Rough Trade [closed]

On these streets, angels walk. They don't glide above the ground or answer prayers. They do their own business, celestial or otherwise. Most people don't see them. Their wings don't unfurl, their halos don't glow. They don't hold the keys to anything. And yet they're believed in: ethereal pillars.

There are others much darker. They seep through the cracks and lurk in corners full of dusk. They are charming, white smiles; duplicitous, a knife in the back. Teeth in your throat. They are demons. Their purpose seems much more straightforward, temptation and capture. They're not fighting a battle—they're simply winning the war.

They're all out for souls. A long, long game being played. The dice keep rolling, and rolling, and rolling.




Grace Moreau was staring down into the depths of a gin and tonic. The liquor seemed oily in her mouth and it chilled her teeth. The second part was welcome: after all, it was the cold juniper taste she had been craving when ordering the cocktail. The first issue, well. It made her tongue feel delicately wrapped in a net. She dragged her teeth along its length, dark green eyes crinkling slightly at the strange sensation. What am I doing here? She touched a finger to the black dress she wore, almost in a gesture of reassurance.

“...so I had to call a cab, obviously, otherwise I would've been stranded and...”

The club's interior was packed. The music pulsed and shifted around everyone, seemingly pushing people closer, body parts moving and tensing. She didn't often venture out into places like this, with their needy denizens: liquor and sweat sopped for all they were drenched in perfume. As if in reminder, she lifted a dainty wrist to her nose and inhaled: her nostrils filled with the scent of lavender. Her lashes closed briefly, inky and thick against the rich ivory of her cheeks.

“...but he didn't show up at home, either, so I said what the fuck? His phone...”

Her days lately had been filled with chasing down useless portfolios, trying desperately to cobble together a suitable spring wardrobe for her most recent client, Elle Lamont. The woman was insufferable: demanding where better people would have requested, dismissing where an intelligent woman would have analyzed more thoroughly. Grace was fed up, exhausted. Drained. The final straw had been today: she had presented a line of bodycon dresses that had been making quiet but classy waves for only a week. New, different, exciting. Elle had eyed them with her nose scrunched up. Those aren't Herve Leger, are they? Uh, they don't look like Herve Leger. Grace had tried to explain that it wasn't the name that made the clothes, but the lines, the shape of a body, the accentuation.

Elle had sent her packing with her temper tantrum ringing in her ears. ...Those fucking rags wouldn't get me in the front door.... You're supposed to be the best small-name stylist in Hollywood, get your shit together! Grace had swallowed her angry retorts, though they swirled like bile in her stomach. The truth was, she needed Elle. Her client list had dropped off in the past year, for no reason other than fashion was fickle. Her tastes had not changed appreciably, nor her good sense. There was no one reason for it.

And so her defenses were low when Kate Gallagher had told her to come out, and meet her at Trinity. This club. This...orgy of sound and sight and smells. Grace felt completely out of her element. Why am I here? Her brain kept asking the question. Coming back to the present, she realized that her hand had fallen from her face to rest on the place where her neck met her shoulder—that sweeping line she was so fond of emphasizing in her clothing selections. She also realized that Kate had been talking for almost five minutes with not a word in reply heard.

“Honey, what's wrong with you? Are you still worrying about that bitch Elle? Her number's coming up, don't worry—I wrote something about it in a blurb a few weeks ago,” Kate reached out and tapped a pink nail against Grace's glass. “When I said you didn't have to do anything but have a drink I didn't think you'd take me seriously. You've barely said a word.”

Grace tried to smile, shrugging her shoulders, “I'm just terrible at places like this. My heart's never in it. Tell me one thing that's different about this place from all the other ones you've dragged me to over the years.”

Kate held up her hands in mock surrender, draining her Cosmo. She signaled the bartender and pulled out her compact, swiping a stray eyelash from her bronzed cheek. “Well, for one thing, there's less blondes around. Have you noticed that? They've been dropping off like flies for the past month. Maybe the end is in sight. Now, can I finish telling you about Pace or are you going to blow me off some more?”

“Go ahead, Katie,” Grace replied, resignedly. She drained the rest of her drink, oil be damned. Catching the bartender's eye, she widened her gaze and nodded.

It was going to be a long night.

Kal moved through the throngs of people beside Trinity’s dance floor, the sea of humanity and near-humanity seeming to part before him. There was nothing particularly remarkable about his size or frightening about his appearance that should have caused the parting of the seas, though there was a subtle air of menace about him. He was a man of slightly more than average height, of slightly darker than average complexion. He could have passed for Italian, or Spanish, or Moroccan, or any number of other Mediterranean ethnicities. His features were angular, his hair dark and straight with just a few lines of silver at the temples. An acquaintance of his, some years ago, had likened his presence to that of a dangerous animal behind a wall that was just a little too short. You had a feeling of security, but once it turned and noticed your presence, you didn’t feel nearly as secure as you had a moment before.

The air of menace was there because it suited Kal for it to be there. At his age, and with his experience, he could project almost any aura he wished, even childlike innocence - should he, for some unthinkable reason, wish to project that particular air. Currently, he was hunting, and therefore, he wished to seem like a predator. Just as there was something in predators that led them to seek out prey, Kal had a theory that there was something in prey that led it to seek out predators. Some creatures were meant to eat, and others were meant to be eaten. However, it wasn’t food that Kal was seeking, not in a physical sense. Kal was one of the Infernal cabal, dedicated to the hunt for human souls.

Various explanations had been put forth for the origin of the contest, the eternal struggle, between the Infernal cabal and the Divine chorus, but Kal found them all simplistic, and often irritating. He didn’t seek human souls because of some grand eternal punishment visited on his kind – in point of fact, he rather enjoyed his status. He didn’t seek human souls because they would help his great master Satan or any sort of religious bullshit like that. Kal hunted because it was his nature to hunt, just as the Divines protected and nurtured because it was in their nature to do so. He took souls because he enjoyed the hunt: the selection of prey; the careful nurturing of corruption and debauchery and debasement; and the final, ultimate taking of that last bit of dignity or pride or hope.

It gave his days and nights meaning and, as any immortal would tell you, the worst part of forever is the boredom.

Trinity was an excellent hunting ground, and one of his favorites. The club was carefully and cunningly constructed as a velvet-roped trap for its patrons.

The highest quality, top-shelf liquors.
The beautiful, well-dressed club-goers.
The attractive staff.
The cost, carefully set to stretch the means of any regular attendee to the breaking point.
The easy access to every sort of designer, and not-so-designer, drug currently known to man, and a few that were not yet ready for general consumption.

