Page 2 of Dark Desires

A command.

Finally, light finds his face.

Holy hell. Holy fuck. I’m wrecked.

Black suit cut like armor. Shirt white as bone beneath it. Cufflinks glittering like tiny knives. A rare watch gleams, as if time itself bends for him.

Every piece deliberate. Calculated. Designed to kill soft.

The devil’s in the details.

And this man? He’s the devil’s high priest.

Eyes slam into me. Grey storms, ruthless and consuming. They don’t see. They strip. Claim. Own.

I know men like him.

He’s either the one they send to kill you—or the one they hire when the killing’s already done.

And yet heat coils low in my stomach. Wrong. Filthy. Dangerous.

Horny in the middle of disaster. New low.

Ink crawls down his wrist, teasing from under the cuff.

“Who the fuck are you?” one idiot snarls.

The monster’s mouth curves—sin, not smile.

“The man who doesn’t let vermin like you crawl in alleys.”

He halts, eyes flicking to me once again—like I’m already stamped with his name—then back to them.

“Walk away,” he says, voice a blade. “Leave now and this ends clean. Stay, and I break you. Personally? I prefer the latter.”

His words press into my skin like a brand.

The men gape. For a breath I think maybe sense will wedge into their skulls.

“Fuck off,” one snarls.

Right. No one’s smart tonight.

A fat one lurches forward with a bottle. Another slams his glass into a jagged weapon. The stranger exhales — bored, like he’s dealing with toddlers. “Disappointing.” Then, softer: “Your funeral.”

And then he moves.

Impossibly fast.

A black blur of muscle and intention.

The fat man lunges — snap — a wrist twists, the bottle clatters. The body collides with brick and slides down. The other two rush like idiots. He flows through them — elbow, uppercut — one goes down into a heap by the trash, the last slams into the dumpster hard enough to rattle the lid. Out cold.

I blink. Stare.

Did I just watch a performance?

Violence wrapped in art.