"You're lying," you hissed, the heat in your cheeks having nothing to do with the fever of the hangover. "You’re a master of illusions, Scar. You could have planted those memories. You could have staged this entire room just to break me."

Scar’s laughter was a low, vibrating growl that seemed to rattle the very frame of the bed. He didn't look offended; he looked delighted.

"Always the skeptic. It’s what I’ve always found most delicious about you," he purred. He straightened up, his robe slipping slightly to reveal the jagged, glowing scars across his own chest—marks earned from years of playing with forbidden resonance. "You want proof? You want to see the 'lamb' lose its fleece?"

He reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a small, jagged Resonance Casket. It was a dark crystal used to record frequency fluctuations in a specific area. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it onto the silk sheets between your knees.

"Touch it," he challenged, his eyes burning with a predatory yellow light. "Sync your frequency. It doesn't lie. It records the soul’s vibration when the body forgets."

Your hand trembled as you reached out. The room blurred, and suddenly you weren't just looking at the bed—you were back in it, hours earlier.

You felt the crushing weight of Scar’s body pinning you into these very silk sheets. Your fingers weren't fighting him; they were buried in his messy hair, pulling him down, desperate to close the gap between your skin and his.

Your own voice, stripped of Academy discipline, echoed in your mind. “Don't stop,” you heard yourself moan against the column of his throat. “I don't want to think. Just make me forget the city... make me forget everything.”

You felt the phantom slide of his gloved hands over your bare waist, the friction of the dark silk beneath you, and the way your resonance marks flared in a blinding crimson syncopation. The memory ended with the sharp, possessive pressure of his teeth against your shoulder—a claim that felt more like a homecoming than a violation.

You jerked your hand away, gasping, the casket clattering to the floor. The memory was too vivid, the chemistry too real. You had willingly stepped into his flame. Your breath was coming in ragged gasps, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The "liquid heat" from before was now a torrential pour. You looked up at him, and for the first time, you didn't see a villain. You saw a mirror.

"You... I..." words failed you.

Scar was suddenly there, crawling onto the bed, his knees framing your hips. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your lips.

"You didn't just 'miss' being mine," he whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, velvet crawl. "You hungered for it. You were tired of being the Academy’s perfect soldier. You wanted to be ruined. And I was more than happy to oblige."

He caught your wrists, pinning them gently but firmly against the pillows. The silk felt like ice against your back, contrasting with the searing heat of his skin.

"Now," he murmured, his lips ghosting over the sensitive skin of your neck, right where the memory showed he had left his mark. "Do you still want to go back to your cage? Or do you want to finish what we started before the sun took you away from me?"

The air in the room felt thick, charged with a static tension that made your skin tingle. The choice wasn't about the Highlands anymore. It was about whether you were going to fight the monster in front of you—or finally admit that you were the one who let him in.