All were designed to incubate feelings and lusts that Kal and his fellow Infernals could prey on. Lust, of course, and jealousy and envy, but also gluttony and hopelessness and so many, many more. Every night, every patron, every soul brought a slightly different flavor into the mix, and a creature like Kal took full advantage. He was not the only Infernal to frequent Trinity, a name he had initially found delightfully ironic, but now only found trite.

This particular evening, Kal made his way slowly around the periphery of the dance floor, casting his eyes over what he couldn’t help but think of as the night’s menu. He had, recently, grown tired of bleached-blonde alcoholic party girls with a taste for cocaine and expensive shoes and taking it in the ass. He had had so many, taken their souls along with the tiny shreds of their remaining dignity, listened to them whisper their secret dreams into his ear as he fucked them - both figuratively and literally.

Tonight, he was after something different. Something more entertaining, something that would actually make him exert himself a little bit. A challenge. It was when his kind stopped challenging themselves that they really began to fade, and eventually gave up altogether, falling into a Hell of their own making. Kal had no intentions of fading, or of falling. Life among the mortals was far too entertaining.

Eyes the color of burnished jade, a jaguar’s eyes, scanned across the club. Finally, he caught sight of a pair of young women sitting at the bar, drinking the club’s very expensive and very well-made cocktails. The one he dismissed almost immediately, her incessant chatting was already beginning to grate on him, even from halfway across the club. The other, though…Yes, the other. Petite, long chestnut hair, little black dress with a plunging back. For some reason, she looked almost bored, and his nostrils flared, tasting her scent among the hundreds of others pulsating around him - her scent was of fear, and worry, and frustration. She would do, she would do very well.

The parting of the sea changed direction, and Kal straightened the cuffs of his crisp white dress shirt, adjusted the hang of his charcoal-gray jacket, and moved towards his prey.

“So the upshot of the whole thing was that I told him not to call me again,” Kate finished her narrative and took a decisive swig of her drink.

Grace felt depleted. The tale of Pace and Katie's demise had taken the entirety of their time in the club, not including the drink ordering and bartender flirtation. The last was the most embarrassing—at twenty-five Grace already felt far beyond the feeding frenzy of single living. Her age group lacked patience and discipline, took reckless chances. Any beauty that was appreciated was gauche: spray tans so dark they neared black, hair extensions that reached mid-thigh, nose studs that looked like diamond encrusted blemishes. Kate wasn't as terrible as all that, she had an air of maturity—but she was outrageous, brash. It was probably a large reason why Grace felt drawn to her: their natures were so different, light and dark. Whether Kate was light, or dark, was something that Grace could not answer.

Kate leaned forward in her chair, her black hair spilling across the generous cleavage she had tugged into place earlier in the restroom. The young bartender wasn't looking away—on the contrary, he was wiping a rag along the same expanse of counter over and over, taking in the show. Grace sighed, registering that she was about to finish her third drink of the night. I'll lose that account. I'll never advance from this point. I'll never--

It wasn't that Grace was shallow. Her appreciation of beauty was deep and complex: for all their riotous colors and fripperies, she saw a passion in the club-goers that she felt she had been lacking. They were so vibrant, so alive. She chose to overlook the fact that most of their fervor—if not all of it—came from desperation. Would she fuck him? Would he call back? Would they be here tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow? Am I alone? Am I alive? Even Kate, gorgeous and confident, seemed pleading in her exchange with the bartender. Her nail gazed the back of his hand.

Grace looked down into the depths of her glass.

So why was she here? The imminent loss of her dream job? The lackluster novel sitting on her coffee table at home? There were many reasons, there were no reasons. She was just out at a fucking club. Her glass was empty, nothing but a twist of lime in its depths.

“Sean went to go get more limes for your drink,” Kate's voice broke into Grace's musings.

“Oh, he's Sean now?” Grace asked, perhaps a touch acerbically.

Kate laughed, flipped her hair again. Grace wondered if she might be more than a little drunk. “Well anyway, he's...” Kate's voice trailed off and she cleared her throat. Her hand came down lightly on Grace's, touching the silver charm bracelet. “Don't turn around. There is a fucking delicious man staring right at you, he's coming over here—Don't look! Just--”

Whether she was feeling rebellious, or it was just from the relief of a break in the monotony, Grace didn't know. But she disregarded Kate's advice completely and turned around in her chair, seized by something—what? Delicious man.

He was, at that. He moved with fluid confidence, in a suit that breathed power. Dark, arcane--why that word?--and probably a bad idea. But her stomach gave a glad churning at the sight of him. Fucking gin.

“Gracie! What the hell?” Kate hissed at her, torn between amusement and horror at her bungling of the man's approach. And he was approaching, he was coming right at her.

“Here's your drink, sorry about the wait on that,” Sean the bartender—so now we're on a first name basis? Grace thought, hysterically—set down her icy new cocktail. The lime floating in the glass gleamed at her, bubbles from the tonic surrounding it. Don't do it, don't do it. She glanced over her shoulder, brown hair cascading down the exposed ivory of her back. Grace felt absurdly grateful that she had worn this dress, that her hair was cooperating.

He came closer and her tongue crept out, touched the corner of her mouth. So much for being above the feeding frenzy.

“Have you lost your damn mind? You're totally blowing this!” Kate snorted, giggling helplessly.

“Maybe,” Grace replied, turning to her drink and downing half of it. The gin rushed to her head in a pleasant way. “Maybe, but he hasn't stopped walking yet, has he?”

Walking towards the pair of women at the bar, Kal felt the flame of his hunger beginning to kindle. When he was hunting, he enjoyed the feeling – it gave the need to find sustenance an additional edge of urgency, even though he didn’t actually have to eat food. Kal could do so if he wished, but he was truly only nourished by a portion of the souls he consumed. Each soul tasted a little different, based on the exact manner of its debasement, and each gave a different level of satisfaction. Jade eyes fixed on the plunge of Grace’s dress, and he felt the fire flare to life.

Her friend, already named “The Chatterer” in his mind, caught sight of him, her eyes widening in surprise as he stalked ever closer to their seats at the bar, moving easily and confidently through the sea of silk and satin, saline and silicone. Kal wasn’t sure if the surprise was because of his appearance, his approach, or his evident interest in her companion rather than her. The Chatterer certainly was pretty, with long dark hair and breasts shown to good advantage by the cantilevered neckline of dress and bra, and looked to have an outgoing, bold personality. She leaned in to whisper to her friend, her eyes never leaving him as he moved closer. At the whisper, his chosen prey turned to regard him, her eyes luminous green pools in the pale ivory of her face.

