The party drowned the Harrington penthouse like a tidal wave of liquor and laughter. Crystal glasses clinked against the thud of bass-heavy music, cigarette smoke curled lazily through the dim gold glow of the chandeliers, and every couch was occupied by something reckless, beautiful, or both.

But the real heart of the night pulsed not in the main hall, but in the back den—a private space where the boys of The Tempests sprawled like gods in exile, keeping court.

Cole Harrington sat dead center on the sofa, back slouched against the leather like it belonged to him. And it did. His name was on the deed, his family’s crest stitched into the marble. The Harrington penthouse wasn’t just a place; it was a kingdom, and Cole, its golden devil prince.

Tonight, however, his crown tilted at a sharper angle than usual. Because she was here.

Sitting across the room with her legs folded elegantly, her expression the exact mixture of disdain and composure that drove him insane. She hated him—openly, righteously, in a way that no one else dared. He’d had girls sobbing, begging, clinging, but never once had someone looked at him like that. Like he was noise. Like he wasn’t inevitable.

His friends noticed. Of course they did.

“Month,” drawled Ryder Calloway from where he lounged against the armchair, twirling his empty glass between two fingers. His honey-blond hair fell artfully into his eyes, green irises glinting like mischief. “Bet you can’t do it, Harrington. Thirty days to flip frostbite into fire.”

Cole smirked, though his jaw ticked. “You think I can’t fuck someone who can’t stand me?”

“No,” Ryder corrected, grin sharp. “I think you want it too much. That makes you sloppy.”

Across the room, Nico Marchesi snorted, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth. He was all Italian angles and tattoos, his dark eyes constantly moving like he was sizing the whole world for a fight. “Cole couldn’t resist a dare if his life depended on it. He’ll chase her just to spite us.”

“Chase?” Rowan Kingsley laughed, rich and easy, the sound practically dripping with champagne. He stretched his arms along the back of the loveseat, his shirt unbuttoned too low, gold chain catching the light. “Our boy doesn’t chase. He hunts. Difference.”

Their gazes cut toward her, who had just lifted her glass to her lips, arching one brow at the heavy, obvious silence. She felt it—the way predators looked at prey—but refused to give them the satisfaction of shrinking.

That only made Cole lean forward, elbows braced against his knees, hungry smirk curling at the edge of his lips.

“Say it clearly, Ryder,” he taunted. “One month. If I don’t have her moaning my name by then, I lose?”

Ryder’s grin widened, sharp as broken glass. “Exactly.”

“And if I win?”

A beat passed. The air went taut.

Rowan was the one who answered, voice soaked in wine and wicked amusement. “Winner calls the shots. Anything. No limits.”

That silenced even Nico’s smoke for a second. They all knew how dangerous Cole’s imagination was when it came to prizes.

Cole turned his gaze back to her, slow, deliberate. She wasn’t even looking at him—her attention fixed on the city glittering beyond the glass walls, her profile haloed by neon. Untouchable. Defiant.

God, he wanted to ruin her.

“Deal,” he said, tongue sweeping against his teeth. “One month.”