I open the door before she can knock.
She's changed since this afternoon—different clothes, hair still damp from a shower. She's wearing a simple dress, dark blue, that skims her body in ways that make my mouth water. Her face is pale, her eyes wary.
"Mr. Ambrose." Her voice is cool, professional. A last desperate attempt at distance. "Your assistant said there was an urgent matter—"
"Gabriel."
"What?"
"I told you to call me Gabriel." I step aside, gesturing for her to enter. "And we both know there's no urgent matter. Not about the gala, anyway."
She hesitates on the threshold, and I see the war playing out across her features. The part of her that wants to run, fighting against the part that made her come here in the first place.
"Why am I here?" she asks quietly.
"Because I asked you to be. Because you wanted to come." I hold her gaze. "Because we're done pretending."
Something shifts in her expression—fear giving way to something fiercer. She steps inside, and I close the door behind her.
The sound of the lock engaging is very loud in the silence.
"This is insane," she says. "You know that, right? This whole situation—you, me, whatever this is—it's insane."
"Probably."
"You're a murderer."
"Yes."
"You've been stalking me for weeks. You destroyed my business. You manipulated me into this contract." Her voice rises with each accusation, but she doesn't move away. If anything, she's closer than before. "I should hate you. I do hate you."
"I know."
"So why—" Her voice breaks. "Why can't I stop thinking about you?"
The admission hangs between us, raw and trembling. I close the distance between us, stopping just short of touching her.
"Because you see me," I say. "The real me. Not the mask, not the performance—the monster underneath. And something in you recognizes it."
"That's not—"
"It is." I reach out and brush a strand of damp hair from her face. She shudders but doesn't pull away. "You drew it, Poppy. Before we ever met. The serpent and the flower, intertwined. You knew what I was before you had a name for it."
"That doesn't mean I want—"
"Don't." The word comes out harder than I intended. "Don't lie to me. Not now. Not after everything."
Her eyes are bright with unshed tears—of fury or desire or both, I can't tell. Her chest heaves with rapid breaths. She's so close I can feel the heat of her body, smell the clean scent of her skin.
"I hate you," she whispers.
"I know."
"This is wrong."
"Nothing about us was ever going to be right."
I kiss her.