Blink

Her dress, rent to shreds by his powerful hands, lying in a crumpled pile on the floor

Blink

Her ivory skin, red with the marks of his teeth along her flanks

Blink

Her eyes, gone blind with passion, staring sightlessly at him in the throes of her orgasm

Blink

Those same eyes, now rimmed in red and full of moisture, gazing up at him as she knelt at his feet in supplication

Blink

He shook his head in surprise, but his steps never wavered. It was rare that the sight of a mortal impacted him like that, but not completely unheard of. Whenever it had happened before, the following interactions had been…very satisfying. They weren’t truly visions of the future, just visions of a future. The future was a very malleable thing.

The images still fresh in his mind, he saw Sean arrive with a fresh gin and tonic, and her drink half of it down at a swallow. A small smile crept across one corner of his mouth, full lips turning up at the corner. He stopped next to their chairs, triangulating the space between them, placing himself just closer to Grace than to her companion. When he spoke, his voice was low, quiet, and rich like drizzled honey.

“Good evening, ladies, and welcome to Trinity. My name is Kal.” A quick glance at Sean sent the bartender scurrying away to take orders at the other end of the bar.

Grace was surprised that his footsteps weren't echoing around the club, audible over the noise. The cacophony went on, with no appreciable change in volume. She had shifted emotions so quickly that her thoughts narrowed in exclusively on his approach: if she had been sober, she might have been alarmed by such a reversal. The cocktails burning down her throat had served to loosen her rigidity concerning casual encounters, apparently. Turning to the bar, drinking her gin—her cheeks had barely cooled at all from those hasty tactics. But she felt him, she felt his eyes—not crawling, steady—on her back, on her skin. You're drunk.

His eyes hadn't helped with their intensity. Rather than just glancing, the look they had shared had stretched on and on. She had come out of it feeling as though her head needed to clear, to shake off unwanted thoughts. Unwanted? She couldn't say what the thoughts were--I want THAT--and then they were gone, her head buzzing, her fingers fumbling for her drink. Tossing off the line to Kate with bravado as her toes curled inside her stilettos.

“Is he coming?” she asked Kate, knowing the answer.

“Oh yeah. Right for you, I don't think he's even seen me,” Kate murmured, sounding puzzled. “Shhhh, here he comes--!” Her voice went up in pitch, a squealed whisper. The two of them made minor throat clearings and small physical adjustments: Grace reached up a hand to smooth her hair and caught sight of Kate flipping hers, yet again. It was ridiculous, so childish, and yet thrilling. Grace knew it was a game that women played: coy, aloof. She hoped she didn't have to drag it out long. It wasn't something she was proficient in. Good manners, yes; witty banter, not as much. But drag it out to what?

She had no answer.

Grace watched condensation from her drink run onto her nails, streak across the red lacquer. She lifted the fingers to her mouth, hurriedly, mindlessly.

And then he was there.

“Good evening, ladies, and welcome to Trinity. My name is Kal.”

Grace was sitting at an angle to the bar, her legs crossed to the side. When his voice hit her ears, the heel of her right shoe scraped against the rung of her chair and she straightened her legs, quickly. A chill inched up her spine. The strangeness of his voice matching up to his appearance: its timbre fitting his frame, coming together in master design. It suited him, yes. Smooth, full. The words had weight, as though he cupped them in his hands and measured their balance before freeing them. Her head turned once, then twice in fast succession: she lowered her fingers from her mouth, embarrassed. She caught sight of Kate's frozen expression as the silence stretched and then--

“Well, helloooo, Kal. I'm Kate and this is Grace.” Kate held out a slim fingered hand for the man to shake.

Grace felt an urge to bite her friend on the cheek but resisted, registering that Sean had bustled down to the other end of the bar. She worriedly calculated the remains of her drink before lifting her gaze up to the man's own, feeling caught. Her own right hand moved forward, the charm bracelet tinkling gently around her slender wrist: her fingertips were still cool from holding her cocktail.

“Nice to meet you,” Grace murmured.

Kate laughed, delightedly. “Well, Kal. Kal, hm? Is that short for something? Something, European? I mean you look European.” Kate sipped her Cosmo, running the tip of her tongue over full lips and tilting her head to the side. Grace could feel her cheeks getting hot, and tried to mitigate the blush by taking an uncaring drink of her own. She set the glass down with a crack that was much sharper than she intended. Kate mercifully ignored it and Grace relaxed, but only just.

She took in that he had stood closer to her, that he had looked at her, that he had walked to her. And yet here she was, being good girl Grace, waiting her turn. The charade suddenly felt weary. She looked up and met his eyes again. It was bizarre: she was by turns seized by him and then released by Kate's chattering. Incessant, her words. She pressed a forefinger to her temple briefly. Enough, it was enough.

“So, did you want to talk to me?” she asked, her voice quiet but clear.

Kate's jaw almost dropped off of her face. A snort. And then, she reached down and snatched her Marc Jacobs bag. “Do you know, I think I've forgotten to give that tasty little barman my number? I better chase him down. I'll be back in a few. Do you need another drink, doll?” Kate was being gracious, at least as far as gracious went with Kate.

Grace nodded. Kate's toned form and flicker of black hair slipped through the crowd, away from them.

They were alone in the sea.

She breathed for a moment. Then, “Is it European? Your name? I know that's terribly ignorant, forgive me, but you seem—um--” Grace lost track of her thought. "Do you come here often?"

Oh, Christ, I should have let Kate stay.

The early steps of the mating dance were always the same, and the two women at the bar danced them well. The Chatterer with the hair flip, another conspiratorial whisper; his target with a smoothing gesture towards her lovely cascade of wavy tresses. Then an unexpected move – the pale girl brining her fingers to her mouth, the very tip of her tongue darting out to remove the sheen of moisture from her nails. The sudden contrast of pink against red sharp and distinct in the dim light of the nightclub, like blood against flesh. A move not in the book. Not by the book. Kal’s breathing quickened.

His steps halted next to their tall but low-backed bar stools, a faint scent of cologne hinting at spice and sand announcing his presence. He felt the heat of their gazes as they both turned as one to regard him, and as he turned to regard each of them in turn. The Chatterer, her complexion flushed by alcohol and perhaps more, ready with a response to his greeting while her companion was still somewhat lost in her own reverie, her mind and gaze turned inward, her complexion pale beneath the ruddiness brought to the surface by gin and her own thoughts. Were her thoughts similar to his? Had she seen the visions, as well? Only time would tell.

