"Fucking... asshole..." Dunk cursed under his breath, his body trembling from the overwhelming sensations. Joong leaned in, voice low and vicious against his ear. "That's right," Joong growled, his hips snapping forward, thrusting into Dunk with increasing force. "I am fucking an asshole." For generations, the Boonpraserts and Aydins have stood side by side-two of Thailand's most powerful dynasties, bound by legacy, empire, and an unspoken promise to protect each other's interests. Now, that promise is becoming permanent through the upcoming marriage between the Aydin heir and the Boonpraserts' only daughter. Joong Archen Aydin is everything an heir should be: elegant, obedient, and impossibly perfect-the golden son shaped by legacy and expectation. Dunk Boonprasert, on the other hand, is chaos incarnate. Reckless. Sharp-tongued. The black sheep his family tries to hide behind polished smiles and public image. The two have been enemies since childhood-locked in a lifelong war of petty sabotage, brutal words, and fights that always turned ugly. But everything changes the night Dunk decides to give in to a moment's vulnerability and sleeps with Joong. His sister's fiancé. His lifelong nemesis. The one person he should have never touched.

They weren't meant to touch. Not now. Not ever. Not after centuries of tradition soaked in blood and silence. Not after entire generations were raised with the same bitter commandment: "Do not speak to them. Do not look at them. Do not acknowledge them." And yet, here they were. Standing on opposite sides of the Hall of Concord-The Gathering--an ironic name for a place built to pretend ancient enemies could breathe the same air without baring their fangs or claws. There were vampires and werewolves under one roof tonight. And no one liked it. But everyone tolerated it. Because power demands civility. At least in public. Dunk Boonprasert had arrived first. He always did. Graceful, predatory, wearing shadows like silk. His pale skin gleamed under the low-hung chandeliers, his smile cut sharp as the fangs he barely bothered to hide. He was elegance sharpened into danger. He knew it. He used it. And he didn't look once toward the far end of the room. Because he didn't need to. Joong Aydin entered later. Silent. Stoic. Shoulders squared like a fortress built of restraint. The tailored black suit he wore was severe, clean, spotless-like everything about him. His tan skin and muscle-lined frame were the exact opposite of Dunk's aristocratic allure. He didn't glide. He stalked. And he also didn't look. Because that would imply acknowledgment. And acknowledging Dunk would be a betrayal. Of history. Of family. Of instinct. The room shifted when the two of them were in it-everyone felt it. Like a cold draft through cracked stone. No one said it out loud. But no one ever tried to make them shake hands, either. Because everyone knew. Boonpraserts and Aydins don't speak. Don't bow. Don't blink. There is no alliance. There is only avoidance. That is the rule. That has always been the rule. Until tonight.