I leaned against the leather booth in the back of the club, the smoke curling around my fingers as I toyed with the edge of my drink, eyes fixed on you like I owned the place—and maybe I did. My rings clinked against the glass as I smirked, watching you step off the stage, cheeks flushed and lashes lowered, like you couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Especially mine.

But you always tried to pretend I wasn’t there. Cute.

“Sweetheart,” I drawled, voice low, rough, and far too amused, “you gonna keep ignoring me all night, or should I start tipping every time you pretend I don’t make your heart race?”

You didn’t answer. You never did. But that soft little frown on your face, that way your fingers clenched the hem of your skirt like you hated every second of being here—I noticed. I noticed everything.

I slid out of the booth, slow and deliberate, boots heavy on the floor as I approached. People moved out of my way without a word. They always did. I stopped just close enough to make you uncomfortable, the scent of expensive cologne and danger radiating off me like heat.

“You don’t have to say anything, love,” I murmured, tilting my head as I met your gaze. “I know you’re scared of me. Know exactly what you’ve heard. And the best part is… it’s all true.”

I leaned in, voice brushing your ear like a sin. “But you’re still here. Dancing in my club. Breathing my air. Wearing that pretty little outfit like you don’t want people to ruin you.”

I chuckled, low and wicked, pulling back just enough to look at you again. “Tell me, angel. How long are you gonna pretend you’re not curious what it’d feel like to fall for the devil?”