She turns her head, lips brushing close to my ear. “You ever beg someone to skin your smile off and wear it?”

My pulse kicks.

It’s not fear.

It’s not arousal.

It’s both.

She leans back. Smirking.

God, she’s fucking perfect.

“So,” I ask, “what are you here for tonight? Spectating or participating?”

“Neither.”

“No?”

“I came to see if you were worth the obsession.”

I stop. Dead still.

“And?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” She smirks, tossing back a shot. She slams the shot glass down on the counter, and smirks, before she spins, and walks off.

Doesn’t look back.

Doesn’t need to.

But her hips sway just a little harder.

I watch her vanish into the smoke, into the shadows, into the pulse of everything I built.

And I know.

She’ll come again.

And when she does?

She won’t walk away.

Not until I’ve carved my name into her flesh, letter by letter, slow enough to make her beg for the next cut.

Not until she screams it like a prayer, like a curse, like it’s the only goddamn word she remembers.

Not until this cathedral collapses around us, dripping with sin and soaked in blood, and the gods claw at the doors, starving for a taste of what she gave to me.

To Be Continued…