Kate, The Chatterer, was clearly the more dominant personality of the two, which suited Kal perfectly. Once she was out of the way, her companion would be easier to talk to, to draw out. Kate extended her hand, almost cooed her greeting,

“Well, helloooo, Kal. I'm Kate and this is Grace.”

Grace. Kal had heard someone who fancied himself educated once say that “irony is dead.” Well, fuck him. He reached out to take Kate’s offered hand, bringing it to his mouth as he bent slightly and brushed his lips across the backs of her knuckles. “Very nice to meet you, Kate.” Jade eyes turned to Grace as she extended her own hand, and he gave it a similar treatment. Against the ice-induced coolness of her fingers, his skin was warm, almost hot. Did he linger a bit longer over her fair skin, his nostrils flaring slightly as if to drink in the scent of her, beneath the faint overlay of lavender and gin?

“Nice to meet you,” Grace murmured.

The dark man shook his head in negation, her hand still clasped to his lips. “No, no, Grace. The pleasure is mine.” He released her hand almost reluctantly, placing his own on the back of her barstool, not quite touching the bare skin of her back.

Kal endured another foray from The Chatterer, and the little lick of the lips. In another place, at another time, he would have been quite pleased with her as a catch – even as that thought occurred to him, his mind’s eye flashed with images of her writing in pain and pleasure, squirming delightedly and wickedly under his skilled ministrations. But not tonight. Possible methods for disengaging her from Grace were considered and discarded as he put off answering her question, at least for a few seconds. And then Grace surprised him again.


He blinked, then turned to Grace with an outright grin on his face. It even reached those jade eyes, setting them alight. “My, my, Grace, that was very deftly done.” The gray wool suit hissed sibilantly as he slid onto Kate’s vacated barstool. Had his fingers trailed lightly across her back as he moved?

“She seems like a very nice girl, but I was wondering if I would have to stuff something in her mouth in order to get her to be quiet long enough to talk to you.”

“No, my name is not European,” the man answered. “My family is originally Turkish, and Kal is actually short for a much longer name that most Americans find utterly unpronounceable. Tired of hearing it mangled, I am happy to be known as Kal.”

He chuckled quietly, giving a brief glimpse of white teeth. “Yes, I do come here often. Quite often, in fact. You, however, must not come here very often, because I do not remember seeing you here, and I would remember seeing you.”

Men ran hot. Grace had yet to find a man that didn't: some internal calibration made it impossible for them to be chilled. The man was no different, his touch stirred blood to her fingers. His lips grazed her knuckles and she felt his breath on her hand as he replied to her greeting. He was close now—before he had been diminished by distance, but still imposing. Next to her, he was overpowering. The smell of him, the fit of his suit, the tone of his voice. He seemed so exotic, possessing a feral grace that she could not explain. As his hand went to the back of her chair, her stomach drew in to her spine.

Will he touch me?

She couldn't say if he had. The knowledge that his hand was on the back of her chair sent her heartbeat knocking against her ribs. Was it that she knew she would feel it? That he would touch her? That he would--just a taste--run his hand along her spine? Grace didn't know if he had even brushed her back. The idea that the thought of a touch was enough to do this to her made her feel apprehensive: dipping her toe into black water. He was a deep pool. Go on, keep dipping. Why not?

Kate had left, and he turned to smile at her. Grace knew the polite thing would be to smile back, and so she did, hesitantly. “My, my, Grace, that was very deftly done.” She felt her body relax as he slid smoothly into Kate's empty place. His attention was much more concentrated now, but it was somehow easier to deal with than his standing presence. Grace found it simpler to meet his eyes now, although she felt warm every time she did so—his gaze was constant and patient. Patient, but not in the way she would normally approve of—his patience had the air of a cat at a mouse hole.

It wasn't an unpleasant feeling.

“She seems like a very nice girl, but I was wondering if I would have to stuff something in her mouth in order to get her to be quiet long enough to talk to you.” She bit her lip hard at this remark, as forcibly silencing Kate was something she had often thought of doing.

Her ignorant question about his name. His graciousness in answering.

““No, my name is not European. My family is originally Turkish, and Kal is actually short for a much longer name that most Americans find utterly unpronounceable. Tired of hearing it mangled, I am happy to be known as Kal.”

Her lame question of his club-going habits: “Yes, I do come here often. Quite often, in fact. You, however, must not come here very often, because I do not remember seeing you here, and I would remember seeing you.”

At this, Grace felt a laugh burble up without warning. The idea of Kate dragging her here for more than one night was ludicrous. “Kate is... well, Kate is Kate. She's irrepressible.” She smiled at him, somehow feeling the ice was broken by her laughter. “I've given up trying to restrain her. And as for, well--” She flushed, her cheeks slightly pink once more. She didn't know what to say to the last part of that sentence. “Well, I guess I just decided to reach outside of my comfort zone a little. And so, here I am.”

His teeth, white and glinting.

“And I can understand keeping your name simple. Around here, I know of people who have changed their names to not sound, um, ethnic, I guess. Shallow. But,” Grace shrugged, elegantly. “We're all running on the wheel. I wish it wasn't that way. Kal is, uh--” she paused as another bartender, not Sean, ran up and deposited a new drink in front of her. She had lost her train of thought. Conversing with the man felt like searching for mines, although she couldn't say why. A sentence strung together, a black stiletto sliding over the ground—pick up, replace, repeat. He had to have been amused at her ineptitude but she was probably just being ridiculous.

“Kal is lovely,” she finished. She took a large drink of her gin.

Grace touched a hand to her throat. She was beginning to feel better, although she suspected it was the refreshing of her beverage that contributed to her improved state. There was a routine to fulfill, lines to be said. So what do you do? Who do you know? What are you drinking?

She laughed quietly, turning her drink on the bar with little clacking noises. Her rich brown hair fell into her face and she brushed it away, glancing up at him through thick lashes. “I'm sorry, I'm so terrible at this. I never know what to say. It's um—It's nervousness, or something, I guess.”

Grace drank some more. The silence stretched. The gin was working on her, slowly, creeping into her nerves. Ordinarily she would have known she needed to be vigilant, leery. This experience was entirely dissimilar from any she had been through before. She fished the lime out of her drink, shyly raised it to her mouth. The tartness of the pulp shocked her dulled senses, small beads of juice bursting onto her taste buds.

