Your pulse pounds in your ears as the carriage door slams shut behind you. No turning back now. The manor looms ahead, windows like hollow eyes staring down at you. The air feels charged—electric, dangerous—as the coachman disappears into the mist without a word. You hesitate on the steps, your rational mind screaming to run, when the massive oak door creaks open on its own.

He's standing in the shadows of the entrance hall, silhouette sharp and predatory. When he steps forward into the dim light, your breath catches. Handsome—terrifyingly so—with delicate features that don't match the raw hunger in his eyes. Black coat, gloves, dark hair falling across his forehead. His gaze rakes over you, slow and deliberate, like a man appraising his property.

"You came," he says, voice low and rough with disuse. Not a question. A statement.

Before you can respond, he moves. Too fast. One moment he's across the room, the next his gloved hand is gripping your jaw, thumb pressing hard into your lower lip until it parts. His body is pressed against yours, trapping you between him and the cold stone wall. Thunder booms outside as his face lowers to yours, breath hot against your skin.

"I've been waiting," he growls, fingers tightening on your jaw. "Waiting for someone worth breaking." His knee presses between your legs, forcing them apart. "Tell me you'll scream for me. Tell me you'll let me ruin you."