Ophelia sat on the edge of her bed, knuckles white as they gripped the coverlet. The dinner replayed in her head like a broken reel: her own biting sarcasm about her scholarship, the defiance she'd thrown at him like a gauntlet, and Darren's sharp gaze cutting through her words. His abrupt departure had left a void, an absence that felt more powerful than his presence.
It wasn't just rejection. It was strategy. A move designed to remind her who had control.
She hated that it worked. Hated the pit in her stomach that whispered she might have gone too far. Her stepmother had spent years trying to grind her spirit into dust, and Ophelia had survived that. She'd built armor of sarcasm, shields of defiance. But Darren Cruz Delgado wasn't a petty tyrant clinging to someone else's scraps. He was power incarnate. He was the kind of man who owned the very floor beneath her, who could shatter her with a glance.
And yet…
That smirk. That dangerous darkening of his eyes. The way his lips curved, dimples flickering like a secret only he knew. She should have felt nothing but rage. Instead, heat had betrayed her, twisting low in her stomach, curling in places she didn't dare acknowledge.
"No," she whispered to herself, nails biting her palms. "I won't give him that."
But her body already had.
She couldn't sit still. Couldn't drown in the silence of this gilded cage. She needed answers. Needed to look this man in the eye and demand why he toyed with her life as if she were just another stake in one of his games.
She slipped into the hallway. The mansion at night was both beautiful and suffocating: chandeliers glowing gold against polished marble, guards stationed like statues, silence that pressed too heavy against her ears. Every step closer to his private wing felt like a transgression.
A maid appeared, tray trembling in her hands. Timid eyes darted away from Ophelia's, but that only stiffened her resolve.
"Take me to him," Ophelia said, voice firm even as her pulse thundered.
The maid faltered. "Señor Delgado?"
"Yes." Her chin lifted. "Now."
The woman hesitated, then led her down the long corridor. At the end, tall double doors loomed. The maid raised her hand to knock—
The door swung open.
Ophelia froze.
Darren stood in the doorway, bare-chested, a towel slung low across his hips. Damp hair clung to his temples, droplets carving trails down the ridges of his chest. The sharp cut of his abdomen disappeared into the towel, his body exuding discipline, dominance, danger. Steam curled behind him from the bathroom, the air heavy with the scent of dark soap and heat.
But it wasn't the body that stole her breath.
It was his eyes.
Dark, gleaming, hungry—like he'd been expecting her. That smirk tugged at his lips, dimples flashing as if mocking her restraint.
"Well," Darren drawled, voice velvet and sharp as glass. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Her throat dried. For one humiliating second, she could only stare. Heat coiled low, unbidden, unwanted. Her fury crumbled under the weight of something far more dangerous.
She forced her chin high. "Don't flatter yourself. I didn't come here for… this." Her hand gestured vaguely at his bare skin, cheeks burning hotter with every word.
His gaze flicked downward, deliberate, lingering a heartbeat too long on the outline of her nightgown. When his eyes returned to hers, they were darker, sharper, a predator toying with prey.
"And yet, here you are," he murmured, stepping closer until the warmth of him enveloped her. "In my wing. Outside my bedroom. While I'm fresh out of the shower." His smirk deepened. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you've been dreaming of me, pequeña gatita."
Her chest tightened, fury warring with something far more dangerous. "You wish."
"Ah," Darren breathed, eyes glinting, "but I don't need to wish. I can see it."
The words sliced through her, too intimate, too knowing. Her pulse hammered as he leaned just close enough that the clean spice of his cologne tangled with the damp heat radiating from his skin. Her body betrayed her, betraying the anger she clung to.
"You're insufferable," she hissed.
"And you're trespassing." His voice was silk, dangerous. "But I don't mind the intrusion. Not when you look at me like that."
She flushed deeper, nails digging into her palms. "Why did you leave dinner like that? Do you always walk away when someone says something you don't like?"
His smirk faded. For the first time, shadows pulled across his features, his expression unreadable.
"I left," he said slowly, low, lethal, "because if I'd stayed, I might have reminded you of your place in ways neither of us is ready for."
Ophelia's breath caught. His meaning was unmistakable. Terrifying. And yet—her body reacted with a treacherous heat that burned her from the inside out.
"You don't scare me," she lied, voice thin.
His gaze devoured her, knowing, relentless. "Liar."
The word was a caress, dangerous and soft. His eyes darkened further, not just with desire—but with something unsettled, restless. The same shadow that had haunted him for nights now, ever since masked men stormed into her father's house.
Two hunters after one girl.
And here she was, standing in his doorway, tempting him, taunting him, igniting flames he should have extinguished. He should push her away. He should remind her she was here because of what her stepmother has done, not temptation. But every breath she took under his gaze made that truth harder to believe.
Finally, Darren stepped back, smirk curling again like a blade sheathing itself. "Go back to bed, pequeña gatita. You'll need your strength."
Her chin lifted stubbornly. "For what?"
His dimples carved deep, the smirk a promise. "For surviving me."
The doors shut between them with a decisive thud, but the scent of him clung to her, searing her lungs, unraveling her resolve.