BOOK #5 What do you get when you try to cure poison with poison? A catastrophe. Shattered glass. Screams behind closed doors. And one infuriating novelist who keeps dragging me into his worlds like I belong there. This wasn't in the fine print when I accepted the assignment. A forged identity. A counterfeit guardian. A wolf dressed in security black, slipped into the orbit of that wide-eyed storm who never stops narrating his own life. Boo Seungkwan- the Kwon empire's beating heart, their vulnerable hinge, their radiant little jewel my family demanded I tarnish with my own hands. That was the blueprint. Cold. Straightforward. Merciless. And it was working. Perfectly. Until it wasn't. Until my gaze kept drifting back to him. Until my jaw betrayed me with a smile at his ridiculous plot twists. Until desire coiled hot and sharp in my lower spine- unwanted, relentless, shameful- every time he breathed out "captain," voice dipped in honey and lips flushed like sin itself. And the structure of my life- the oaths, the schemes, the years of inherited rage, the bloodline I was chained to- all of it fractures. Splinters. Falls apart at the slightest tilt of his head. Because the most fatal enemy isn't the one you're sent to kill- it's the one you start wanting to keep.

BOOK #4 He didn't walk into my life - he bled into it. Like smoke curling under locked doors, like rot blooming behind a smile. They say the Devil knocks. But Soonyoung never needed to. He found the cracks in me, the ones I sealed with silence and stitched with obedience, and whispered through them like a hymn - dark, low, addictive. He calls me little heart, like I'm something fragile he plans to keep broken. And I keep coming back, not because I'm brave - but because I've forgotten the taste of salvation. And damnation, when it wears his face, feels almost holy. ---- I never wanted heaven. Too clean. Too quiet. Give me the boy who flinches at kindness and claws at cruelty like it's the only language he knows. Give me Jihoon. My little heart with iron in his spine and rot tucked behind his ribs. He thinks he can outrun the dark - sweet thing hasn't realized I am the dark. And I've already wrapped my hands around his throat, not to hurt him - but to make sure he never leaves. He prays. I answer. Every time, in blood, in fire, in a love so sharp it cuts both ways.