Sky Valen's POV — Rooftop, Gala Night (Flashback)
Fuck this dress.
Fuck these heels.
Fuck this whole shiny, hypocritical, ass-kissing gala.
My thighs are sweating, my head hurts from smiling like a good little Valen daughter, and my father's voice is still ringing in my ears—"Don't embarrass the family tonight, Sky."
Yeah? Watch me, Daddy.
I ditched the ballroom thirty minutes ago, slipped out the side exit like a ghost in six-inch stilettos. Climbed the stairs up to the rooftop like I owned the damn place—because let's be honest, it should've been mine. Brooklyn may be full of sharks, but I've always been the bitch with blood on her teeth.
And now I'm here. Alone. Dress slit high enough to earn gasps from grandmothers. Hair like a black waterfall brushing the curve of my ass. One cigarette left, lit with a sigh and a curse.
The wind's cold. Brooklyn glittering below. The city feels like a promise and a threat.
Then the door creaks open behind me.
Great.
Just fucking perfect.
I don't turn around. I don't need to. I know who it is by the way the air shifts. The scent of woodsmoke and arrogance.
Ray fucking Maddox.
Of course.
He walks like sin in a suit—black jacket tossed over his shoulder, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show skin, like he's daring me to look. No tie. Never a tie. His dark hair is a little messy, like he's been running fingers through it all night—or someone else has.
My stomach tightens.
"Didn't know they let Valens smoke on Maddox property," he says lazily, eyes raking over me like I'm a goddamn course he's about to devour.
I blow a long drag of smoke in his direction. "Didn't know Maddoxes were allowed out without leashes."
He smirks. Cocky. Careless. Like my father wouldn't have him shot on sight.
"Careful, sweetheart. You're talking to the devil in his own church."
I flick ash off the edge, eyes cutting into his. "Church? Babe, this is a gala full of snakes in designer suits. And I'm the one with venom."
He steps closer. I feel it—the heat, the pull, the way the world narrows to just him. My back hits the railing, cigarette forgotten, breath shallow. The rooftop is huge, but suddenly there's no space left.
His fingers reach for the cigarette between mine. Takes it. Presses it to his lips like he owns my air.
"Smoking kills, you know," he murmurs, blowing out a plume that ghosts over my collarbone.
"So does falling for a Maddox," I say without thinking, voice sharp.
He freezes. Just for a second.
Then he laughs—low, dangerous, sexy as sin. "Lucky for you, I don't do love."
He cages me in. One hand on the railing beside my waist. The other lazily tucked into his pocket, like he's not trying to light me on fire.
"Is this your thing?" I ask, heartbeat stuttering. "Cornering girls on rooftops and pretending you're God's gift?"
"Only when the girl looks like every bad decision I've ever wanted."
His mouth is so close now.
God, I hate him.
I hate how good he smells. How smooth his voice is. How every word feels like a dare.
And I hate myself more—for leaning in.
For letting him tilt my chin up with his thumb. For the way my knees buckle when his breath brushes my lips.
"You gonna kiss me, Maddox?" I whisper.
He leans in. Barely an inch between us.
"No," he says. "You're gonna kiss me."
And I do.
I fucking do.
Because I'm Sky Valen, and I don't say please. I take.
The kiss is fire and fury and too much tongue. His hands on my waist, mine tangled in his hair. He tastes like whiskey and ruin. We kiss like war—rough, messy, too much teeth. Like we're trying to win.
My back slams into the railing. He groans against my mouth. I pull his shirt open, feel hot skin and hard muscle.
His lips trail to my neck. I swear. Loudly.
"Fuck—Ray."
"Say that again," he rasps. "Right in my ear."
I tug his hair. He growls.
My thighs part on instinct. His hand slides up, fingers digging into my hip like he wants to leave bruises.
And I let him.
Because fuck peace.
Fuck our fathers.
Fuck pretending I don't want the boy I'm supposed to hate.
This moment is a secret I'll never confess. A sin I'll never regret.
When we finally break apart, panting, ruined, lipstick smeared—he doesn't move.
He presses his forehead to mine.
Breathes me in.
"Careful, Valen," he murmurs, voice hoarse. "You taste like trouble."
I grin. Slow. Wicked.
"I am trouble."