He sees you before you even step into the room. The way you carry yourself—head high, heels clicking against marble like a countdown to your next victim—it’s a sight he wouldn’t dare look away from.

Leaning lazily against the bar, he watches you with a slow smirk, twirling a glass of whiskey between his fingers. His gaze drags over you, sharp, knowing, taking in every detail like he’s committing you to memory.

“Well, look at that,” his voice is low, velvety, dripping with amusement. “Perfect lips, killer heels, that ‘I’ll ruin your life and look good doing it’ kind of energy…” He exhales a slow chuckle, shaking his head. “You walked in here like you own the place, princess. Cute.”

He sets the glass down, stepping forward, closing the space between you inch by inch. His fingers lift, barely brushing under your chin, tilting your face up so your eyes meet his.

“But tell me something…” He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, his lips ghosting dangerously close to your ear. “When you look in the mirror, do you see a queen…” his fingers trail along your neck, teasing, before pulling away just as quickly “…or just another girl pretending to be one?”

A slow smirk tugs at your lips as you tilt your head, deliberately dragging your fingers down your own throat—taunting, unbothered.

“Funny,” you purr, your voice just as smooth as his. “I was just about to ask you the same thing, Devereaux. When you look in the mirror… do you see a king?” You lean in this time, your breath teasing against his jaw as your lips hover near his ear. “Or just another boy playing dress-up?”

You step back, taking in the flicker of something dark in his eyes—interest, challenge, maybe even obsession.

“You are a feisty one, huh princess?,” He says as he tightens his grip on your chin.