“Sorry, I um—I like to eat my limes. The sour, I've never really had a sweet tooth.”

Play with your food.

“Kate is... well, Kate is Kate. She's irrepressible.” She smiled at him, somehow feeling the ice was broken by her laughter. “I've given up trying to restrain her. And as for, well--” She flushed, her cheeks slightly pink once more. She didn't know what to say to the last part of that sentence. “Well, I guess I just decided to reach outside of my comfort zone a little. And so, here I am.”

Kal regarded Grace as she spoke, amused and intrigued by her occasional stammering and flushing. He suspected that it was a sign of her lack of familiarity with the game that they were playing. She was attractive, and the signs she was giving off indicated that she was interested in men, so it must have been shyness or lack of confidence that was the source of her discomfort – she surely could have company almost whenever she wished, if she brought herself to try. She was perfect for his purposes.

He essayed a quick laugh and a small joke at her mention of giving up on trying to restrain Kate. “Given up completely? But she looks like she might be the sort of girl who would enjoy restraints.”

After a glance at the bartender and a small nod, a rocks glass filled with three fingers of an amber liquid and two ice cubes arrived in short order, obviously fulfilling his usual order. The same bartender also silently left the additional drink for Grace before withdrawing again to leave the pair alone. “Stepping outside of your comfort zone can be very rewarding, Grace. I’m pleased that you decided to do it tonight, of all nights.”

She laughed quietly, turning her drink on the bar with little clacking noises. Her rich brown hair fell into her face and she brushed it away, glancing up at him through thick lashes. “I'm sorry, I'm so terrible at this. I never know what to say. It's um—It's nervousness, or something, I guess.”

The man across from her smiled, shaking his head. “I would rather hear sincere silence or blushing responses, than the canned banter that,” he gestured towards the dance floor, and towards Kate’s retreating back, “I would receive from the vast majority of the people here. A little honesty is actually quite refreshing.” Despite the pounding music in the club, she had no difficulty hearing him. “Playing the same old game gets tiresome, Grace. A quip here, a little offhand comment there, the hair flip, the trip to the bathroom with the girlfriend, the posturing with the bartender,” he sighed. “All done to death. The steps to every dance are written out, and it’s only a matter of whether anyone’s foot is stepped on before the music stops. You strike me as someone who perhaps dances her own steps to her own tune. And I like that.”

Green eyes tracked the movement of the lime twist from her glass to her mouth, narrowing slightly as she sucked at the slice of tart fruit. “In truth, Grace, I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, either. I prefer my indulgences salty.”

One gray-clad arm rose in the direction of a slightly quieter part of the club, complete with some small, curtained booths for privacy. “Would you care to speak somewhere a bit quieter?”

“I would rather hear sincere silence or blushing responses, than the canned banter that I would receive from the vast majority of the people here..”

The air was growing tight, thick. The gin was nudging at her, telling her to move, to get up, to laugh.

“A little honesty is actually quite refreshing.”

Refreshing. Odd that such a small word could spark a response. But he was all heat and silk, and there in front of her on the bar was a glistening tumbler of icy gin with effervescent bubbles. He sparked such thirst in her, she felt she could drink and drink and the heat would never be slaked.

“ Playing the same old game gets tiresome, Grace.”

Grace shivered involuntarily when he said her name. The whole scenario felt ludicrous, some kind of joke. She struggled to appeal to some better nature, some sensibility: she didn't do things like this. She didn't flirt with strange men at strange clubs. She didn't cross her legs towards them, adjust the hem of her skirt, play with an earring—none of those games. But her eyes darted up to his, and there was something lurking--

“A quip here, a little offhand comment there, the hair flip, the trip to the bathroom with the girlfriend, the posturing with the bartender.”

--behind his eyes, some keen awareness, a mercenary gaze. So all the while he was talking, Grace was shifting between excitement at his difference and fear at that very discrepancy. Let it go, just let it go. She sipped again, not wanting--hands on your throat--to be drunk but feeling at a loss. Making all the right noises. All the--handprint on your face--right moves.

“The steps to every dance are written out, and it’s only a matter of whether anyone’s foot is stepped on before the music stops. You strike me as someone who perhaps dances her own steps to her own tune.”

Shifting in her seat, her thighs pressing together.
A dance.
Shoved up against a wall.
Written out?

“And I like that.”

And after, as she was tasting the lime in her mouth, rolling her tongue around the sour—curling, savoring. The rapacious, comprehensive look he gave her. Her fingertips were shining with lime juice and she watched him, daring for her, as she raised them to her mouth. Dragged her teeth along the tip, lips pouting around a slender digit.

“In truth, Grace, I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, either. I prefer my indulgences salty.”

The experience was extraordinarily sensation heavy. The discordant music and babble of the club attendees, the flowing smoothness of his voice next to her. The scent of spice, redolent of his enigmatic demeanor. The taste of limes. The astringency of gin. A finger in her mouth, skin smooth on the soft roughness of her tongue. What did he indulge in?

“Would you care to speak somewhere a bit quieter?”

Grace brought her finger down from her mouth, quickly, and felt sheepish. She had been resolutely not thinking of where their interaction would go, what she would do if he said something like this. She had been trying to feel, to taste, to cultivate an experience—one that later she could revisit leisurely, contemplate as a display of statuary or a painting. Still life of a bar coquetry. The dance had to lead somewhere, had to stop circling and come to a central goal. Wherever she stepped, he fenced in front of her. She wanted to plead a headache, suddenly and rashly, feeling as though heading back into the warren of booths would take her further down this way that she hadn't even—fingers raking in the dark--originally planned to traverse.

But there was her big decision, as tempting as a piece of ripe and heavy fruit in her hand.
She might have known she'd agonize briefly over this, and she didn't want to.
His eyes flashing at her: it was enough.
His mouth full and wrapping around words: it was enough.
His teeth white and secretively smiling: it was enough.

Grace slid down from her chair and casually slipped her purse out from under it. Standing next to him in her heels she stood only a few inches higher than her 5'3” frame normally allowed. Swept her hair back from her shoulder, slung her purse over her shoulder. “Shall we go, then?”

Knowing as they made their way to the booth that she was already gone, not going, and the knowledge was frighteningly intense in its desire.

She wondered if he watched how she moved.
She wondered if her hips moved with promise, if her hair cascaded down her back and caught his eye.
She stopped wondering, and just kept walking.

Into the dark, beyond a curtain.

