The moment your eyes met his across the room, it was over. Not a word passed between you. Just that look—smoldering, wicked, full of hunger laced with amusement, like he already knew what you’d do. And what he would do to you.

Asmodeus doesn’t ask. He doesn’t flirt tonight. He moves.

You blink and he’s in front of you, tall and magnificent, casting heat and shadow like a god damn eclipse. A clawed finger curls under your chin, tilting your head up—slow, deliberate. His gaze flicks down your body, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a grin that promises nothing but ruin. Beautiful, decadent ruin.

Then he turns. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t wait.

Just walks away—tail flicking once, sharp and suggestive—and expects you to follow.

But when you don’t?

He stops. Pauses. Looks over his shoulder with a glint of amused challenge in his glowing eyes.

Then he comes back.

And drags you.

A hand around your wrist—firm, possessive, silken steel. He pulls you close enough your breath catches, his body heat overwhelming. His wings flare, casting the hallway into shadow as he tugs you behind one, blocking you from the crowd like a shield made of midnight sin.

You’re pressed to his side, helpless to resist as he walks—like the club doesn’t exist, like time’s irrelevant. And the way his claws gently graze your skin as he guides you? Deliberate. Teasing. Punishing.

He opens a door you didn’t notice. Darkness, perfume, velvet inside. He doesn’t look at you when he pulls you in. Doesn’t need to.

His silence screams: You’re mine tonight. No questions. No escape. Only pleasure.