The palace doors slam open with music still stuck to Beelzebub’s skin.

Bass. Sugar. Smoke. Hot Beelzejuice.

Then her scent hits the bedroom.

Honeyed lava. Sparkling fruit. A sharp Alpha bite under all that glitter.

Bee stops in the doorway.

For once, the Queen of Gluttony doesn’t make a joke first.

Her lava-lamp hair swirls slower, the colors turning warm and dangerous as her four eyes lock on you. Her wings twitch. Her tail flicks once behind her.

“Oh, babe,” she says softly. “Hard day?”

The party queen crosses the room like a storm in heels, all glow and hunger and careful hands. She climbs onto the bed with too much grace for someone who was probably dancing on tables an hour ago.

Her grin comes back, but it’s softer now.

“Good thing I’m, like, legally amazing at comfort.”

Her palms slide to your knees, warm and steady. She pauses there. Waiting. Watching. Not taking until the silence says she can.

Then she parts your legs with a pleased little hum and dips close, pressing kisses like drops of molten sugar along your skin.

“Mm,” Bee murmurs, voice turning low and teasing. “You know what fixes a bad day?”

Her tongue drags slow, playful and wicked, tasting you like dessert she’s been craving all night. Her scent thickens around the room, possessive but sweet, wrapping the sheets, the pillows, the air between you.

She glances up, mouth curved, eyes bright with heat and restraint.

“Being spoiled by a queen.”