No matter how confident the predator, no matter how accomplished at stalking and pouncing and delivering that killer bite, there comes a moment in every hunt when the predator and the prey look at each other as they truly are. As Kal watched Grace toy with the lime slice, her red lips sucking the tart juice from her equally red-painted nails, he knew that time was coming. Her finger slipped into her mouth in a way that was at once both child-like and almost obscenely sexual.

Blink.

Her red lips, bobbing up and down along his length, her red-tipped fingers grasping him at the root.

Blink.

The music pulsed and throbbed, and Kal swore he could feel it straight down to the core of his being. On some level, he felt like he could feel Grace’s pulse, as well. It was racing, like a colt through an open field, racing like the heartbeat of a rabbit when the hawk’s shadow passes over it. His senses, far sharper than a mortal’s, could feel the heat emanating from her body and scent the heady combination of fear and arousal starting to rise from beneath her clean aura of lavender and soap. Watching her shift on her seat, her thighs pressing together, another gnawing ache began to rise alongside his hunger for her soul. Before he took it, he wanted her.

Blink.

His hands, wrapped around her throat.
Her eyes pleading with him silently as he choked her.
But what was she asking for?

Blink.

It was early in the game to suggest a more private conversation, but this hunt was progressing so well that it seemed like a natural move. The Infernal made his offer, then leaned against the bar, his glass held loosely in one hand, the very picture of the casual, yet interested, charmer. It was evident from the look on her face that Grace was struggling internally with the decision: to go back to the curtained booths, with all that implied, with this strange but difficult-to-resist man that she’d only now met; or decline, and live forever with the question of what might have been. She was surely no innocent, she had to have some suspicions of his motives, even through the juniper-tinged haze of the gin she’d consumed.

A slow, wolfish smile crossed Kal’s angular features as Grace slid from her barstool. She was short, shorter than he’d realized, and very lithe. Her black dress clung delightfully to her modest curves, the plunge in back revealing smooth, ivory skin from her neck all the way down to just above the base of her spine. Now that she’d made up her mind, she seemed almost eager, as if she couldn’t get to the curtained alcoves quickly enough - or perhaps she thought that if she hesitated, she’d lose her nerve and never go at all. Whatever her motivation, she walked away from the bar towards the alcoves, her hips swaying more than strictly necessary given the height of her heels. Kal’s smile broadened, though she couldn’t see it, and he reached down to place one warm hand on the bare skin of her back, just above the deep scoop of her dress.

Blink.

Her bare ass, small and firm and round, crisscrossed with the stripes of his favorite whip, the welts starkly red against her ivory skin.

Blink.

Using gentle pressure from his hand on her back, he guided her towards an alcove that he knew would be unoccupied. The thick bouncer at the velvet rope, black tee shirt stretched tightly over what seemed all chest and shoulders and bullet-shaped head with no room left over for a neck, swiftly stood aside for them to pass. Kal drew aside the curtain, revealing a half moon-shaped booth, upholstered in a rich dark material, and with a gesture and a shift of his hand on her back, indicated that she should sit. “Please, Grace. After you.”

The music changed as they crossed the room. Grace felt the leather strap of her purse, fingers tracing the ridges and bumps of the seams. The room had spun briefly when she stood and so she fought to ground herself, keep her wits sharp. A snide commenter in her brain was following the lines of her legs as they moved, the hem of her dress shifting in a way that made Grace want to tug it down: if you kept your wits about you, you'd be out the door.

To pretend no one can find
The fallacies of morning rose
Forbidden fruit, hidden eyes

Her hair tickled her skin, curled into the neckline of her dress. Grace felt her back, unprotected, tensing with a strange mix of heat and chill from the energy that manifested on the dance floor and the gin she had drunk. She hadn't glanced at him after leaving her seat, finding it easier to focus on the jaunt across the room if she pretended it was a simple stroll. A change of scenery. She could have been walking towards the exit, the night air blowing in through the door, the scent of eucalyptus and lilac filling greedy lungs. But that was the point: it was greed, it was avarice driving her, wasn't it? Something turned in her mind like the tumblers of a lock, the tempo of her heels clicking as each ratcheted into place.

Click.

Courtesies that I despise in me
Take a ride, take a shot now

Click.

Grace moved to adjust the strap of her purse and felt a concentrated warmth touch her back: his hand. The weight of his palm, the pressure of his fingertips. Her--MORE--steps faltered as her brain short circuited briefly, taken over, seemingly suspended. Something passed into her--PLEASE, I WANT IT--with his movement, not flowing but rushing: a slam to her spine. The presence was uncanny, strange: it mellowed into a buzz at the small of her back. Grace could not--CRAWL--quantify it. It seemed alien in this place so lacking in subtlety, so visually assaultive and obvious. But there it rested, a vague uneasiness, as her feet moved fluidly once more. The pause had been brief, barely noticeable, but Grace was beginning to believe he observed everything. He missed nothing.

'Cause nobody loves me
It's true
Not like you do

The collection of booths was approaching, their curtains shadowed and furtive. The silent bulk of a bouncer moved out of the way and they slipped past him, Kal's hand steering her like a needle through lace—effortlessly, as though the steps were already rehearsed and Grace was the one unfamiliar with the dance. The thoughts had slowed to a steady trickle and her mind was rapidly thumbing through scenarios as the curtains were swept back. Oh, fuck. They would be alone in the dark.

“Please, Grace. After you.”

Grace considered herself a nice enough person. She was polite and well-mannered. She donated money to charity. She volunteered whenever she found the time. Unspoiled. Why that word? His hand moved on her back, a businesslike motion to direct her into the booth, but it felt like a caress. Grace turned slightly, her knee rising up to rest on the edge of the booth, her heel pointing out like an arrow from her foot. Sharp, black—a contrast with her subdued demeanor. The alcoholic euphoria was receding. Her brain was focusing, storing up, saving. She met his eyes.

Grace was a nice person.
Kal wasn't.

Covered by the blind belief
That fantasies of sinful screens
Bear the facts, assume the dye

The abstract thought nudged, swam, fled away before she could grasp—and then they were only standing, a man with his hand on the back of a girl, patiently waiting. A blush touched her cheeks. She ducked her head and lowered the leg, instead sitting down and sliding over the seat agilely, demurely. Grace knew he had been perfectly cordial to her, he had kept up a facile stream of flattery and had shown excellent manners. She was tucked back into the curve of the booth now, the table's surface stretching out before her. The expanse seemed wide and gleaming. Grace sternly reminded herself that an impressive quantity of gin had been consumed.

She missed his hand at her back.

