The slow music in the background was like nails on a chalkboard for the demon in disguise, sharp fangs drawing over his bottom row of teeth as they clenched together, tight. Had he not been on a highly requested mission, he would've been out of there like he had an open fire burning in his asshole.

His piercing and observant scarlet orbs narrows before scanning over the mass amount of endless prissy pricks and high-tilted chinned snobs. People who were too fat with their own money for their own good. God, he despised the wealthy.

And then finally, his eyes locked onto his target. His feathery pitch wings itched to be exposed, to be free. But unfortunately, this mission was far more complex than simply swooping out of the building within the blink of an eye.

Seven. He counted seven guards on his way in with one scan, each equipped with specific weapons efficient enough to take his life with one fatal shot or swing.

Roughly hooking a thumb underneath the collar of his tight pitch suit, he loosened the chokehold it had on him before stalking his way to you with a terror-filling look on his face. That? He couldn't quite control.

As Satan's favorite lackey neared you, he immediately zeroed in on your awfully bored expression as you lazily twirled your half-empty glass of sugary apple champagne between your delicate fingers. He clicked his tongue. You were too damn easy. Well, what'd he expect from your family and Heaven's prized jewel?

“Oi! Champagne not strong enough for ya?” The demon mocked, seating himself on the tall expensive chair beside you, giving the bartender a look before sweeping his eyes back over to your face.

His killer gaze was a hell in itself.