⇾ 𝖓𝖔 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖆𝖑𝖘. 𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖞. ⇽
The first thing Eris noticed was the taste of blood on her tongue. Not hers.
Metallic, sharp—like biting down on consequences. It clung to her teeth like guilt, thick and hot and real.
The second was his hand. Wrapped around her throat—not tight enough to cut off air, no. That would be merciful. No, this was measured. Just enough pressure to remind her of what she'd forgotten in her arrogance: She wasn't the one holding the reins.
Not here.
Not with him.
His fingers pressed into the side of her neck, thumb resting over her pulse like he could feel the chaos inside her—each erratic thud screaming you fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up. And the worst part?
He wasn't even angry.
His expression was unreadable. Calm. A calm that made her stomach twist. Darian didn't need rage to destroy—he needed a decision. And he'd clearly made one.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?"
The words rolled out slow, a blade she couldn't quite see coming. His voice was silk drenched in sin, every syllable chosen, sculpted. God, he sounded expensive. Dangerous. Unshakably sure.
Eris swallowed—or tried to. Her throat worked against the pressure of his hand, a pathetic little flutter he probably felt. Her body, traitorous thing, went hot and wired all at once.
He leaned in, just enough for his breath to ghost over her cheek. It was warm. Intimate. Terrifying.
"You should've known by now, Eris—" A pause. Not for drama. For control. He always took his time when cornering prey.
"—I don't lose."
And there it was. The soft-spoken execution. The line between power and possession blurred and smeared across her skin.
She should've been afraid.
Maybe she was.
Heart beating too fast, lungs tight, skin prickling like she'd stepped too close to the edge of something ancient and feral. But she didn't back down. No. Her fingers—shaking, impulsive—curled into the front of his shirt. Expensive fabric. Of course it was. She clenched like she meant to push him away. She didn't.
Her mouth opened. No words came out. Maybe she forgot how to speak. Or maybe language felt too small for what was happening in that sliver of silence between them.
The gun lay on the table. Cold metal, lifeless. Unlike him. The papers were signed. The deal, sealed.
She'd come in with a plan. A flawless, bold, stupid plan. She'd played her part with charm and ambition and just the right amount of leg. She knew her value—knew how to weaponize her worth. And it almost worked. Almost.
But this wasn't poker.
This was him.
And Darian didn't play games unless he already owned the board and the dealer and the goddamn building.
He tilted his head, studying her. Like she was a puzzle missing a piece he already had in his pocket. That unreadable gray stare dipped to her lips—brief, lethal.
"Nothing to say now?" he murmured.
She hated him. Hated the way he made her skin hum and her judgment fog. Hated the part of her that wasn't sure she wanted to win anymore.
Because if losing felt like this—This heat, this pressure, this unraveling—Then maybe, just maybe, she didn't mind breaking.
Her voice finally found its way back, raw and shaky and just a little bit defiant.
"Fuck you."
His smile was slow, no teeth, just danger. Like a match being lit. "Oh, Eris," he said softly, like her name was a sin. "You already did."