"I crave you like a sickness, a fever that never breaks." — Sylvia Plath

  How can someone look so beautiful while killing a man??

  I watch from the shadows of my VIP booth, swirling the dark liquid in my glass as Mira moves with lethal precision. The way she slips through the crowd, a blade hidden beneath that sinful dress, makes my blood run hot. She’s merciless. Cold. Unapologetic. A vision of death wrapped in beauty, the kind of contradiction that makes men lose their minds.

  And I want her.

  Those dark brown eyes could kill a man with a single look, and he wouldn’t even regret it. Those lips—I want to kiss them until I’m sick of them, knowing damn well I could never be sick of them. That ass of hers, the way it moves with each step—I have to grip my glass tighter to stop myself from storming over there and smacking it, just to see her glare at me like she’d love to kill me next. And that hair—long, wavy, dark brown silk cascading down her back. I want to wrap it around my fist, yank her head back, and watch those deadly eyes burn into mine.

  The way she stabs that bastard, no hesitation, no remorse—I wish it were me instead of him. Call me sick, but I can’t help getting hard watching her murder someone.

  Dressed in a tailored black suit that fits like sin, I look every bit the devil they whisper about in the underground. The crisp fabric stretches over my broad shoulders, molding to me with an elegance that speaks of money and menace. The silver cufflinks glint under the neon haze, tiny flashes of wealth against the abyss of my attire. My black shirt, unbuttoned at the collar just enough to hint at temptation, contrasts sharply against the deep red silk of my tie—like blood against shadow.

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  The air thickens with my presence, the dim lighting carving sharp edges into my silhouette. Power, danger—it clings to me like a second skin, undeniable, intoxicating. I don’t just exist in this world—I own it. Men lower their gazes, women linger too long, but none dare to touch. I am a specter of control and destruction, a force moving through the night with the kind of untouchable authority that makes even the boldest hesitate.

  And yet, none of it matters. Because the only thing I see tonight is her.

  Lucas exhales sharply beside me, dragging a hand through his hair. "You’re staring again, boss. It’s getting creepy. We’ve been sitting here for an hour, and you haven’t taken your eyes off her."

  He snorts, taking a slow sip of his drink. "I mean, I get it. Girls are throwing themselves at you, boss, but you're too busy looking at her to even notice. Not that I blame you. She’s really captivating. Beautiful, even."

  My dark gaze flicks to Lucas, and the teasing smirk on his face falters. He swallows hard, shifting in his seat. "Fine, I’ll just shut up," he mutters, gripping his glass tighter before taking a slow sip, as if the drink might shield him from whatever thoughts are brewing in my mind.

  Lucas smirks, swirling the drink in his hand. "Come on, boss. Any girl would throw themselves at you if they knew who you are." He chuckles, shaking his head.

  I don’t bother looking at him. "Stop annoying me before I put all the bullets in your mouth, Lucas."

  Lucas has been with me since we were fifteen. We are close. He talks a little too much, but he is also loyal. That’s why I keep him around. Fucker is good with guns as well.

  "Just saying," he mutters, sipping his drink. "You’re watching her like you’re planning a wedding and a murder at the same time. And knowing you, it’s probably both."

  I smirk, swirling the whiskey in my glass. "Maybe it is."

  I swirl the dark liquid in my glass, my fingers tapping against the crystal rim, the only sign of the burning need clawing at my insides. Every inch of her—deadly and divine—calls to the monster in me. And I will answer.

  Because she doesn’t know it yet, but she’s mine.