The club is too expensive for me. I know this the moment I walk in, the moment the doorman's eyes flick over my dress borrowed from my roommate, slightly too loose in the waist and then dismiss me. But my friend Jade insisted, and after three months of working double shifts at the diner, I needed one night where I wasn't thinking about rent or my maxed-out credit cards.
I'm nursing a cocktail I can't afford when I feel it.
Not a glance. He was staring at me.
I'm standing near the bar, trying to blend in with the crowd of beautiful people in their designer clothes, when I sense someone watching me. Not in a creepy or suspicious way but that kind of looks that makes me flatter myself every minute because I know I look extremely good.
I turn.
He's across the room, leaning against the VIP section like he owns the place. Maybe he does. Everything about him screams wealth tailored black suit that probably costs more than my car, dark hair slicked back, sharp jaw, and eyes so intense they seem to cut through the noise and chaos of the club straight to me.
He's beautiful in a way that doesn't seem fair.
And he's definitely looking at me.
I should look away. I know I should. Girls like me don't catch the attention of men like him. But I don't look away. I hold his gaze for a beat too long, and something shifts in his expression. A slight smile. A tilt of his head. A gesture that could only mean one thing.
I don't move. I'm not stupid enough to walk across this club toward a stranger, no matter how attractive he is. But my heart is yearning for him but pride won't let me. My palms are sweating. Every logical part of my brain is screaming that this is a bad idea, and the rest of me wants to know what happens next.
He doesn't wait for me to decide.
He pushes off from the wall and walks toward me. People move out of his way without him saying anything. There's an authority about him that makes the crowd part like water. When he reaches me, he smells like expensive cologne and something darker underneath—something that makes my head spin.
"You don't belong here," he says. Just observational.
"Is that a problem?" I ask, surprised at how steady my voice sounds.
"No." He studies me with those intense eyes, and I feel like he's seeing right through me. "It's interesting. Everyone here is trying so hard to look like they belong. You look like you don't care.
"Maybe I just can't afford to care," I say.
Something across his face recognition, maybe. Or understanding. "What's your name?"
"Kiera."
"Daemon." He doesn't offer his hand. Instead, he gestures to the bartender, and the man immediately appears. "Whatever she wants. All night."
"You don't have to".
"I know." He steps closer, and suddenly the noise of the club seems mute. "Dance with me."
It's not really a question, but he's asking anyway. I should say no. I should finish my drink and go back to my friend and pretend this didn't happen. But his eyes are holding mine, and there's something magnetic about him that I can't resist.
I take his hand.
He leads me to the dance floor, and his hand settles on the small of my back. He pulls me close, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. The music is loud and pulsing, and we move together like we've done this a thousand times before.
"Tell me about yourself," he says into my ear.
"There's nothing to tell. I'm nobody."
"That's not true." His hand tightens on my back. "You're the only person in this club I'm interested in."
My stomach was rumbling. I should be skeptical. A man like this doesn't notice a girl like me. But when he looks at me, I feel like maybe he does. Maybe for tonight, I'm exactly what he wants.
"What do you do?" I ask.
"Business," he says vaguely. "Investments. Things that would bore you."
Try me.
He smiles, and it transforms his face. Makes him look younger, less like a ruthless billionaire and more like a regular man. "Not tonight. Tonight I just want to know you."
We dance for hours. Or maybe it's just twenty minutes—time becomes meaningless when he's this close, when his hand never leaves the small of my back and his eyes never leave my face. He buys me drinks. He asks me questions. He listens to my answers like they matter.
When the club starts to empty near dawn, he leans down and whispers, "Come home with me."
Every alarm in my body should be screaming. A stranger. A man who clearly has money and power and everything I don't. This is how bad decisions happen.
"Okay," I whisper back.
His lips curve into a smile, and I realize I'm completely, utterly in trouble.