DEFYING THE DEVIL

Maeve POV I already wanted to leave before we even made it through the front doors. “You’re scowling like someone brought you here against your will,” Bri muttered beside me, heels clicking against black marble as she handed the bouncer her ID. “I was brought here against my will, you literally drug me out of bed, Bri.” “That is soooooo dramatic.” I looked up at the glowing sign above the entrance. VEIL. The letters burned white against the rain-slick night, sharp and expensive looking. Everything about this place screamed money. The kind that came with tangled secrets and men who wore watches more expensive than my car. Not my scene. Too polished. Too many people pretending they were important. The second we stepped inside, bass rolled through my chest hard enough to feel in my ribs. The club was dark in a calculated way—gold lights, velvet booths, black walls reflecting liquor bottles like shattered glass. It smelled like expensive perfume, whiskey, and smoke despite the no-smoking signs posted everywhere. Aesthetic hypocrisy. Cute. “You’re going to have fun tonight,” Bri announced. I snorted. “You say that every time right before something deeply irritating happens.” She ignored me, already scanning the crowd for men with trust funds and emotional issues. I tugged the sleeves of my cropped black tee lower over my lace undershirt and followed her farther inside. Fishnets scratched against my thighs beneath ripped jeans while heavy music vibrated through the floor under my boots. Eyes followed me immediately. I felt them the way you feel humidity before rain. Men always stared first at my mouth, a perfectly painted blood red pout. Then my chest, naturally full and perky D cups. Then the attitude became visible and they usually lost interest—or gained too much of it. Either way, exhausting. “Table’s upstairs,” Bri yelled over the music. I nodded absently, distracted by the massive chandelier hanging over the center of the club. Crystal dripped from it like knives catching gold light. The place looked less like a nightclub and more like a cathedral for rich people with personality disorders. Kind of beautiful, actually, in a narcissistic type of way. I was still staring when someone collided with my shoulder hard enough to jostle me sideways. “Watch where you’re—” The scowl died in my throat. Not because the man was attractive. Because he looked at me like he already knew exactly what kind of trouble I was. Tall. Broad. Black suit tailored within an inch of God. Bleach blond hair tight at the sides, loose on top like he’d run his hands through it too many times tonight. Expensive watch glinting beneath rolled sleeves. And eyes. Bright blue-green. Sharp enough to skin someone alive. “Careful,” he said calmly. Not apologetic. A warning. I stared at him for a second too long before my brain restarted. “You bumped into me.” One corner of his mouth twitched like he found something amusing. Dangerous face. The kind women ruined their lives willingly for. “You were standing in the middle of the floor,” he replied. “And you were walking with all the warmth of a hitman.” His gaze dragged slowly over me then. Not subtle. Not ashamed of it either. From my boots. To the ripped fishnets. To my mouth. Heat prickled beneath my skin instantly, which annoyed me enough to only make me want to be meaner. “You always stare at women like that?” I asked, “Or only the ones visibly regretting coming here?” That almost-smile appeared again. Small. Controlled. Like he wasn’t used to showing amusement fully. “Depends.” he said. “You always insult strangers this quickly?” “If they earn it.” His eyes held mine steadily. Most men reacted when challenged. Defensive. Cocky. Irritated. This one just… watched. Like he was collecting information. Something about that made the hairs on my arms lift. Behind me, Bri reappeared already holding two drinks. “Maeve, come on—” She stopped abruptly when she noticed him. Actually stopped. I glanced between them. Interesting. The man’s attention never left me. “Friend of yours?” I asked Bri. Her expression went strangely tight. “Uh—” “No,” the man answered smoothly. I raised a brow. “Good. You seem too emotionally exhausting to actually try to be nice to.” Bri nearly inhaled her own tongue. The man looked down at me for a long moment. Then laughed quietly. Not loudly. Not performative. Worse. Like I’d genuinely surprised him. “You usually this rude?” he asked. “Usually worse.” “Maeve,” Bri hissed. “What?” Her eyes widened meaningfully in a way that immediately irritated me. I turned back toward the stranger leaning against the bar like the entire club belonged to him. Arrogant posture. Calm eyes. Tattoo ink disappearing beneath crisp sleeves. “You know,” I said thoughtfully, “you look exactly like the type of man women cry over in nightclub bathrooms.” “And you look exactly like the type who causes it.” “Please,” I scoffed. “I’m way too self-aware to ruin someone’s life accidentally.” That earned me another long look. God, those eyes were invasive. Like being undressed psychologically instead of physically. “What makes you think it’d be accidental?” he asked softly. My stomach tightened unexpectedly. Annoying. Very annoying. I folded my arms. “See? There it is.” “There what is?” “The serial killer flirting.” A slow blink. Then: “You think I’m flirting with you?” “I think you enjoy hearing yourself talk.” “And yet you keep listening.” I smiled despite myself. Sharp. Automatic. “Maybe I’m waiting for you to say something interesting.” For the first time since meeting him, his composure shifted slightly. Not much. Most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But I did. Something darker flickered beneath the calm. Not anger. Interest. The dangerous kind. The music swelled louder around us while bodies moved across the dance floor in blurred gold light. Somewhere behind the bar, glass shattered followed by laughter. Still, his attention stayed pinned to me completely. Like nothing else in the room existed anymore. It should’ve made me uncomfortable. Instead, heat crawled low in my stomach. Which was deeply unfortunate. “Maeve,” Bri said carefully, “we should really go upstairs.” I ignored her. “So what’s your name?” I asked him. His thumb tapped once against the whiskey glass in his hand. “Damian.” It fit him too well. Dark. Expensive. Dangerous. “Hmm,” I murmured. “You sound exactly like a Damian.” “And what does that mean?” “It means your red flags probably have red flags.” That low laugh again. God. It did something irritating to my spine. “You always judge people this quickly?” he asked. “I’m usually right quickly.” His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth. Slow enough that I noticed. Slow enough that he knew I noticed. Then back to my eyes. “Careful, Maeve.” There was something quiet inside the words. Something almost predatory. I tilted my head. “Or what?” For a second, he just looked at me. Blue-green eyes. Unmoving expression. Perfectly controlled. But underneath that control— Something brutal shifted. Then he smiled slightly and stepped aside, finally breaking the tension between us. “Enjoy your night.” I should’ve walked away immediately. Instead, I found myself glancing back halfway across the club. Damian was still leaning against the bar exactly where I’d left him. Still watching me. Not casually. Not curiously. Intently. Like he’d already decided something about me. And somehow— I had the horrible feeling I was going to regret letting a man like that notice me at all.