Lure of a Demon

The question was, how had she figured out where I was going to be? Was it dumb luck, or had she tracked me somehow?

The next question was, how do I make sure I run into her again?

Striding out onto the street in my new outfit, I stood and sighed into the evening air, watching as the last of the sunlight disappeared behind the apartment buildings littering the street and into the distance. It was a bit of a stroll to get to where I needed to be, but I didn’t mind. I might even encounter some fun along the way. I figured if someone started something with me, then that was fair game.

Generally, when I needed a rest, I came to the parts of the city bordering where the rich fucks and the poor bastards lived. They had better accommodations and saved me from walking too deep into the higher end of the city. Besides, those people had doormen, and I couldn’t simply snap a lock to the foyer and get into the building.

As the night air settled around me, a shiver ran up my spine that had little to do with the temperature. I’d been pretty much doing whatever I fancied since I got here, figuring that unleashing my inner desires for violence would keep my demon side at bay. But there was a complication. It seemed by doing whatever the fuck I wanted and containing control over my appearance only served to work up the side of me desperate to seduce into a frenzy. I’d like to think this was why I had such a strong reaction to army chick and the potential complication she posed.

But maybe it was simply basic instinct attraction.

She’d obviously seen some shit, been through the worst this world had to offer—perhaps she was a kindred being in that sense.

Maybe I was thinking about it too much rather than relying on instinct.

It wasn’t long before I walked past the clubhouse I had been at the previous night. It looked empty. Apparently, the occupants had opted not to return. I had planned on burning it down until I was interrupted. Might as well do it tonight.

Perhaps I’d also see my mystery woman again, returning to the scene of the crime and all that.

Be predictable on purpose because apparently, I was predictable enough before for her to find me in the first place. Now I wanted to find her.

Grinning, the word tease flashed through my mind.

Tease her, play with her, fuck with her.

Fuck her.

Crossing the empty street, I was a little more than disappointed I hadn’t encountered anyone along the way. I also kind of wished I had raided the liquor cabinet at the apartment.

Inside the bar, the door slammed loudly behind me as my boots crunched over the debris. I was busy pouring the remaining contents of the bar across the floor when someone cleared their throat behind me.

Smirking, I turned, bottles in hand.

“You seriously came back to finish the job? Didn’t you think I’d be here too?”

Army chick crossed her arms over her chest and stared at me through the dim lighting. She wasn’t overly tall, but I could see the definition of her arms, the tautness of her stomach. She was fit. I smiled at her, wide and genuine, before I dropped the bottles I was holding and noted the way she flinched at the sound.

That only made me grin wider. She stood her ground while I approached her, but I could feel the fear prickling her skin. Fear and anger and a dappling of arousal—a dangerous combination—as I pushed my chest forward.

I quite liked the scent of it.

Right before we were chest to chest, she dropped her hands to her pockets.

“Maybe I was hoping you’d come back and find me,” I simpered, blowing cool air against her earlobe and making her shiver as I laughed quietly. “Why are you afraid of me?” I asked, taking a step back.

She cocked a dark eyebrow. “You’re a demon.”

“Yeah, but what did I ever do to you?” She frowned at me, evidently unsure how to answer the question. So I added, “What’s your name?”

“Ilsa.”

“I’m Ray.”

“I’m not here to be your friend, Ray.”

Closing the gap between us again, I slid an arm around her waist, splaying my fingers across the small of her back when she went to step away from me. “I just want to know what name to scream when I come.”

She slashed at me with a blade, and I stumbled back, clutching at the bloodied gash running down my arm. My eyes flashed, and hers widened, and I knew mine had turned yellow for a moment when I had lost control of my anger. I was aroused by her presence, her closeness, and the way she seemed to simultaneously stiffen against me but also melt into my touch. Like her body was fighting her mind, telling her to give it up because it wanted mine.

Grasping a silver knife, evidently she had a stash of the things, her breathing was heavy as she watched me, looking as though she was ready to pounce or run but couldn’t decide which.

“Silver again? What the fuck?” I sneered, wiping away at the blood and tutting at how it smeared against my new top. “I told you it doesn’t kill me.”

“No.” It was her turn to smirk. “But it hurts like a bitch, right?”

Involuntarily my eyebrows raised. Ballsy move.

But she had pissed me off this time, and the anger wiped away any lingering arousal I had at her presence. Demons had two modes—fuck or fight—and Ilsa had just turned me from one to the other. Launching at her, she parried my attack with a shot straight to my nose, bent her fingers, and slammed the ball of her palm into my face. My head knocked back, and I tasted blood in the back of my throat.

Ilsa stared at me as I straightened. She was still in an attack stance, but her eyes widened as I growled. I was on her before she had a chance to react, tackled her to the floor and clasped my hands around her neck. She lashed out at me, swiping at my arms and face with the knife over and over again, each cut burning and searing my skin and sending a vibrant stinging pain through my being and stirring my demon. The wounds would heal, albeit not as fast as regular ones.

She ceased the relentless slashing only when I roared in frustration and removed a hand from her neck, snatching at her wrist and slamming her hand against the floor repeatedly until she dropped the knife. I’ll give her credit where credit was due, it took a hell of a lot of force to get her to let go of the weapon.

She shouldn’t test me. I could break her wrist as easily as snapping my fingers if I wanted to.

Ilsa was losing control of her composed exterior, her initial attack had been plotted, planned, and born, I’m sure, from training. But the mad slicing with a blade? That didn’t seem like her style.

She was panicking.

These innocent people she talked about—didn’t she realize she was one of them?