Joss Wayar had tried.

He had tried to ignore it.
He had tried to convince himself that night was nothing but a momentary lapse.
A slip.
A meaningless power play.

But a week after he had temporarily marked Gawin,
his scent was still clinging to Joss's mind.

It didn't fade.
It didn't disappear.
It couldn't be replaced by anyone else.

Daytime – they played the roles of superior and subordinate.

Everyone in the company saw Gawin as the perfect assistant:
no mistakes,
no slip-ups,
not a single crack in his flawless façade.

Gawin performed every task with mechanical precision, maintaining a polite, professional distance from Joss—
as if that night had never happened.

Joss hated it.

He hated the way Gawin acted unaffected.
Hated the way Gawin treated the marking like it didn't exist.
But most of all—

He hated that there was nothing he could do about it.

Because he was trying.
Trying to convince himself that it didn't matter.

That Gawin was just a temporary fling.

That Gawin's pheromones were nothing special.

But when night fell...

Nighttime – they became two addicts tangled in each other.

No emotions.
No promises.
No binding words.

Only gasps, pheromones, and hunger.

Joss was addicted to him.

Addicted to the feel of Gawin's skin under his fingertips,
to the scent of Gawin's body tangled with his,
to the madness that crept into his veins every time they touched.

Every night he touched Gawin, he wanted more.
More of him.
More of the way Gawin gritted his teeth but couldn't hide the tremble.
More of the bitterness that tasted like surrender.

But Joss still didn't bite down.

He still didn't leave a permanent mark.

Because a part of him—
a stubborn, aching part—
still whispered that he was searching for someone else.

Still clinging to an old fantasy of "first love."

And yet—
the longer this dragged on,
the deeper he sank.

Joss didn't know when exactly he became addicted.

At first, he thought it was mere curiosity—
a psychological tug of war between two predators refusing to bow.

But now,
he couldn't get out even if he wanted to.

He was addicted to the way Gawin resisted him,
the way he pretended Joss's pheromones had no effect.
Addicted to the nights when Gawin lay beneath him, gasping for breath but staring at him with pure hatred.

Addicted to the contradiction.

Addicted to losing control.

Gawin hated himself.

Hated how he couldn't resist Joss's pheromones.
Hated how he made excuses for himself, claiming it was only biology—
that it was just physical need, not something deeper.

Hated how he knew exactly who Joss was—
an enemy, a betrayer—
but still couldn't pull away.

He couldn't control it.

He was addicted too.

And it made him sick.

The penthouse was shrouded in a muted gold glow.
Their skin was slick with sweat, breathing ragged.
The air was so thick with Joss's Golden Prison pheromone that it was impossible to tell where one body ended and the other began.

Joss pinned Gawin down on the couch, heavy, immovable.

Gawin didn't fight.

But he didn't welcome it either.

His eyes were hollow, dark—
a mirror reflecting all the twisted emotions swirling inside Joss.

Joss hated that look.

He wanted to break it.

Wanted to see it crumble.

Wanted to make Gawin admit that he was just as addicted.

His hand slid along Gawin's spine, pulling him closer, gripping tighter like he might vanish at any moment.

"Kiss me," Joss growled, voice low and rough.

Gawin frowned.

"No."

Joss smirked.

"Are you sure?"

He leaned in, brushing his mouth against the spot where he had bitten Gawin before, where the faint imprint of his teeth still lingered.

Gawin's breath caught.
Just barely.

Joss felt it.

He bit down harder.

Gawin sucked in a sharp breath, fingers curling against the sofa—but he still didn't fight.

Joss knew.

Knew that no matter how Gawin glared at him,
his body craved this.

"Are you lying to me, Fluke?" Joss murmured against his throat.
"Or lying to yourself?"

Gawin clenched his fists.
Refused to answer.

Refused to give him the satisfaction.

But Joss wasn't done.

He forced Gawin to meet his eyes.

"Look at me."

Gawin stayed frozen.

Joss's hand gripped tighter, his mouth trailing down his collarbone, over his chest, down to the curve of his stomach.

"Don't pretend," Joss whispered.

He bit down again.

This time, Gawin shuddered—
and a choked sound escaped his lips before he could stop it.

Joss smiled, slow and dangerous.

"You like this," he said.

Not a question.
A statement.

Gawin bit down on his lower lip, refusing to speak.

Because it was true.

He did like it.

He liked the way Joss lost control with him.
Liked the way their bodies fit together so easily, too perfectly.
Liked knowing that Joss couldn't get enough of him, no matter how much he pretended otherwise.

Only Gawin could break him like this.

Only Gawin could reduce Joss Wayar to something wild, desperate, and real.

That night, they burned each other again.

Another night of tangled limbs, bruised lips, broken gasps.

Another night sinking deeper into a pit they could no longer climb out of.

Joss was addicted like a junkie.

Gawin hated himself for needing him back.

The more they pushed each other away,
the tighter they clung.

And the worst part was—

Neither of them really wanted it to end.

Afterwards, lying naked and breathless in Joss's bed, the only sound in the penthouse was the heavy pounding of two hearts.

Joss tilted his head slightly.

The scent lingering in the room was no longer just his.

It was oaky and bittersweet.
Lavender.
Rain.
Ambergris.

It wasn't from him.

He looked down at the figure asleep in his arms—
Gawin's lashes were wet with sweat, his breathing uneven, a soft frown between his brows.

Joss brushed a thumb over Gawin's collarbone, where his bite mark had bloomed.

This pheromone...

It wasn't Beta.

Gawin stirred, unconsciously burrowing closer.

Joss's arm tightened around him.

He couldn't look away.

Gawin slept like the war outside had never touched him, like Joss hadn't shattered both of them beyond repair.

But Joss knew—

He was the worst danger Gawin had ever faced.

The one who was dragging both of them into ruin.

The one who had marked the person he should never have touched.

He clenched his teeth.

His gaze lingered on the fading bite mark on Gawin's neck.

It would heal.
It would vanish.

But this feeling—

This choking, burning, endless feeling—

Would never go away.

Not tomorrow.

Not next week.

Not ever.

He exhaled slowly, wondering in the silence:

If he had never abandoned the past—
If the person he had been searching for all this time—

Had been Gawin.

Then what?

Joss Wayar always thought he controlled every game.

But for the first time—

He realized he might have lost from the very beginning.