Dinner With The Devil
1109 Words
POV: Ameera
---
The silver tray in my hands weighed less than the emotions crowding my chest.
I hadn’t seen Killian since that night.
That almost-kiss.
That electricity.
But I felt it—every time I entered a room.
Like his presence clung to the walls, the air, the silverware.
“You’ll be serving in the formal dining room tonight,” Miss Agnes said.
No warning. No ‘please.’ Just a command.
I blinked. “Me?”
She shot me a look like I’d asked the dumbest question on earth. “You heard me. Uniform A. Hair up. No makeup. And don't forget—you’re not here to flirt.”
“Flirt?” I scoffed. “With who, the roast chicken?”
She raised a brow. “With your eyes? You don’t need to speak.”
Touché.
---
I didn’t think Killian would be at the dinner.
Why would he?
It was a formal welcome for new hires—a quiet tradition Miss Agnes insisted on. Long table. White tablecloths. Glistening chandeliers. Crushing expectations.
Tina and Rosa were already setting the place. Belinda was picking invisible lint off her uniform with the energy of someone dying for a reason to hate someone.
That someone was probably me.
“You really pulled the main seat, huh?” Belinda said under her breath. “Three days in and already having candlelit dinners with the master.”
“It’s not like that,” I muttered.
“Sure.” She smirked. “Maybe he just likes your clumsy tray hands.”
Before I could respond, the doors opened—and silence fell like thunder.
Killian walked in.
---
He didn’t stroll. He glided.
Sharp jaw. Rolled sleeves. No tie. Top two buttons undone. Hair tousled just enough to make it criminal.
He didn’t look at anyone else.
Just me.
And I nearly dropped the tray.
“Sir,” Miss Agnes greeted him with a tight nod.
He returned it, not speaking, just... walking to the head of the table like the seat was born for him.
I swallowed. Hard.
Miss Agnes nudged me forward.
“You’re pouring wine,” she whispered. “Don’t drop the bottle. Or cry.”
She vanished like a ghost, leaving me trembling.
---
I moved slowly, the wine bottle tucked neatly in my hands. I could feel the heat of his gaze before I even reached him. My heartbeat was having a full-blown rave.
“Red or white?” I asked quietly.
“Surprise me,” he murmured.
Of course. I reached for the red.
As I poured, he leaned slightly—too close.
His breath ghosted near my wrist. My fingers flinched. One drop of wine almost hit the tablecloth.
His eyes flicked up. “Careful.”
“I’m always careful,” I lied.
He hummed like he didn’t believe me.
---
Everyone took their seats, but Miss Agnes did something I didn’t expect—she pulled out the chair next to him and nodded at me.
“She’s joining the table tonight,” she said.
My stomach dropped. Belinda visibly choked on her spit. Rosa just blinked.
“Excuse me?” I said, too fast.
“It’s tradition for one staff to be welcomed this way. You’ve been chosen.”
Translation: Killian chose you, don’t argue.
He didn’t say a word. Just stared at me, waiting.
I sat.
Fork in one hand. Dignity in the other. Fear in every cell.
---
Dinner passed in awkward small bites. I was hyper-aware of everything:
The way his knee brushed mine under the table.
The way he cut his steak like he was imagining something darker.
The way my stomach flipped every time his fingers tapped the glass.
He finally leaned closer. “You haven’t said much.”
“I’m trying not to get fired.”
“Do I scare you?”
I looked up, finally meeting his gaze.
“No,” I whispered. “But I think you want me to be scared.”
His lips curved. “And you think that’s true?”
“I think you like being in control of people.”
He tilted his head. “And do I control you?”
“No.”
He smiled—dangerously. “Not yet.”
---
After dessert, everyone began clearing. The other maids moved fast, too fast. Tina kept glaring at me. Belinda looked like she wanted to pour hot soup on my head.
I stood, about to grab my tray when—
“Ameera.”
His voice stopped me.
“Yes, sir?”
He stood. Slowly. Like a storm forming.
“Come.”
“Sir—”
“Now.”
---
He led me down the side hallway. The walls were dim, the only light coming from antique sconces. I could feel his presence behind me—dangerous, silent, heated.
“I told you not to tremble,” he said quietly.
“I’m not.”
“You are. Every time I’m near you.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Then why do your lips part like that?”
I turned. Big mistake.
Because we were too close.
The hallway was too narrow. His hand was already on the wall beside my head. His other hand—ghosting over my hip.
“I won’t touch you,” he whispered, “unless you beg me to.”
My breath caught.
“I won’t beg,” I lied.
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
“But you want to.”
---
My entire body screamed yes.
But I shook my head.
He leaned in—just enough that I could feel the heat of his lips near my jaw.
"You look better when you're flustered," he whispered.
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Because in that moment, my mind wasn’t working. My legs were barely holding me.
He didn’t kiss me.
He didn’t even brush my skin.
But he didn’t need to.
His voice was low and raw. “Go back to your room, Ameera.”
I nodded, breathless.
“I said walk, not melt.”
---
Back in my room, I threw myself on the bed like I’d just run a marathon.
I reached for my phone with shaking hands.
KIRA 💌:
💬 Girl what happened??? Did he touch your soul or just your hip 😭😭
ME:
💬 I think I almost blacked out.
KIRA 💌:
💬 WHAT DID HE DO
ME:
💬 Nothing. But it felt like everything.
KIRA 💌:
💬 Oh you’re screwed. That’s hot tension stage 2. Next comes accidental touching and shirtless hallway stare downs 😩
She wasn’t wrong.
And my body? Already betrayed me
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