End the vows, no need to lie, enjoy
Take a ride, take a shot now

“Thank you,” she murmured. It was odd to behold the sinuous crowd on the dance floor by this angle. Grace felt as though they were in a carved out cave, peering down on the decadence of Sodom or Gomorrah. Pillar of salt. She exhaled in a nervous rush. He was turning, getting ready to follow her example, moving to sit. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of pink and a lustrous mass of hair, tall and confident, peering and searching.

Kate.

Grace's friend looked around the dance floor, her brow furrowed slightly. The look of puzzlement on Kate's face faded when she scanned the alcove of booths and saw Grace tucked back into the seat. Her eyes widened and she started forward, questioning. Grace took a deep breath, felt her lungs full and brave. Okay. She held up a hand, charm bracelet winking in the light. Kate stopped her advance, confused.

Who am I, what and why?
'Cause all I have left is my memories of yesterday
Oh these sour times

Grace felt audacious as she reached out and grasped Kal's wrist.
I will seep inside.
Her fingers ran across the rich texture of his jacket, dipped into the divide between his shirt and the heavier material.
I will fill the cracks.
A brush of metal that was a cufflink.
I will mold you.
A burst of heat at the touch of his wrist.
I will break you.
She kept her eyes on his, assessing, speculative.

“Could you please close the curtain? The dance floor is a little dizzying to watch.”

A simple question.

After time the bitter taste
Of innocence, decent or race
Scattered seeds, buried lives

Grace waved goodbye to Kate, seemingly unruffled, but her heart felt like it was trying to claw up her ribs. Her fingertips rippled through the air. A look of comprehension, then chagrin, and then amusement from Kate. A decisive nod. And then, as the curtain rolled past Grace's line of vision Kate raised her own hand. It seemed final somehow, as though Grace were growing up, beyond. A red tinged glow from the crimson light above them. And then the curtain pulled to, and they were alone.

Mysteries of our disguise revolve
Circumstance will decide...

They were alone.

Kal drank in the sight of Grace’s sleek thigh, revealed for a moment as she paused at the edge of the booth before sliding in. For a moment, he felt like he’d been staring, but it was probably not enough to notice – just as she probably thought that her little stumble when his hand had found that curve of her spine was not enough to notice. But he had definitely noticed. He had also noticed that, in the warm air of the club, a few droplets of moisture had formed in that same spot, just above where the plunging back of her dress ended. He fought the urge to lick them away.

Her eyes tracked back out, across the club, seeming to fix on some point near the dance floor. Reflexively, he glanced in that same direction – a crush of black dresses, pointed collars on shirts half-unbuttoned, and tanned skin; all glistening slightly with sweat and desire and liquor. Among the crush, sharp eyes caught the sight of the tall raven-haired beauty with the conspiratorial whispers – Kate. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment he couldn’t help but wonder if his hunt was about to be interrupted by an hour’s inane chatter.

Deep breath, Kal. It’s a poor hunter who leaps too soon, and misses the target. How many times have you done this? Wait.

Kate’s head turned to and fro, clearly searching for the petite friend she’d left at the bar with some mysterious stranger. If only she had any idea how truly strange, she’d never have come back at all, Kal thought.

Blink.

His right hand, curled into a fist around a handful of Grace’s lustrous brown hair, his knuckles white with the force of his grip.

Blink.

Kate, her pretty head turned at an unnatural angle, sprawled by the side of an alley, fashionable clothing in disarray.

Blink.

From the corner of his eye, Kal caught a flash of silver as Grace raised her hand to give Kate the wave-off, like a pilot being instructed to abort a bad landing. Then, without warning or notice, Grace initiated the contact. Her hand found his wrist, trailing over the soft material of his jacket and across a stiff shirt cuff before her fingertips found the skin of his wrist.

“Could you please close the curtain? The dance floor is a little dizzying to watch.”

Alea iacta est.

Deft hands released the curtain, letting the heavy drape fall closed, cutting of the light and sound and heat of the club, leaving the two of them alone in the faintly bloody light of the enveloping alcove. Kal slid deftly into the booth next to Grace, moving easily and gracefully and sitting just far enough away that their thighs were not quite touching. His scent – sandalwood and myrrh and something spicy and redolent of hot days and warm nights – filled the air between them as he turned to regard her with his jade gaze.

“Grace, I would like to hear about you.”

The difference in noise level was startling. Grace shifted, uneasily. She settled her purse next to her, checked its clasp and rechecked. For all her bravery leading up to this moment, she found herself with very little courage. Her throat was dry once more. The curtain was as effective a barrier as a brick wall with its sensory deprivation. She wished there was more room for her to cross her legs, but the fit with the table was tight. She scooted her thighs together and tucked her feet side by side on the floor.

Carefully.

He sat next to her, very close. A measured distance. She fought the urge to meet his gaze and instead looked around their new surroundings. Walls awash with red.

“Grace, I would like to hear about you.”

Her eyes stopped their examination and found his own. Widened.

“About me? Oh, um. Well...”

One of her hands wrapped around her knee, a casual pose. The question centered her, made her focus on concrete things. Her mind no longer felt as though it were swimming. The bite of his cologne ceased its dazing scent.

“I'm a stylist. I find wardrobes for my clients, complete looks, restructure collections.”

She had been sitting up straight in the booth with the leather against her skin, cold on her back. Now, organizing her thoughts into conversation, she leaned towards him, but only slightly. One hand gestured a bit as she talked, sometimes playing with her charm bracelet as she searched for a phrase or memory.

“I have my own business. I work, well--”

She shrugged, ruefully.

“—I work a lot. I don't often come to places like this.”

Safer now. Relaxed. Normal questions, normal conversation. The same topics, the same polite do-si-do. The hand on her knee trailed around the bone, then brushed palm down along her thigh, once. Twice.

“There's not much else to tell.”

There wasn't much else she felt she should tell.
In the dark, finished with her explanation, she remembered the glint of his teeth. She remembered the heat of his hand. Too close, too close.
The trepidation briefly resurfaced, and she cleared her throat.
Slip through--

“What about you, Kal? What do you do?”

--the cracks.

Her eyes, now adjusted to the not-light of the booth, came up to his neck. His jaw. The line of his mouth. The arch of his nose. The curve of his cheekbones. And then, once again, met his gaze. She inhaled. There were no drinks on the table. They were at the same distance they had been at the bar, but he was close in that booth. So much closer.

