The Rusty Anchor was a frozen tableau of shock, the air thick with the aftermath of Warren’s effortless deflection of the Black Dragons’ attack. The wiry man lay sprawled across a shattered table, groaning amid scattered bottles, while the hulking second man clutched his throat, gasping on the floor. The crowd’s collective gasp hung like a fog, their eyes wide with disbelief at the sight of a lean, unassuming stranger dismantling two of Ironspire’s most feared enforcers. The Black Dragon leader stood rooted, his face a mask of barely concealed dread, his earlier bravado crumbling under the weight of Warren’s quiet, terrifying strength.Warren’s gaze shifted to the leader, calm but unyielding, a predator sizing up its prey. The woman, still trembling from fear and alcohol, stared at him with a mix of awe and confusion, her hands gripping the edge of her chair. The bartender, his plea for peace now a distant memory, backed away, his eyes darting nervously between Warren and the leader.

Warren’s mind raced as he fired off questions, his voice sharp with urgency. “Cassandra, what’s wrong? Is someone chasing you? Why’d you ditch me at the bar? How did you even know I was here?” The words tumbled out, each one piling onto the last, leaving no space for her to respond. He stood there, towel still wrapped around his waist, expecting answers—something coherent to explain her sudden intrusion. But Cassandra didn’t reply. Her eyes, wide and glassy, stared through him as if he were a stranger. It was like her mind had checked out, her body operating on some primal autopilot.She lunged forward, closing the distance between them in a single, fluid motion, her arms wrapping around him like a vine clinging to a tree. “Please,” she gasped, her voice raw and trembling, “please… I need you.” Her hands roamed over his bare chest, her touch aggressive, almost predatory, as if she were trying to ignite something within him. Her body pressed against his, radiating a heat that was both

Warren’s resolve crumbled like ash in a storm, the weight of Cassandra’s desperate pleas and the fire in his veins too much to withstand. Her body pressed against him, a living ember that sparked desires he’d buried deep under years of discipline. The aphrodisiac had stripped her of restraint, leaving her a vision of raw, unfiltered need—a fantasy in distress whose life hung in the balance. His mind screamed to resist, to find another way, but her touch, her scent, her heat overwhelmed his senses, pulling him into a current he couldn’t escape.Her hands clawed at the towel around his waist, tearing it away with a hunger that sent a jolt through him. “Please,” she gasped, her voice a sultry plea, her lips brushing his jaw, igniting a spark that threatened to consume him. Warren growled, a low, primal sound that rumbled from his chest, his hands finding her waist as he fought a losing battle against himself. “Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice rough with conflict, “but I can’t let you

“What did you do to me?” Cassandra’s voice trembled, her eyes locked on Warren, pleading for an explanation that could undo the nightmare unfolding before her. Her heart raced, clinging to the faint hope that this was all a misunderstanding, that the truth could somehow be less devastating than it seemed.“Calm down, Cassandra,” Warren said softly, his tone laced with concern. “Don’t you remember what happened? What happened to you? Who had you drugged?”His words hit her like a jolt, triggering a flood of memories that surged through her mind with brutal clarity. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, each beat amplifying the dread pooling in her chest. The fragmented images of the night before began to coalesce, and with a sharp intake of breath, it clicked. Her lips parted slightly, as if to answer, but a wave of horror washed over her, draining the color from her already pale face.She looked as though she’d been struck by lightning, her body rigid with disbelief. “If I remember c

Nicolas Rashford stood in the dim, musty confines of the crumbling hotel room at the Montego Rest Inn, his chest heaving with a fury so molten it threatened to consume him whole. The word “enraged” was a pale shadow of the inferno raging within him—seething, volcanic, a primal wrath that clawed at the edges of his sanity. His fists clenched until his knuckles whitened, nails biting into his palms, as the bitter sting of humiliation pulsed through his veins. Last night was meant to be his triumph, the culmination of years of obsession, a meticulously orchestrated plan to claim what he believed was rightfully his. But now, as the sour reek of failure hung in the air, he stood teetering on the precipice of madness.The night before had been choreographed with the precision of a master strategist. Every detail, every variable, had been accounted for—or so he thought. Nicolas had spent millions to procure the aphrodisiac, a forbidden elixir so potent the government had outlawed it, its eff