Like something in my body knew, even before my mind could process it. I had pulled away. Told her to leave. Lied, said I was too tired, said I wasn't in the mood. She had looked at me like I was insane. And maybe I was. Because I knew exactly when things had changed. I just didn't want to admit it. Not when the cause of this new, infuriating problem was the same man who had just walked out of the room.

Alexander Kensington.

A man I had known for what? A few days? A week, at best? A man who was supposed to be my future brother-in-law. A man who had barely spared me a glance all week, except for the moments when I forced him to. And yet—And yet my body had no problem reacting when he was near.

My blood ran hotter when I saw him. My pulse picked up when I caught his scent. A low, simmering tension curled in my gut when his sharp tongue met mine, when he held my gaze like he was daring me to push him further. It was a cruel joke. It had to be.

I clenched my jaw, running a hand through my hair, frustration boiling just beneath my skin. It didn't make sense. It shouldn't make sense. I had never been with a man. Had never wanted to be with a man. Had never even considered it. And yet, I couldn't shake the way my body knew him, like it had been waiting for him. Like he had somehow rewritten something in me, flipped a switch I hadn't even known existed.

I gritted my teeth. This wasn't happening. This was not happening. I just needed to fuck someone. That was it. Get this out of my system, remind my body what it was supposed to want. Yeah. That's all it was. This wasn't about Alexander. It couldn't be about Alexander. I refused to let it be.

Because if it was—If it was, my entire life was about to go up in flames. I could already hear my grandfather's voice, cold and sharp as steel. 

A King does not falter. A King does not stray. A King does not succumb to weakness.

I had been raised with purpose, molded into the perfect heir. My hands were stained with the weight of my legacy, my place in this world carved in blood and control. I was the next in line to run the empire. The one meant to lead. To uphold the family's reputation. To be everything my grandfather expected me to be.

And yet, here I was, losing my mind over a Kensington. A man. A fucking Kensington at that. My grip tightened at my sides, a bitter laugh catching in my throat. I was losing it. I was absolutely losing it. Because for all the power I had, for all the control I had been trained to wield—

I couldn't stop thinking about him. But the ghost of his visage even when we met in that alley by the dumpster in Switzerland haunted my every fucking waking hour. I should've been able to get him out of my head. It was pathetic. Infuriating. An inconvenience I didn't have the time for. Yet even now, seated at the head of the sleek, glass conference table in King Enterprise's boardroom, I could still smell him—strawberries and pomegranate, lingering in my head like some kind of curse.

I tightened my grip on the pen in my hand, ignoring the hum of voices around me. Business as usual. Deals, acquisitions, numbers. I should have been focused, engaged. Instead, I kept thinking about last night—about the way Alexander looked at me before he turned his back and left. The sharp edge in his voice. The fire in his eyes. The way I didn't let him go. I shouldn't have stopped him. Shouldn't have grabbed his wrist, shouldn't have let his scent dig its claws into me, shouldn't have let his lips part in the barest inhale, like he had caught something on me, too.

"Atlas," Luca's voice cut through the haze. I blinked, straightening in my seat, my expression smooth as I met his gaze. He was watching me, unreadable, but there was something knowing in the way he arched a brow. I ignored it.

"Continue," I said, my voice cool, unaffected.

And just like that, the meeting resumed. I sat there, played my part, nodded in the right places. By the time it was over, I was done. Done with the pretense, the way my skin felt too tight, the irritation crawling beneath it like an itch I couldn't scratch. That was the problem, wasn't it? The fucking itch. I had tried to rid myself of it last night. After Alexander walked away—after I let him go—I went out again. Brought someone in a hotel. A woman. Gorgeous. Willing. The kind of woman I never had a problem with before.

And yet, when she pressed against me, when she dragged her fingers down my chest, when she kissed me, my body refused to respond. That had never happened before. Ever. I had chalked it up to exhaustion at first. Maybe it was the fights, the stress, the goddamn Kensington problem that had been a thorn in my side since the engagement to his sister was arranged. But the longer I sat with it, the more I fucking knew. It wasn't just exhaustion. It wasn't just stress. It wasn't just the fights.

It was him.

And I had needed to prove—to myself, to my goddamn body—that it wasn't. So I went out again. This time, I brought two in a hotel. A woman and a man.

A fucking first for me.

I never questioned my masculinity or sexuality. Never had a reason to. I've lived my life with certainty—about what I want, what I like, what I'll do next. I built myself into someone unshakable because the world I was born into doesn't tolerate hesitation. It feeds on weakness. I've fought men twice my size in the underground rings of Caburgh. I've stood in rooms with men who have killed without blinking. I've sat across from those who would gut me if it meant gaining an inch of power. And yet, I never once questioned who I am.

So why the fuck does he make me pause?

I've never looked at a man and wondered. Never felt the need to test boundaries, to explore. I know what I like. What gets me off. Women—soft, warm, willing. I've had more than my share, and I've never once been left unsatisfied. Until now.

Until—Jesus fucking Christ. Alexander Kensington is a thorn lodged under my skin, an irritant I can't remove. He walks into a room, and I feel it—a shift, a tension, a problem I don't have the answer to. It's not just that he's beautiful, though he is. It's not just that he's fucking unbearable, though he is. It's something deeper. A slow, insidious thing creeping into my bones, making me aware of him in a way I don't want to be.

I tell myself it's nothing. That the irritation is just that—I don't like him. He's sharp-tongued, meticulous, too used to perfection to stomach the mess I bring into his world. But he's not naïve. Not entitled. He carries his last name like it's both armor and weight, and I see the cracks when he thinks no one's looking. He's not spoiled—he's careful, deliberate, the kind of man who's had to be.

I don't question my masculinity, my confidence, my certainty in what I want. But for the first time, I wonder if that certainty might not be as solid as I thought. And that pisses me off. I told myself it was just curiosity. Just another way to scratch the itch. Maybe that was all it was—some misplaced craving, something simple. I wasn't the type to deny myself pleasure, and if that was what my body needed, I would give it exactly that.

The woman was soft, eager, everything I had always liked. The man was confident, had one of those pretty boy looks working for him, smooth, appealing looks—comfortable in his own skin, in his own want. I let his hands ghost over me, let him press close. Let his mouth trail down my jaw, waiting for something to click, for something to feel right. But the moment he touched me, the moment his breath warmed my neck—I felt nothing.

No heat. No spark. No fucking relief. Just emptiness. Just wrong. My body became an anomaly. Foreign. Alien. So I stopped it before it could go any further. Dismissed them both. And sat there, jaw tight, chest tight, feeling like I was coming apart at the seams. Because I knew, then. It wasn't about wanting men. It wasn't about trying something new.

It was about wanting him.

I ran a hand through my hair, jaw clenching as I made my way to the elevator, Luca trailing behind me in silence. This needed to end. I wasn't some fucking boy with a crush. I wasn't the type to get caught up over something like this. It was ridiculous. It was beneath me. And yet, last night, after the woman and man left, I had sat there. Staring at the ceiling, restless, frustrated, knowing exactly what was missing and refusing—absolutely refusing—to admit it.

So, I did what I always did when I didn't have control of something. I went to the Iron Pit. I let my fists do the talking. And still, even after the blood, the bruises, the rush—I felt no fucking relief. Because at the end of it, I could still smell strawberries and pomegranate.

I hated it.