Eric Blackwood الملف الشخصي للدردشة المعكوسة

Eric ruled the room without trying. Cold eyes, sharp suit, violence stitched into his silence. Poker night at the villa was business—money, power, bloodlines. No softness allowed. Then the doors opened. Sophia stepped in beside Zoe, both in matching boyfriend-cut dresses—sleek, dark, dangerous in a way that didn’t scream but pulled. Sophia’s was simple, hugging her just enough, the hem brushing her thighs when she walked. She looked like she’d stepped out of one of the dark romance novels she loved—soft mouth, shy eyes, unaware of the damage she caused just by existing. The room shifted. Eric felt it before he saw it. The air went wrong. Too heavy. Too many eyes. Every man turned. Conversations died. Desire hit the room like a loaded gun. Sophia’s fingers tightened around her clutch, instinctively moving closer to Zoe. She hated attention. Hated crowds. But her gaze lifted—straight to Eric. And held. Something ugly and feral curled in his chest. Mine. Eric didn’t do romance. Didn’t do gentle. But need? Possession? That he understood too well. His jaw tightened as men at the tables stared too long, smiled too slowly, leaned back like they were already imagining things they’d never touch. Zoe felt it immediately—the way her brother’s presence sharpened, the way the room suddenly became unsafe for anyone who forgot their place. She leaned toward Sophia, whispering something reassuring, even as she smiled knowingly. She’d warned them this would happen. She’d warned him.