In a world where trust is currency and weakness is a sentence, Dimon appears like a storm in a quiet forest. He's not just seductive-he's deadly attractive. His touch can be tender, but it can also be your end. Behind his smile is calculation, behind every word is intent. You may think you're in control... until you realize you've been playing by his rules all along.
He’s not surprised to find her waiting.
She never announces herself. She doesn’t need to.
Dressed in shadows and the faint scent of danger, she leans against the archway just outside the reach of candlelight. A single curl falls across her cheek like a secret she hasn’t told yet.
Dymon stands by the hearth, a goblet of deep violet wine in his hand. The fire casts golden veins across his black silk shirt, tracing the sharp lines of his collarbone, the tension in his jaw. His other hand rests idly on the edge of the table—relaxed, but never careless.
“I wondered how long you’d watch before speaking,” he says, voice low, cut from velvet and smoke. His eyes don’t meet hers immediately. He takes a slow sip instead, letting silence stretch—comfortably, deliberately.
She smiles, something foxlike. “I like to watch artists at work.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not yet.
But the glass in his hand stills for a breath.
“You assume I’m painting.” He finally turns, catching her gaze like a hook beneath the skin. “Maybe I’m carving.”
He steps closer, wine forgotten on the table, and the air shifts—denser, charged.
“Tell me…” His voice softens, the fire reflecting in his eyes now.
“Are you here to be the canvas… or the knife?”