Freed-wrecking havoc | Silas's Sister

8

The humid night air of New Orleans hung heavily around Scarlynn as she walked down the bustling streets of the French Quarter. The city was alive with music and the hum of nightlife, but there was a subtle undercurrent of something else. Something ancient. She could feel it in her bones.

Tonight, she wasn't looking for trouble. But trouble often found her, and she had a knack for making things interesting when it did. The flickering streetlamps cast long shadows as she made her way into a dimly lit bar. Inside, jazz floated through the air, the low murmur of conversations mixing with the clink of glass, and the scent of aged whiskey and bourbon hung thick in the atmosphere.

Her eyes scanned the room. She wasn't just looking for a drink. She was looking for something—or someone—who could help her kill time. And when her gaze landed on him, standing at the bar with his back turned to her, she knew instantly that she had found exactly what she was looking for.

Marcel. He wasn't just a man; there was something about him that made him stand out from the crowd. The effortless confidence, the way his aura practically rippled with power—it was impossible to ignore. The man was a walking magnet, and she had no intention of resisting.

She walked up to the bar, her heels clicking sharply against the wooden floor. Her presence was felt before it was acknowledged, and she made no attempt to hide the fact that she was intrigued by him. As she reached the bar, she slid onto the stool next to him, her body positioning itself just close enough to invade his personal space.

Marcel turned, his gaze meeting hers with a mixture of surprise and appreciation. A slow, confident smile crept onto his lips.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" he said, his voice smooth like silk. "Don't see too many faces like yours around here."

Scarlynn tilted her head, her dark eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oh, I get around," she said nonchalantly. "But New Orleans? Now, that's a place that knows how to make a girl feel at home."

He chuckled, his gaze dropping to her lips before meeting her eyes again. There was no mistaking the flirtation in his gaze. "Is that so? I'll admit, it's rare to find someone so... comfortable in their skin. Most people come here for the history. You seem to be more interested in... the present."

Scarlynn smirked, leaning in slightly to close the gap between them. "I'm a fan of both," she replied, her voice low, almost a whisper. "But history can be overrated. The present? Now, that's what gets me excited."

She let the words linger between them for a moment before adding, "But you? You seem like you've got a little history of your own."

Marcel raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but masking it with a cocky grin. "I've got more than a little," he said. "But maybe you're right. Maybe history doesn't matter if the present is good enough."

Scarlynn's smile widened. "That's the spirit," she said, her voice laced with both humor and something far darker. "So, what's a guy like you doing in a place like this?"

"Oh, you know, the usual," he replied, leaning back casually as though he wasn't in the least bit affected by her proximity. "Running the city. Making sure things stay in line. I've got a few businesses around town—keeps me busy."

She raised an eyebrow. "A few businesses? I think you're selling yourself short. Something tells me you don't just run the city. You own it."

He chuckled again, this time with a hint of admiration. "Maybe you're right. But you don't seem like the type to be easily impressed. Most people are too busy worrying about their next drink or how to get out of here alive."

Scarlynn laughed softly, her gaze never leaving his. "Oh, I'm not worried about getting out of here. In fact, I think I'll be sticking around for a while."

Her words hung in the air, charged with a subtle, unspoken invitation. Marcel was clearly aware of the shift in the conversation, but he was too smooth to show how much he was enjoying the tension. Yet, beneath the surface, he was definitely intrigued—and Scarlynn knew it.

Just as the conversation was about to continue, a sudden murmur from a nearby table caught her attention. Two women were talking in hushed voices, their words drifting toward her with unnerving clarity.

"Did you hear? Silas is back," one of them whispered, her voice trembling. "After all this time."

The mention of the name made Scarlynn pause. Silas. She knew that name all too well. But she wasn't about to let Marcel in on that little detail. Instead, she feigned ignorance, keeping her expression calm and curious.

She turned her attention to Marcel, who had also caught the mention of the name. "Silas? Who's that?" she asked, her voice innocent, as though she was genuinely unaware.

Marcel glanced at her, the edge of skepticism in his eyes. "Silas? He's some... legend. Supposedly this ancient immortal guy who disappeared ages ago. Some say he's the key to everything. The witches around here talk about him in whispers like he's some kind of... devil."

Scarlynn tilted her head, pretending to absorb the information, though inwardly, she was already calculating how much Silas had been causing trouble in this town. Still, she kept her tone light and playful. "A devil, huh? Sounds like the kind of guy I'd love to meet. But I don't think he's my type. I prefer someone with a bit more... mystery."

Marcel's lips curled into a smile, clearly enjoying her feigned innocence. "So, you're saying I'm not your type?" he teased, his voice dripping with a challenge. "I guess I'll have to work harder to change your mind."

Scarlynn met his gaze, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Oh, don't worry, I'm sure you'll manage. But I wouldn't get your hopes up. I'm not easily impressed, remember?"

He leaned closer, his voice dropping an octave. "That's what they all say. But something tells me you might just be the exception to the rule."

Scarlynn chuckled softly, the sound like a velvet caress. "You know, you're not as bad as I thought. But I have to ask—how does someone like you stay so calm when you know there's so much danger lurking in these streets?"

He smirked, clearly relishing the flirtation. "Danger? Please. I'm the one who makes the danger around here."

"Is that so?" she said, her lips curling in amusement. "Well, you're welcome to show me just how dangerous you can be."

Their eyes locked, the air thick with a magnetic pull between them. Marcel was clearly testing the waters, but Scarlynn wasn't just playing along—she was setting the stage. This wasn't just about flirtation. This was about control. And, at least for tonight, Scarlynn intended to take the lead.

"Well, then," Marcel said after a moment, his voice a low rumble, "if you want to see the town... and more, I'm your guy. I can show you everything New Orleans has to offer. And trust me, I've got more than a few surprises in store."

Scarlynn leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper that only he could hear. "And maybe you can show me more than just the town..."

Her words hung in the air, charged with double meaning. There was no mistaking what she was offering—and no mistaking that Marcel was exactly the kind of man who would take her up on it.

She stood up slowly, turning to face him fully, her smile a perfect mix of sweetness and danger. "How about it, Marcel? Show me around... both the town... and your body. I'll be waiting."

Marcel stood too, his eyes dark with intent as he took a step closer. "You've got yourself a deal, Scarlett."

And with that, the game had officially begun.

A/N

She's finally met him, 1/6 of her harem 😂

Should I write smut? Yes or No?