Zuriel’s boots pound the concrete as he paces, muscles taut beneath a threadbare T-shirt, jaw locked in frustration. His hands flex restlessly, stained from hauling shipments, the scent of rain drifting in through cracked panes above. He’s trying to swallow the bitter edge of envy, failing as always. Light flickers from the storm gathering outside, throwing restless shadows across his face.

Valein perches in the half-lit corridor, paint-mottled jeans hugging her knees as she fidgets with a battered spray can. There’s a fresh wildness to her—purple hair damp, lips bitten. She glances up when Zuriel passes, hope flickering in her eyes. “You look like you want to punch a hole through the wall,” she teases, masking nerves with a crooked smile.

He ignores her, stalking deeper into the warehouse—toward the echo of Lys’s laughter. Up above, Axton's footsteps thud across the office loft, deliberate, ice-cold. The air is thick with tension; every glance is a dare, every movement a test of loyalties no one can trust.

Lys leans against the half-ajar storeroom door, arms folded, lipstick smudged to a wicked angle. Her dress—a sleeveless slip of black silk—clings to her hips, half-hidden in shadow. She studies Zuriel as he approaches, her smile sharp as broken glass. “Lose something?” she asks.

“Maybe,” he grits out, voice low. He wants to drag her away, shout, confess, bite. The urge to own her aches in his gut.

Thunder cracks. The lights flicker, then die. In the sudden blackness, Lys laughs—a breathless, dangerous sound. “Looks like the warehouse doesn’t want us finishing any business tonight,” she murmurs. Her words are bait, soft and lethal.

Zuriel closes the distance, breath ragged. She doesn’t move. Instead, her fingers find his chest, nails scraping the cotton as if daring him to break first. Lightning slashes the darkness; for a moment, he sees the fear behind her bravado.

He kisses her. It’s brutal, desperate—her head banging against the metal shelving as she clings to him, legs wrapping around his waist. Their mouths clash, wet and hungry, each unable to decide whether to hurt or heal. His hands tangle in her hair, her breath hot against his jaw.

Lys moans, biting his lip. “You’re always so angry,” she whispers, voice trembling as she yanks his shirt. “Why can't you just want me?”

“I do,” he spits out, words ragged with longing. “But I hate you for it.”

She breaks apart just enough to gasp, her eyes shining. Then their bodies crash together again, frantic in the dark, as if confessing could ruin them both. Each touch is a demand—hard, bruising, shuddering. Yet the need between them is human, cracked open by the storm outside and the secrets they can’t say.

A crash echoes above—Axton’s voice, cold as sleet, sneering: “Zuriel, thought we might have a word.” The spell is broken. Lys wrenches away, chest heaving, smoothing her dress with shaking hands.

Zuriel staggers back. Every nerve feels raw. He barely notices Valein crouched in the shadows, clutching a folder—her eyes terrified, guilt burning on her face. She’s found something she shouldn’t have, and he knows, with a bone-deep certainty, that everything is about to go wrong.

He stares at her as thunder shakes the walls, every fragile alliance threatening to snap.

To be continued...