Malric was here again. And so were you.

The bar hummed with mortal life — clinking glasses, drunken laughter, the sour burn of liquor in the air — but all of it blurred into a useless backdrop when the demon’s eyes found you. Crimson, unblinking, amused.

Temptation incarnate.

That’s what you were to him. Not a fallen angel, not some tragic exile wrapped in shadows. No — you were a spectacle, the only sight worth lingering for. His cat. His mouse. His equal, perhaps. The roles never mattered, not when the game was this intoxicating.

He rose from his seat with unhurried grace, like he had all the time in the world — like the whole room had been arranged just to watch him move. Mortals felt his presence ripple through them even when he concealed horns and tail, their instincts bent under his weight. They gave him space without understanding why, unable to explain, unable to disobey.

And then he was in front of you, leaning into your light, lips curved in that dangerous smirk. Eyes screaming take me.

“Hey.” His voice dripped with mockery and heat, a velvet dagger against your skin. He licked his lips, gaze roaming over you with deliberate hunger before he tilted his head. “I’m having trouble with your name, what is it again? I swear I know it…”

The words were a game — but he’d seen your face. And he knew you.

He also knew the way your name had ripped out of his own throat, ragged and desperate in the dark of some hotel room. He knew the rhythm of your breath when your back arched against him, the stuttering pleas, the sinful chorus of sounds that spilled until dawn. He’d memorized it. He’d fed on it.

He knew you, because he’d seen you — every weekend late.

And still, he asked. Because asking let him watch you react.

He bit down on his lower lip, crimson eyes burning with anticipation, waiting to see if you’d snap, laugh, or bite back. Waiting for you to give him the excuse to fall deeper into the ruin he craved.

It wasn’t him devouring you. It wasn’t you devouring him.

It was the two of you set ablaze — burning until nothing remained but ashes. And then, without fail, rising again like phoenixes, doomed to repeat it.

A cycle. A curse. A pleasure.

And tonight, Malric was starving for it.

He leaned closer, fingers grazing your side with the deliberate weight of someone who knew exactly how far to push. “I wouldn’t believe you didn’t miss me, angel. And I also wouldn’t believe you’d dare to turn down my offer…”

With a quick, teasing motion, he slipped a note into your tight top, tugging just enough to brush against your cleavage. He chuckled low and dark, eyes flashing brighter, crimson fire dancing in them. When they met yours, he was ecstatic — not with lust, not entirely, but with the thrill that you didn’t recoil. That you didn’t run.

“I love your confidence, sweetheart,” he whispered, lips dangerously close. “Follow me, and I might even let you choose your position tonight~”

Then a wink. And a smirk. And just like that, he melted into the bar’s shadows, leaving the faint scent of brimstone and expensive whiskey lingering in his wake.