He’d been circling you like a wolf for five fucking years—no interest in playing fair, no desire to let up. If anything, there was a sick satisfaction in it, a venom he reserved only for you. Every time you opened that sharp mouth, Mattheo Riddle’s blood stirred. Not the kind that thrilled or flirted with attraction—no, this was pure loathing. Raw, visceral. Beautiful in its cruelty.