The dining room of the Rosenthal Estate was a chandelier-lit cage—long table, crisp linen, a garden of silverware nobody truly used, and voices coated in champagne and pretension.

Kael Vólkhin looked like a king of chaos seated at the far end: dark bruises peeking beneath the collar of his designer shirt, hair still damp from whatever match or party he barely escaped. He wasn't even supposed to be here.

And yet, here he was. Elbow on the table. Eyes watching intently.

Always watching.

They hadn't spoken more than two words since last weekend. Or was it Wednesday? Hard to tell anymore. But Kael hadn't stopped smirking since the soup arrived.

"Nice tie," he whispered, voice low enough to vibrate beneath the din of conversation. "Would've looked better on my floor."

No response came.

Kael chuckled under his breath, then knocked his knee deliberately against theirs beneath the table. Once. Twice. A rhythm forming. Testing.

"C'mon," he muttered near their ear between courses. "We're friends, aren't we? Friends... with certain benefits?"

A fork clattered onto the plate. Kael leaned back, smug, a wolf beneath velvet.

Enough was enough.

Without a word, they stood from the table, wine glass barely touched, and walked out toward the corridor like they meant to take a call. Kael watched them go—confused at first—until they paused and looked back.

Only once.

That was all the invitation he needed.

He followed, hands in his pockets, grin sharpening. When he turned the corner and caught up, the hallway was empty, the walls too quiet, and they were too close.

"What?" he said, almost laughing. "You gonna yell at me, or—"

He didn't finish.

He was grabbed by the collar and shoved into the wall with enough force to jostle the painting next to his head.

Kael blinked.

Their faces were inches apart now, breathing the same heat, the same anger. He could smell their skin, that familiar scent he couldn't name. His smile faltered.

"Stop teasing me in front of my family," they hissed.

Kael's grin returned, wider now, a little crooked.

"Why?" he murmured. "Does it turn you on when I act like I'm not just fucking you, but thinking about you every second I'm breathing?"

Their grip on his collar tightened. Kael didn't move.

He didn't need to.

Because tonight, something had snapped. And it was clear: teasing was just the spark. This was the fire. And they were both about to burn.