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Matteo’s mouth curves into something small and wild. Not a smile exactly—something darker.

"You’re fucking magnificent," he says under his breath, almost like he didn’t mean to let it slip.

I let it slide. Mostly because it feels... good.Dangerously good.And I’m not about to admit to how much the newly discovered praise kink will work for them.

But I don’t let the moment stretch too long. I don't give them the satisfaction of thinking I’ve gone soft.

Instead, I tilt my head slightly, studying them both under the lazy drag of my lashes.

"You know," I say, voice casual, almost sweet, "you never did tell me where the villain names came from."

Bodhi’s mouth quirks. Matteo’s jaw ticks once, a flash of something between amusement and resignation crossing his face.

"You meanRuleandRuin?" Matteo asks, voice dry.

I nod, picking up the coffee and sipping it, watching them over the rim like a cat playing with two very stupid mice.

"Rule was easy," Bodhi says with a smirk. "It’s a bastardization of my real name.Kingston.King. Rule. Reign. Control."

His eyes glint wickedly. "Figured if I wasn’t allowed to have a crown, I’d take the fucking throne anyway."

I hum low in my throat, not hiding my amusement. "Little dramatic, don’t you think?"

His smirk deepens. "You’re one to talk, princess."

I flip him off without missing a beat and turn my attention to Matteo.

"AndRuin?" I ask, voice dipping sharper. "That’s a whole different flavor of fucked-up."

Matteo doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink.

"It’s not complicated," he says, voice low and matter-of-fact. "Even when I was a kid... I knew one thing for sure."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze locking with mine.

"If anything or anyone ever got between me and you—" His voice drops, dark and quiet. "I would ruin them. Ruineverything."

The honesty in it burns hotter than any lie ever could.

No apology. No shame. Just a simple, brutal truth.

And fuck me, part of me wants to throw my coffee at his face for saying it so plainly. And part of me—God help me—wants to straddle him for it.

I set my mug down a little harder than necessary on the table, the sound sharp in the charged silence.

"Of course," I murmur, fingers tapping against the ceramic. "Of course you picked your own damn destiny."

He just watches me, silent, steady. Like there’s no universe where he regrets it. Like he would choose it again. Every fucking time.

And maybe he would.

Maybe he already has.

I lean back in the chair, folding my arms loosely across my chest.

"Fine," I say. "You’ve got your dark little fairytale titles sorted."

I let the words linger just long enough to cut before I strike where it matters.