Harley I shouldn't be here.Not with him. Not like this.He just took my sister to her wedding dress fitting—and made me sit through every second of it, knowing exactly what he was doing. And now, he's here—drawing me in like he always does.His fingers trail along my jaw, slow, deliberate, the kind of touch that steals the breath right from my lungs. My back presses against the cool surface of his car, the hum of the city drowning beneath the pounding in my chest.Clad Storm.The boy I once crushed on slowly became the man I should be running from.But here I am, my bravado shattered to pieces.He leans in, his scent—smoky leather and something darkly intoxicating—curling around me like a noose. "You're trembling," he murmurs, his lips a breath away from mine, his voice laced with amusement like he already knows the war raging inside me.I am. I'm trembling. But not from fear.I should walk away. I should be the smart one. I always have been. I've spent my life obeying, suppressing, running. But never wanting.Yet every time he touches me, every time his voice drops into that low, taunting whisper, I forget everything—everything except him.I swallow hard. "This—whatever this is—needs to stop."Clad smirks. "You don't sound convinced."I hate that he's right. I hate that my hands won't push him away. That I want him—despite knowing exactly what he's doing.Because this isn't love. This isn't romance.This is a game.A game he's playing to get even.A game I'm losing.His fingers tilt my chin up, forcing my gaze to lock with his. His voice is smooth, controlled—dangerous. "I told you, Harley," he says. "I'm not done with you yet."And God help me… I think I like it.