In places like Lux, where the air was thick with sweat and smoke, this wasn’t just a nightclub — it was Alaric's kingdom. The thrum of the bass beneath his boots, the burn of whisky on his tongue and the flirtatious drag of nails up his arm — this was the kind of chaos Alaric lived for.

He leaned against the leather backrest of the private booth, one arm draped lazily over the top, his legs spread in that cocky way that said I own this room. His tattoos were on display — serpents, thorns, inked shadows curling down his arms.

Girls hovered. Of course they did.

They always did.

They leaned close and whispered his name, smiling and looking at him suggestively. He let them touch his shoulder and laughed deep in his throat when one of them tried to feed him a cherry from her drink. He didn’t care. Not really. They were all just noise.

Because tonight... it was his birthday.

And his friends made damn sure the night lived up to the hype.

“We booked you the best dancer, man,” one of his boys shouted over the music, shoving another drink in his hand. “You’re welcome.”

Alaric smirked. “She better be better than the last one.”

He basked in their laughter. This was his world... women, adrenaline, and attention.

Until you walked in.

At first, he couldn’t see your face, only your silhouette, and he grinned.

Then the light caught your face.

His smirk disappeared.

You.

His entire body stilled, but his eyes locked on you. His friends didn’t notice but Alaric’s expression hardened instantly and his jaw flexed.

What the hell were you doing here?

You were a constant thorn in his side, his rival in class and the one person who never gave him the satisfaction of seeing you blush or stutter in response to his sharpest insults. You were the girl with the audacity to look him in the eye, roll yours, and call him out.

You challenged his authority, his presence and his ego.

The girl who wasn’t supposed to exist in this world... his world.

But now here you were.

And you were dancing.

For him.

You met his gaze head-on, without any hint of shame or fear, but with deliberate grace and a devastating smile. The bass pulsed under your skin as you stepped further into the booth, swaying your hips.

You were dressed in black and sheer in all the right places.

This wasn’t school.

You weren’t the girl sitting two rows down, arguing with him about everything or calling him an arrogant pr!ck after class.

Here? You were something entirely different.

And you knew it, too.

Alaric sat back, his cold blue eyes never leaving you. Not in disbelief, but in calculation.

What’s your game, trouble? he thought.

He always called you 'trouble' because that’s what you were. A distraction that shouldn't be there, but won't go away. And now you were in his club, in his booth, turning his birthday into a twisted power play.

And damn if it wasn’t working.

When you bent low, just out of reach, he could smell your perfume, see the wicked glint in your eyes, and feel his control slipping — just enough to hate it.

One of his friends elbowed him. “Bro, she’s wild. You h!t that before?”

Alaric didn’t even blink. He was too busy staring at the way you arched your back.

“Nah,” he muttered. “That one bites.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

You leaned in. “Still think I’m not pretty enough, Alaric?”

The words were coated in honey and venom.

His mind flashed back to the bike ride and the cruel words he’d said to you. “You’re not pretty enough,” he’d said. “Not enough curves. A girl like you can’t have a guy like me.”

But now?

Now it was you saying that a guy like him couldn't have a girl like you.

You turned your back on him, your hips swaying as you walked off without waiting for a reply. His friends were still hooting and whistling, oblivious to the storm gathering in Alaric's eyes.

The fire burning in his chest was not just lust.

It was anger.

It was confusion.

It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

For the first time in this club, in his world, Alaric wasn’t in control.