I’m thinking about the girl who made it.
TWENTY-TWO
Idon’t let the dress go to waste. Not after everything. The satin clings to me, the deep red still staining my lips a warning and a promise. Shawn’s life-force still hums in my veins—thick, electric, heady—but it’s not enough. The hunger scratches at the edges of my mind, restless, prowling, already looking for another pulse to sink into. What I took from him dulled my teeth for a heartbeat. That’s all. I’m not full. Not even close.
The club I find isn’t on any map. It sits buried in a back alley behind dumpsters and neon-lit filth, the entrance marked only by a broken sign flickering with static light. The moment I push open the door, it hits me: lust, thick as steam, curling off bodies like perfume left too long on hot skin. Sweat. Desire. Old sex. Desperation. It clings to my hair, slides beneath my dress, coils down my throat like honey laced with ash.
Inside, the music is alive. A deep, relentless pulse that vibrates through the cracked floorboards and into my bones, a second heartbeat under my skin. The crowd sways as one living creature, hips grinding, mouths open, every breath leaking want. They reek of weakness. Of sin. Of everything I was taught to be afraid of. It should choke me. Instead, it’s intoxicating.
I push through them, my fingers brushing across strangers’ shoulders, feeling the little sparks of heat each touch leaves behind. My skin tingles. My mouth waters. The hunger unfurls outward, dark and invisible, sliding off me. It finds pulses in throats, tremors beneath skin, soft points of access. It isn’t looking for love. It isn’t looking for warmth. It’s hunting.
I lift my arms over my head and sway to the beat, my hips rolling as if I was born for this. Maybe because I was. The music wraps around me. The scent of lust clings to my tongue. My body glows faintly—just a pulse, a flicker—but enough to draw eyes. The heat inside me grows sharper. My teeth ache. My thighs clench.
They come to me, of course. Men with drinks and sly smiles, women with glassy eyes, all of them trying to touch a star they can’t even name. A week ago their clumsy lines would’ve made me cringe. Now, I just smile and choose.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. A jaw like a blade. He smells like prey. He slides in behind me on the dance floor, his hands bold on my hips, his breath hot at my ear. “You look like trouble.”
I smirk, dragging my nails lightly down his chest. “Oh, sweetheart,” I purr, pressing my ass against him, “you have no idea.”
When I turn to face him, I kiss him first. His mouth is eager, his hands greedy. He pulls me closer like he thinks I’m his. I’m not. I drink him—just a taste. A sip of his need, his hunger. He moans into my mouth, hips jerking forward as if he’s already unraveling.
The power surges through me warm and electric, sharper than any drug. It hits fast. Blinding. And then just as quickly it crashes, hollow, leaving a pit where the hunger lives. Like chasing a fix that doesn’t land.
I pull back before I do something worse. Before I bite. Before I draw blood. Because he isn’t Deimos. He isn’t Bastion. Heisn’t Cassiel. The thought hits me cold and hard. When did they become my measure? When did my body start cravingtheminstead of just this?
I vanish into the crowd, ignoring his confused protest, the music swallowing his voice whole. I slip down a back hallway where the air is cooler, less smoke, more shadow. A couple stumbles out of a bathroom, lipstick smeared, belt undone, laughter trailing behind them. Perfect. I slip inside before the door shuts.
He finds me again minutes later, thinking I’ve changed my mind. I don’t speak. I just push him against the wall, my fingers already at his belt. His hands fumble at my dress. I’m not wearing panties. He nearly comes from that alone.
I drop to my knees, slow and deliberate, watching the way his pupils dilate—lust, shock, ego, all tangled together. He thinks he’s won. That the night’s conquest has dropped to worship at the altar of his dick. That I’m panting because Iwantto be here.
He has no idea.
My breath is ragged, yes—but not for him. Never for him. It’s the hunger, the pressure mounting in my chest like a scream I can’t let out. I’m trying not to bite through the thin veneer of control that separates me from something feral. Something divine. Something starving.
He moans when I take him in my mouth, as if it’s the first time anyone’s ever touched him. His hand finds the back of my head, trembling with need, but I let him think that control is real. I let him think his rhythm matters.
It doesn’t.
My lips slide over him, my jaw working slow and steady, my tongue teasing just enough to drive him wild. But I’m not here to make him feel good. I’m not here to give. I’m here to feed.
And gods, Ido.
His lust pours into me like molten sugar, hot and cloying. His thrill. His desperation. His fragile, fumbling need to be seen, desired, devoured. My hunger drinks it in like it’s oxygen, like it’s blood. It coils in my stomach, heavy and sharp and fleeting. It warms me—but only a little. Just enough to take the edge off.
But not enough to satisfy.
Not enough to stop the ache inside me that pulses in time with every suck, every groan, every whispered, "Fuck, you're perfect."
I pull back suddenly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, rising in one slow, controlled motion. His cock glistens, still hard, twitching against his thigh, and for a second, he just blinks at me, dazed. Devoted. Worshipful.
He looks at me as if I’m salvation. Like I’ve just rewritten his fucking world.
And I feel absolutely nothing. No pride. No thrill. Not even disgust. Just… void.
I smooth my dress down over my hips, sharp and practiced, and take a step back. He stares up at me from the wall, his belt undone, his chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile.
“Wait,” he stammers, lips wet, eyes wide, “Did I—did I do something wrong?”
