KAYROS'S POV
Ophelia rests her elbow on the railing, her smile growing wider and brighter. Something painful twists in my heart because of that smile…
Why does it still make me want to get on my knees and die all over again, just to protect her?
"Oh, well. Of course you can visit me. But do tell me earlier next time, Pudding."
My eyes widen.
Pudding?
I don't know what my reaction is, because her laughter fills the space between us—from the third floor of the mansion where she stands in a navy blue sweater and white skirt, to the ground floor where I stand like some lovesick dog.
"You can't call me that, Ophelia," I say, my voice stern and cold.
She just grins. "Too soft for a future mafia king?" Her eyes crinkle with mockery.
My hands flex at my sides. The urge is there—either to strangle her, or to simply kiss that infuriating smile off her face.
She is annoying.
Infuriating.
Frustrating.
"Kayros!"
I turn my head. Ivy stands near the staircase on the second floor, her sky-blue eyes sparkling as she looks at me like I'm some kind of miracle she wants to soak in.
Oh, right.
She was obsessed.
No—she is obsessed with me.
God. This woman… I'd nearly forgotten she existed.
Ophelia looks down. "Sister, stop eyeing your younger sister's fiancé. Did you forget what I said?"
Ivy freezes. Her eyes dim, excitement replaced by pure fear.
Confusion roots me in place as I study this sudden shift in their power dynamic. Ophelia never came out this hard against Ivy before—never like this. It's clear now… Ivy is scared of her.
Ivy forces a tight smile. "Welcome to Blackwood Mansion, Kayros."
She pauses, looking up for a moment before biting out the words, bitter and resigned. "Ophelia is upstairs. You should go to her."
Ophelia smirks and pushes off the railing. Her hips sway in a breathtaking, art-like motion as she walks away.
It's not desire I feel. It's a cold, dawning realization—one that makes no sense to my rational mind.
This is not the real Ophelia.
The real Ophelia was a woman built on countless heartbreaks, distilled from distrust, hatred, and rage.
The real Ophelia—the woman I once worshipped after God, the mother of my child, my reason for death—she never moved, talked, or dressed like this.
My eyes sharpen as I follow the butler upstairs, into the tea room on the third floor.
Ivory walls covered in artwork worth millions. A massive floor-to-ceiling window facing the southern gardens. A piano—one I remember pricing between three and five million euros from our family's illegal auction house in Monaco.
Soft sofas. A large rectangular table laden with refreshments.
And there she stands—leaning against the window, hands clasped behind her back, her body language relaxed yet carrying an unmistakable air of grace and confidence.
Her eyes measure me, trying to read the lines I haven't spoken, before she smirks.
"Are you here to learn about something, Pudding?"
My jaw clenches painfully tight. Irritation makes my hand itch.
"I said, don't call me that."
"Then… Cupcake?"
My eyes widen. Shock renders me speechless—because what am I supposed to say to a woman who is ninety-nine percent likely a different soul?
All I can think is—
Who the fuck is this woman, pulling me into her orbit?
Making me hate her so passionately that all I want is to make her cry and suffer… yet when I see that challenging glint in her eyes…
God.
It's so fucking hot.
"You didn't reach out for three days," she pouts. "I thought you forgot your cute little fiancée."
Pouts?
.....
On Ophelia's face?
My lips twitch. It's almost a smirk. I almost give her the satisfaction of knowing exactly what she's doing to me.
But I clench my fist tight, fingers digging into my palm.
"Oh, I surely didn't forget my fiancée."
I take slow steps toward her, using the movement to remind myself of my hatred—of the betrayal, the pain, the misery I suffered.
A different soul changes nothing. Facts are facts.
This woman is Ophelia Blackwood. My enemy. My foe.
Her smirk slowly fades, replaced by tension as I stop mere inches away, my body overwhelming her smaller frame.
A strange sense of dominance and satisfaction mixes with a primal need to make this woman look at me with something close to fear—because I am not a safe person.
"Ophelia." My voice is low, deep—a blade wrapped in silk.
Her shoulders stiffen. Her pulse beats fast and dangerous against the skin of her throat. My eyes trace the curve of her shoulder and neck. Her fragrance… it's different now.
Sweeter. Not overwhelming. Fruity and deliciously addictive.
The real Ophelia always wore a perfume that was mildly fruity, mixed with something entirely her own.
But this woman… she doesn't wear that scent. Her unique essence is stronger. Fresher.
Fuck.
She tilts her head up, pupils dilating, chest rising and falling rapidly.
I try.
I fucking try to resist—to keep my hands to myself and think like a normal man who went through hell for the original owner of this body.
But when her eyes trace my face, woven with a careful, intentional interest—
My body moves before my mind can stop it.
One hand wraps around her waist, pulling her flush against me. The other cups the back of her head.
Her breathing shudders. Her hands fly to my shoulders as I press my lips against hers.
Her lips tremble slightly—but when I deepen the kiss, she opens for me.
She tastes sweet. Dangerously, addictively sweet.
Her arms slide up to wrap around my neck.
"Mmm…"
A rough sound leaves my throat when her fingers tangle in the hair at my nape.
Our tongues clash, fighting for dominance. I press my body closer, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips.
This isn't just lust.
I've kissed the real Ophelia countless times—but this is different.
She doesn't push me away. She doesn't hold back. She doesn't resist receiving.
If anything, she savors every bit of my taste, like she's been longing for it.
So do I.
She isn't Ophelia.
But she is still my enemy.
She isn't my wife.
But she is still the woman—
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
When her thumb strokes my nape, tracing my skin like a secret only we share—
I want to keep her. Unravel her. Unravel myself.
I pull away slowly. Her cheeks are flushed, lips swollen from the intensity.
Something deep in my soul—something I didn't even know existed—shudders violently.
"Are you okay?" My voice comes out rough, uneven.
She gulps, trying to process what just happened.
"Yes," she whispers, eyes fluttering, heartbeat a frantic rhythm that matches my own. "I just… wasn't expecting you to kiss me like that."
She licks her lips, still glossy with our mixed saliva.
My pulse kicks into a gallop.
"Nor was I expecting myself to do so," I murmur, my forehead almost touching hers.
Her lips part again, a silent plea for another kiss—and
fuck me—
I kiss her again.
This time, I push her back against the window, hands firm on her hips and the column of her neck.
She moans my name between breaths, and if that doesn't nearly make my eyes roll back—
Her fingers thread deeper into my hair, pulling me impossibly closer. The air heats with our mingled scent, her tongue growing bolder, less clumsy with every passing second.
Jesus!!! How many times have I already called upon God in the meantime to restrain my animalistic urge, to claim and Mark?
I am devouring a woman I don't even know.
It feels like something inside me is breaking and healing all at once—like a lost traveler in a scorching desert finally tasting water.
I pull back, letting her breathe. Her palm burns where it rests against my jaw, her chest brushing mine with each rapid breath.
"I thought you hated me," she pants.
"I do hate you," I swallow. I mean it.
"But you're kissing me." She smirks, eyes sparkling with mischief—which only makes me want to devour her more.
I lean closer, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. She shivers in my arms like an autumn leaf.
"Don't get your hopes up, darling. I still hate you."
She grips my shoulder tighter.
I know it then.
I haven't scared her at all.
She chuckles low, maddening pride dripping from the sound like honey.
"Oh, my love… if your hatred includes kisses that give me weak knees—"
She bites my earlobe, and I fucking grunt, giving her exactly the reaction she wanted.
"—then I will welcome your hatred with open arms."