I Cut My Wings Off: A Lucifer TV Series FanFiction

"I cut my wings off..."

Chloe Decker stepped out of the elevator into the Lux nightclub executive suite which Lucifer Morningstar called his home. She shoved one hand into her jeans pocket, her brows knit together into a skeptical expression as she scanned the dimly lit décor.

"Ah, hello?" She stepped into the devil's lair. "Ah, Lucifer?"

The elevator door shut behind her with a whoosh reminiscent of the closing of some great gate, leaving her standing in the dark. A warning chill rippled down her spine, or perhaps it was excitement? Around Lucifer, it was often difficult to tell. The only illumination came from the wall behind the sleek, mahogany bar, travertine marble, backlit to highlight dozens of colorful bottles artfully arranged to give the illusion the bar existed inside an ancient Egyptian temple. That, and the dancing golden light from a fireplace on the opposite side of the room.

An earthy jazz singer warbled seductively on the stereo.

"I'll be out in a moment!" Lucifer called from deep within his lair. "I'm just getting ready!"

His voice rippled through her, mischievous and warm. Beneath his British accent, she could detect a second, much older accent, but she hadn't been able to track his origins any further than the five years since he'd appeared in Los Angeles.

She turned her gaze away from the wall of temptations and stepped carefully toward the fireplace, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness in between. She barely avoided smashing her kneecap into the bench of a full-sized Steinway, glistening and black, its ivory keys illuminated by the wall of liquor. She'd heard Lucifer play the piano downstairs in the nightclub, tauntingly, seductively, his long fingers caressing the keys as though the Steinway was a long-lost lover. The entire apartment smelled of polished wood, the finest brandy, ancient money, and another scent she couldn't quite place? Brimstone?

No. She was being silly. Ever since she'd gotten shot, his talk about being the devil had begun to nip deviously at her subconscious. Had he taken six bullets for her? Or had it been her own life, flashing before her eyes? The scent was probably a joint, or some other substance she didn't want to know about so she wouldn't have to arrest him.

"Hey, ah?" She stepped cautiously past a boxy, contemporary orange leather couch which probably cost more than an entire year's salary with the city. "Did you do what I told you to do and call Carver about the player's club?"

"Make yourself a drink, detective!" his disembodied voice called from another room.

"No." Chloe raised one finger and shook it, the same way she did when scolding Trixie. "No more drinks. No more blurred lines. No more breaking into my house or trying to sleep with me." She whirled, waiting for him to just appear next to her and send her heart racing. "Look. This is a professional relationship. I'm a police officer, and you..."

A six-foot-three vision of perfection appeared out of the shadows like a fine, Grecian statue. Golden-bronze skin glistened in the firelight while her senses swam from a heady dose of testosterone. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief above an arrogant grin. Beneath it, his bare, muscular chest and broad shoulders tapered down over his long, lean six-pack abs to...

"...huh..." Surprise stole her breath as her eyes reached his narrow hips and kept on going. She clamped her hand over her mouth. "...are naked."

Breathe!

She ordered herself not to stare at his manly whatnots. But her hands betrayed her as they moved subconsciously apart to take measure of what had to be the largest...

She leaned forward, her mouth wide open with disbelief. With a package like that, no wonder women threw themselves at the self-declared Devil of L.A.