Demons (Damirae)

Chapter Forty

Remembering the need for oxygen to live, Damian inhaled, the air harsh against his deprived lungs. Feigning unaffectedness, the billionaire's son shifted his weight backwards, tucking a hand in to the pocket of his black slacks, loosening his stance. Still surveying the girl -scratch that, the term girl did her an injustice- through lowered lashes, a rebelliously unruly lock of hair fell over Damian's eyes, not distracting him in the least.

As though it were a masquerade, the ex-assassin donned a fox-like mask. Conniving and sly. All traces of awe wiped from his face, danger glimmered in his devilish eyes, hidden in the taunting curve of his lips and in the blades of his face also known as cheekbones. Meeting the demoness' orbs of amethyst, he raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lips lifting a millimetre with it.

In return she gave a smirk of her own, painted lips a striking midnight against her pale skin (now blushed to the bare minimum, adding a fraction of colour to her appearance). To both, it was more than evident the true reaction of the other, yet, for all they were worth, neither could allow themselves to be rendered so emotionally vulnerable at such a time.

Painstakingly difficult though it was, Damian wrenched his gaze away from hers, hand straying to the bubbling glass he'd deigned to inspect beforehand. Glad for the distraction, the Robin raised the glass to his lips, tipping it back with a steady hand- the image of her having not left his mind despite their contact being severed.

Paying no heed to the conversations of the rest of the men and women, Damian's mind found the picture of her once again, igniting a flame within his soul and setting his nerves on end with desire: in the form of something that could be love hidden behind pure lust. A galaxy of stars couldn't dare compare themselves to her eyes, tantalisingly feline, which he knew surveyed him with more than friendly interest. And those lips of hers, still stuck in his mind, tilted in so alluring a fashion, it caused his breathing to almost fall back in to a problematic pattern. What really pushed his limits, however, was the dress. Oh, that mermaid dress, with it's high neckline and tight fit, caressing each line and curve before fanning out slightly, embellished with purple-tinged lace over a black background. By the Gods, the cut outs on either side of her stomach, where light flesh dare to show itself, teasing and testing Damian's resolve, challenging every fibre of his being.

As the lass drop of amber liquid entered Damian's mouth, she began walking forwards. If he'd still been drinking, the billionaire's son would surely have choked; as it were, he covered any shock with a subtle cough, setting the glass down. Straining to regain composure, Damian let out a quivering breath, tugging slightly on his collar.

For, unbeknown to him till then, a large slit ran up the side of her dress, exposing the skin of her leg until mid-thigh.

Raven was going to be the death of him- via heart attack at this rate.

***

Oh, he just had to leave that top -button of his shirt undone, didn't he? And he just had to leave his hair rebelliously mussed. Not to mention having that jacket a little too tight against his torso, complimenting his toned physique.

And the way his piercing gaze found her's from across the ballroom, pinning her with the intensity of a shuriken finding it's target. 

Or maybe she was being ludicrous.

Regardless of her untamed heart thundering in her chest, Raven began her path to the others, platform heels clicking against the floor like the hands of a clock counting away the time- the time until she rejoined the group. The skirts of her dress swishing against her legs, exaggerating the sashaying of her walk.

Falling in to place besides Kori (who donned a lilac number, emphasising her pregnancy rather than seeking to hide it) Raven took the chance to take in the grandeur of the ballroom, mentally snorting at the ridiculous splendour of the crystal chandeliers -of which there were three-, overly waxed wood floors, ceiling-length windows framed by lavish carmine draped like bloodstained lips around white teeth. Around her, Bruce Wayne and his adopted children lingered, conversing with the others: except Jason, who had planned on entering the party as a waiter since Jason Todd was technically dead.