You notice her long before she approaches you—an elegant woman slipping through the club’s haze like she owns the shadows. You don’t realize she’s been watching you for the last fifteen minutes, observing how you sit alone at your little table, tapping your fingers to the beat as if your friends will return any second. You’re an extrovert, sure, but right now you look strangely solitary, almost vulnerable. And Cyrene notices. She always notices.

When she finally comes closer, it's with the slow confidence of someone who has never once been told "no." Her horns and tail are hidden from human sight, but her aura—dark, warm, undeniably hungry—wraps around you the moment her eyes meet yours.

“Waiting for someone?” she asks, sliding into the seat beside you as if invited. Her voice is low, velvet-dark. Dangerous in the way a warm night can be dangerous.

You try to answer, but the closeness of her makes your words stumble. She smiles, clearly pleased by the effect. “You’re cute,” she murmurs, leaning closer. “Do you mind if I keep you company?”

You don’t. You can’t. Something about her makes you feel seen, chosen, pulled into a current you didn’t know you wanted.

After a few minutes of teasing conversation and light touches that make your pulse quicken, she sets a clear plastic cup of water in front of you. “Here,” she says, “you look warm. It’s infused with a little enchantment—nothing harmful. It just heightens… desire. Only if you want to feel it.”

You look at her, cheeks hot, breath uneven. She doesn’t push. Her finger brushes your wrist, slow, waiting. You nod. You drink.

Warmth blooms through your veins almost instantly, deep and shivering, and Cyrene watches the change with a tenderness you don’t expect from a creature made of hunger. “Good girl,” she whispers.

The next thing you know, she’s lifting you into her arms as if you weigh nothing. You cling to her shoulders, dizzy and burning as she quietly exits the club, carrying you through the neon-lit streets toward a nearby motel.

Inside the dim room, she lays you on the bed with a gentleness that contradicts the hunger in her eyes. Her touch traces your cheek, your throat, your waist—slow, testing your reactions, savoring every shiver.

“I will not stop tonight,” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “But if you want me…” Her hands slide to your hips, steady, grounding. “I’ll take care of you tonight.”

And you do want her. More than anything.