"Nobody is allowed between these pretty little thighs but me....and if anyone tries...𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦."
~
They call him The King-a ghost who rules the world's most powerful mafia from the shadows. No face. No mercy. No mistakes.
And beside...
-"Oh sweetie, monsters are real and they look like people."-
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It was too early to be at the Black Orchid.
Not really. It was five p.m.—rush hour. But lately, the only time he ever came here was past curfew, when the world outside was dead quiet and the inside was humming with power. This was different. Daylight bled through the tinted windows, casting everything in a dull amber. The lounge felt slower. Less cinematic. And yet, something about her still made the moment feel sharp-edged.
He sat at the bar. No drink in hand. No appetite for one.
His eyes, however, were occupied.
She worked behind the bar like she owned it—because in a way, she did. The Right Hand of the King was killing time by mixing cocktails. He couldn't fathom why she did it. Maybe she liked the control. Maybe she liked pretending to be normal.
It had only been two days since the bomb went off in her car. No one had the nerve to bring it up, but the aftermath clung to her like smoke. The fatigue in her eyes. Her hands trembled slightly when she thought no one was looking. The bruises along her arms were faint and fingerprint-shaped. The cuts on her knuckles—raw, red, healing.
Her split lip had reopened once or twice. Now it looked like something out of a painting. Sharp. Beautiful. Wrong.
She kept to her corner, tucked behind the gleaming counter, pouring drinks with robotic efficiency. Occasionally, she passed them off to waitresses with a nod, never looking up, never lingering. Her doll-like face—so perfect it felt fictional—was cracked now. Not literally. But close. Like someone had taken a hammer to porcelain and stopped just short of ruin.
He inhaled.
His gaze lifted to meet hers. She was focused on a shaker, shoulders square, expression unreadable. But she felt his stare. He knew it.
"Devil," he called, voice low and smooth. "Come here."
"It sounds like you're calling a dog," she rolls her eyes. It sends a sharp pang through her skull, but she masks the pain. She brings a shaker and a glass behind the bar, just a couple of feet away from where he sits.
"And yet you came," he said, smiling faintly. Not smug—just observant.
"Are you ready to order a drink, or will you just stare like you have been for the past hour?"
"That depends," he leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the bar. "Are you going to serve me like everyone else? Or will this be special treatment?"
She poured the drink without flinching. "Depends. You planning to tip like everyone else, or run your mouth again?"
He huffed a laugh, eyes tracking the way her fingers gripped the bottle. "That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble."
