if something had broken loose inside him. When he nipped and sank his teeth into her swollen lip—not enough to draw blood but close—the feral edge of it made her shudder.

“Mmh…”

With one arm locked around her thighs, he pressed the other up her spine, the calloused pad of his thumb dragging with perfect pressure along the delicate ridge of her back. Rosaline twitched, reflexive.

Her feet dangling off the ground, she instinctively looped her arms around his neck. Only then did Synox release her lips and shift her weight, cradling her more securely. Her line of sight rose slightly.

She looked down at him. That refined face, so at odds with his hands.

But his eyes, those piercing, icy blue eyes, burned with something molten.

“Is… something wrong?” she asked, her breath catching.

“Nothing.”

The flat answer was followed by the firm press of her body to his as he strode deeper into the room.

Carried further inside, Rosaline squirmed in his grip. One of her house slippers slipped off and dropped with a soft thud. He didn’t glance back.

Whatever he said, he wasn’t his usual self tonight. He was urgent and unabashedly aggressive, as if bracing for something that was about to change.

He laid her down on the bed and climbed after her, his body looming over hers. A towering shadow consumed her slighter form.

When his hand slipped behind her back, she flinched.

“Aah…”

The silk straps of her dress slipped off her shoulders. His large hands gripped her shoulder blades and moved to her front, pulling the fabric down over her belly. Her full breasts bounced free from the confines of the dress.

His fingers skimmed down her stomach, slow, as though memorizing the territory he meant to claim.

When his hand reached the edge of her underwear, Rosaline loosened her arms from his neck.

“I-I can—ah!”

His mouth closed over one exposed nipple without warning, teeth grazing it hard enough to make her jolt. As her head fell back, his tongue lapped over the sting in apology, hot and wet. Her spine arched.

Meanwhile, he stripped away her underwear in one fluid motion, tossing it aside with her dress before moving on to his own clothes.

Buttons popped loose with little care. Unlike the reverent way he undressed her, he shed his own garments with urgency. Beneath his half-ripped shirt, his naked form emerged.

Tall and broad-shouldered, his physique looked even more imposing without the layers. Muscles she usually saw only in outline now stood defined, shadows and hollows deepened by sweat.

On other nights, she might have stared.

Not tonight.

His lips returned to the flushed tips of her breasts, his kisses uneven and scattered with sharp nips, until the pale skin blossomed with color. Then, between the soft swells, he growled low in his throat.

“Don’t think about anything else.”

The words cracked through the air like heat lightning. Rosaline swallowed dryly.

When his hunger turned carnal, overwhelming, it always sent chills through her. Not fear, but something close. A visceral thrill that mixed dread with desire.

Because she knew he would never truly harm her… yet also knew he could push her to the edge of breaking.

His hands roamed downward, unhesitant.

When his fingers found her folds, she instinctively tried to close her legs, but his body was already there, wedged between them.

He parted her slowly, deliberately, caressing the damp skin before pressing into the small, hidden bud nestled within.

“Ah…”

His lips brushed her ear.

“You can make noise.”

She knew that whatever happened in this room would never escape it. No matter how tangled, how loud, how desperate, they were never lovers in the light of day. Synox always made sure of that. Not even the sound of her voice would slip through the walls. Magic was just another part of him.

But when she refused to moan, his fingers slipped deeper, circling the wet heat of her entrance, then pushing inside. He moved leisurely, stroking her from within.

“Mmh… ngh, ah…”

Her hips lifted off the bed in reaction, chasing the sensation.

Each time, the tip of his hard length brushed her thigh, threatening. That heavy presence sent dry fire down her throat.

The wet sounds grew louder as he prepared her, then pulled his fingers free. He shifted his hips forward, positioning himself.

“Ah…!”

She felt the stretch before she registered his thrust. Deep. Tight. Devastating.

Her mouth fell open.

The pressure in her core unraveled her. A flood of heat spilled between her thighs as her muscles clenched and fluttered.

Synox pulled her into him, tight. Slick with her release, he began to move.

The bed creaked beneath their bodies. That thick heat inside her scraped every nerve ending as it pulsed, veined and relentless.

Her vision blurred like a wave crashing over her. Rosaline clung to him, terrified she’d be swept under.

“Hng… ah… please… slower…”

She didn’t even know what she was saying. Her cheeks flushed crimson, tears streaking down the sides. It didn’t hurt, no, that wasn’t the problem. The pleasure was the enemy. It came too fast, too hard, striking places she never knew existed.

When he noticed she was crying, Synox kissed the corner of her eye. His hips slowed.

“Ah… mmh…”

But the tenderness only made it worse. The slow drag, the tight pull, it was maddening. She writhed. As if expecting it, he nipped her ear, and his rhythm snapped back to its relentless pace.

Her nails raked down his back, across the taut muscles. Red streaks followed her trail.

Caught in a storm of his making, she clung to him like a shipwreck.

As always, it was a passion that existed only between them.

* * *

When she opened her eyes again, her body was clean.

Rosaline sat up slowly, her limbs heavy and sore like soaked cotton. Her back ached. He had been rougher than usual.

“You’re awake.”

Synox stood from the chair by the bed. He handed her a glass of water.

She looked up at him.

He looked like he was ready to leave. The shirt he’d hastily buttoned after losing half the buttons still peeked beneath a neatly fastened vest. It made her think of them, and what they were.

Two people tangled beyond recognition one moment, strangers the next.

Rosaline swallowed the bitter thought and asked, “You’re leaving?”

“There’s work to be done.”

What now?

She sipped the tepid water, wondering. He was a busy man. Occasionally, she caught glimpses of his name in the papers and marveled that he made time for her at all.

He reached for the glass in her hands, already wearing gloves. He took it from her gently, the gesture intimate, almost like a lover.

He had habits like that. Staying with her until she woke, checking if anything hurt, always bringing her water himself.

Small, quiet kindnesses.

Easy to mistake for affection.

And maybe, if she hadn’t known—

“Miss Rensier, it is your sister whom I hold in my heart.”

—she could have let herself believe.

Rosaline had an older sister, Aria. Sickly, distant. A woman Synox had watched for nearly ten years without laying a finger on.

Inside this bedroom, he was hers. Outside, he belonged to Aria. His greetings, his letters, his time. It was all for her.

Would he visit Aria before leaving the estate again?

Even knowing how it would tear her apart, Rosaline wanted to ask. Maybe, just maybe, he would deny it, just this once.

She parted her lips.

“Synox—”

“I have something to tell you.”

They spoke at the same time. He went quiet, letting her go first.

“No, you speak.”

Even then, he hesitated.

His gaze swept over her body slowly.

From her flushed face to the marks on her chest, his blue eyes drank her in. Rosaline followed his line of sight and flushed, pulling the sheets up. The chemise did little to hide the bruises, the teeth marks, the wreck he’d made of her.

He’d seen all of it already. There was no point pretending.

“Miss Rensier,” he said, finally. His voice was low. Quiet. Almost mournful.

“This has to be the last time.”