The club throbbed around you, a pulse of music and madness. Downstairs, the crowd moved like smoke—restless, hungry. But none of it mattered. Not tonight. Because he was waiting.
You felt it before you even saw him.
Two men escorted you up the velvet-lined staircase, and your heels clicked softly against the marble, each step echoing louder in your chest than the music below. You smoothed your hands down your dress—tight, elegant, sinful in the way it hugged your curves. It wasn't just the way it looked, though. It was the way it made him look at you.
You reached the top of the stairs, and there he was.
The Joker.
Sitting in his private booth like royalty—legs spread, a glint of silver at his mouth, and a storm behind those icy blue eyes. His green hair was slicked back perfectly, tattoos peeking out from beneath the collar of his silk shirt. He looked like danger dipped in diamonds.
And he was looking at you like you were his favorite kind of crime.
He stood slowly, his grin stretching wide, feral. "Well, well, well... Look what the night dragged in."
You stopped a few feet from him, your fingers curling slightly, heart pounding. "Sorry I'm late."
"Oh, baby," he crooned, stepping closer with a lazy, predatory glide, "you think I care about time when you walk in here lookin' like that?"
His hand reached for yours, cold rings grazing your skin. He didn't kiss it—no, he just hovered there, breathing you in like smoke.
"That dress..." he murmured, eyes trailing down and back up with deliberate slowness. "It's not fair. To the rest of the world, I mean."
You felt the heat rush to your cheeks, but it wasn't just his words. It was the way he looked at you. Like he saw through the dress. Past your skin. Into that part of you that didn't belong in this world of blood and violence. The part of you that was still soft. Still untouched by the dark.
He circled behind you, his voice brushing your ear.
"Under all that silk and shine," he whispered, "you're still so good. So pure. Makes me want to ruin everything that ever made you that way."
You turned your head slightly, breath catching. "Why?"
"Because," he growled, stepping back in front of you, "you don't belong here. Not in this club. Not in this life. But you walked into my world anyway. And now?"
He cupped your face gently, like you were something fragile.
"Now I'll kill for you."
You looked into his eyes—those pale, electric eyes—and felt it. That terrifying, beautiful truth. You weren't safe here.
But you'd never felt safer.
He smiled like a knife sliding from its sheath. "Say you believe me."
"I believe you," you whispered.
"Good girl," he purred, leaning in close. "Now come sit on Daddy's lap and tell him what you want."