The fear was back. She had thought, foolishly, momentarily, that by closing the curtain they had overcome an obstacle. She had thought he would be clear then, that the mystery would ebb away. But the thoughts that had paused in her recitation started up again. First, whispering: European? Then more: disrupt the routine?

A pause.

Why? What is he looking for?

Still watching him.

Secrets?

A flash of a heavy wooden door, somewhere, far away, slamming shut in her mind.

Appetites?

A dark mouth curved in a grin.

Reluctantly,

If I ask, when I ask, he'll tell me, I can't go back--

she asked,

“What do you do for... fun?”

The pounding pulse of the club went on, bodies whirling and spinning and grinding, drinks being poured and poured down, sweat and tears and a small bit of blood. But all of that was on the other side of the heavy drape. On the inside, the muffled thump of bass notes and a muted hum of energy were all that pervaded. Kal knew how the drape had been made, what had gone in to its construction. It was created for this very purpose – isolation.

Sitting this close to Grace in the enclosed area, their bodies almost touching, he could smell her far more intensely than outside in the crush of humanity. Her scent, and her entire mien, gave off a sense of unease, of uncertainty – she was obviously aware that she’d taken a risk, gone outside of her comfort zone, by going alone with him to the alcove. He had hoped to put her more at ease with a harmless question, but it seemed to have had the opposite effect – it brought her back to the reality of who she normally was, and how out of the ordinary she was behaving. But still, under that uncertainty, was the smell of want, of need. She was nervous, but game.

So be it.

It was time to change the focus.

He shifted slightly in the booth, turning his body towards hers, the movements eliciting a soft hiss from the wool of his suit as it slid over the material of the seat. As he opened his mouth to speak, her question caught him, momentarily, off guard.

“What do you do for... fun?”

There had been a shift in her eyes as she’d asked it. A momentary struggle behind the green, and as she spoke, he couldn’t quite tell if she’d won that struggle, or lost it. And frankly, he wasn’t sure if she knew the answer to that question either. Regardless, she had chosen to venture deeper into the lion’s den.

“What do I do for fun?” His right hand, all neatly trimmed nails and tan skin, rose from the tabletop and began a slow move towards the hinge of her jaw. One fingertip, warmer than expected, made contact with her pale skin and began to slide down towards her chin.

“I’m a sculptor, Grace. I take raw materials and shape them, purify them, find the form inside them that needs to be revealed.”

Blink.

Screams.

Grace’s screams, as something was torn from her.

But were they of pleasure, or of pain? He couldn’t tell.

Blink.

She had heard of the weaving of vipers: their undulating lines, their riveting gaze. It was most peculiar, then, in that dark niche. They spoke solicitously, inquiringly. Grace felt that a snake would strike quickly, and with little trouble. Her mind traveled to these thoughts impetuously, without permission. She knew her nervousness stemmed from her extraordinary behavior, from his polish, from his charming orbit. From his otherness. The little excuses she had made for him were drifting away. Why had she made them in the first place? To give him a reason. To give you a reason.

To make a handhold while she teetered into the dark.

“What do I do for fun?”

She felt her knees shake, rub against each other, as his hand lifted. Her muscles tightened. She couldn't allow for knocking knees, not now. She had come this far. The small voice piped up – what are you doing – but she twisted it, viciously. The repression startled her, and she felt her nails dig into her thigh. The hiss of breath as she felt the bite in her skin. It was almost sweet.

It was sweet.
Her lips opened, just barely hinting at the teeth lurking behind their pink shadow.

He touched her, and her hair spilled over her shoulder as she tilted her head away from his hand. That blast of heat from some inner furnace – she wondered what kept the flames high. She wondered what made him sweat. Did he sweat? Teeth dragging over ivory skin, obliterating beads of fear – of l...

Go ahead and think it.

Yes. Of lust.

They considered one another, a girl curled up in a booth next to a man with studiedly casual intensity. His finger slipped down her face and she felt a rush of desire. It was almost a fog. A sane part of her watched with embarrassment, sure that she must retain coolness and caution.

“I’m a sculptor, Grace. I take raw materials and shape them, purify them, find the form inside them that needs to be revealed.”

There was nothing in it.
There was something in it.

She could picture this man chipping away leisurely at an unyielding surface, patiently revealing what those miserly barricades wanted to seclude. She could just as easily picture him ripping away great pieces of a mystery, greedily taking what he wanted and giving no thought to the remains. It seemed a long time since she walked behind the velvet ropes. He had not dragged her. He hadn't forced a single bit of their interaction. But he had pushed. He had prodded, however gently, however courteously – he had his finger on the pulse of something. He had his finger on her.

She was sitting at an angle to him, and if she looked down she could follow the material of his collar like a benevolent trail marker. Grace felt like it was time to stop hesitating. The little voice that troubled her before now seemed quiet, chicken-hearted. No more questions, no more worries about work or Kate or how much gin she had sequestered down her throat.

I want that.
Her eyes had been on his, unsure, ready to bolt. His answer had left her more than a little frightened. But his touch reminded her of why she had led the way in the first place. His touch made her greedy. Her gaze dropped to that helpful collar.
I want that. Oh yes. I want...

Her fingers slid from her lap, sending a smooth vibration through her nerves. She watched the progress of her own hand, her eyes narrowed with lashes protecting the spark of panic in their depths from his sight. If he stopped her, he stopped her, but the impulse nearly overwhelmed her. As her own fingers made contact with his neck, she first studied the way the pale contrasted with the darker olive of his skin. The heat from his body. The heat. She smelled his spice. It made her hungry. Her thoughts were a foreign white noise. Somewhere, the little voice was screaming for her to check his pulse – heartbeats, does his heart beat, what makes it beat faster – but more than that, she listened to the sensations.

Grace had never done anything like this before. She knew this was how the game was normally played. She just didn't care about her strategy. All that mattered was the want. This is why. This is why I came back here. Be brave. Behind the curtain, pushing herself forward because she was drowning in depths far too high for her head, but her desire was a lifeline.

It was the most thrilling feeling she had ever known.

She moved closer, her head tilted yet, her moistened lips just barely smiling. Her hand cupped around his neck, the strength of his jaw a heavy presence above her light grip. She would find out. She wanted to know. Grace wanted to know what his hands could make of her. I can't believe this.

“Raw materials?" Grace whispered. The club was still pulsing outside the barrier, but in that alcove, she had no doubt he could hear her every word. "And who are your subjects? Who do you choose?

Co-conspirators.
Tiny betrayals.
Grace had given herself away when she had stood from her seat at the bar.

So greedy.