Page 7

CHAPTER 7

RAVEN

T he skirt of my slutty cheerleader costume barely covers my bottom, by design, as I maneuver through the throng of sweaty, leering patrons. Their comments bounce off me like raindrops on a windshield—something about bounce, something about pom-poms. I’m not hearing it. My mind is elsewhere, stuck in a loop of how to expose Kirk Stevens for whatever the hell he’s hiding.

He’s too much. Too magnetic, too present . Even when he’s not in the room, I can feel him. The memory of his kiss lingers like a brand I can’t scrub off. But I can’t just walk up to him and demand answers. Not without risking losing myself in him again.

Nightbird, though. Nightbird could do it. But hacking into his Upper East Side mansion? Yeah, right. I’m not some high-tech spy. I’m a street artist with a can of spray paint and a knack for scaling fire escapes. His security’s probably got lasers and shit.

I’m so deep in my own head that I don’t see the step in front of me. My heel catches on the edge, and I pitch forward, arms flailing like a damn cartoon character.

Strong hands catch me before I faceplant into the polished floor. My heart thuds against my ribs as I look up into those sunset-orange eyes.

“Careful,” Kirk murmurs, his voice low and smooth, like whiskey over ice. “You’re too delicate to be falling like that.”

Delicate. I almost snort. If only he knew.

“Thanks,” I mutter, pulling away. His grip tightens for a split second before he lets go, and I swear I feel the ghost of his touch linger on my skin.

“You’re distracted tonight,” he says, tilting his head. His gaze sweeps over me like he’s cataloging every detail—the way my breath freezes in my chest, the way my pulse jumps in my throat.

“Just tired,” I lie, forcing a smile.

“Hmm.” He doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t push. “Let me buy you a drink. Something to perk you up.”

“I’m working,” I say, though my voice sounds weaker than I’d like.

“Five minutes,” he counters, leaning in just enough to make my stomach twist. “You owe me, remember?”

He’s got me there. I nod, and he guides me toward the bar with a hand on the small of my back. His touch is firm, possessive, and I hate how much I like it.

We sit at the bar and I force myself to meet his gaze. Those sunset orange eyes draw me in like a magnet, making my stomach flutter. No. Focus.

"Look," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "You're just not my type, okay? I'm grateful you saved me, and I do owe you for that. But I'm not going to date you."

His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath his skin. My eyes catch on a cut on his lip, partially healed but still visible. The same place where I sprayed paint at the lizard creature on the construction site. My pulse quickens as pieces click into place.

The eyes. The commanding presence. The impossible strength. Could Kirk Stevens and that scaled monster be the same person?

The cut can't be coincidence. Either he's working with the creature, or...

His fingers drum on the bar top, drawing my attention to hands that could easily pin me down. Hands that had gripped steel beams like they were nothing. A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the club's air conditioning.

"I see," he says, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "And what exactly is your type, little bird?"

The pet name hits me like ice water. Only one other person has called me that recently - the lizard man on the girders. My suspicions crystallize into certainty.

My heart pounds against my ribs as I stare at the polished wood of the bar. Those sunset-orange eyes feel like they're burning into my skin. Does he know? The pet name can't be coincidence, but admitting I recognize it would expose everything.

"I like..." My voice catches. What can I say that won't give me away? "Simple guys. Normal guys."

"Liar." His fingers brush my chin, tilting my face up. "Your pulse is racing. You're attracted to power. To danger."

The worst part is he's right. Even now, knowing what he might be, my body betrays me with a shiver of want. His touch sends electricity dancing across my skin.

"I'm not lying." But the words come out breathy, unconvincing.

"Then look me in the eyes and say it again."

I can't. Those eyes will undo me. They're the same ones that watched me dangle from the construction site, that gleamed with predatory interest as I ran. The same ones that haunt my dreams.

"I should get back to work." I start to stand but his hand closes around my wrist. Not tight enough to hurt, but firm. Commanding.

"Tell me what you want, little bird. The truth this time."

The pet name again. My heart skips. He has to know. Has to be playing with me. But I can't admit I know his secret without revealing my own.

"I just want a man to love me." I say,, my eyes fixed on the polished bar top. "Like, really, really love me absolutely. I want to be his number one favorite person in the world. I want to know what that feels like..."

Oh god. I did it again. Opened up to him like some lovesick teenager. My cheeks burn hot enough to melt steel. What is wrong with me? Here I am, trying to expose whatever secrets he's hiding, and instead I'm practically begging him to love me.

And who says stuff like that anyway? 'His number one favorite person.' Like I'm five years old asking Santa for a pony. My stomach twists into knots as the silence stretches between us.

"Does that make me conceited?" My voice comes out barely above a whisper. I still can't look at him, can't bear to see whatever expression those sunset-orange eyes might hold.

"Not at all," Kirk says, his voice gentle. "That's a very normal thing to want. Sometimes, I think that I..."

The words fade away. His sunset-orange eyes fix on some distant point beyond the bar's polished surface. Beyond the walls, maybe beyond Earth itself. What memories play behind those alien eyes? What far-off world haunts his thoughts?

My heart thuds against my ribs. For a moment, I glimpse something ancient and lonely in his expression. Something that makes me want to reach out, to comfort him despite everything I suspect about what he really is.

Then he blinks, and the mask slides back into place. Those predator eyes lock onto mine with laser focus.

"I have a proposition for you, Raven. A business proposition."

The words hit like a physical blow. My throat closes up as tears spring unbidden to my eyes. How stupid could I be? Here I was, opening my heart about wanting real love, and he just sees me as... what? A transaction?

Hot anger mixes with the hurt, burning away the stupid fantasy I'd built up around him. Of course the billionaire playboy just wants to buy me. That's what men like him do. They see something they want and throw money at it until it's theirs.

"No." My voice cracks as tears spill down my cheeks. I shake my head hard enough to make my vision blur. "No, I don't do that."

I burst through the balcony doors, gulping in the crisp night air. The chill bites at my exposed skin, but I welcome it. Anything to cool the burning shame and anger.

"Raven, wait!" Kirk's voice carries over the muted thrum of club music. "Please, let me explain."

"Explain what?" My voice cracks. "That I'm for sale?"

"No! God, no." His footsteps stop behind me. "I would never... that's not what I meant at all. I've handled this terribly."

Something in his voice makes me turn. The mask of confident billionaire playboy has slipped, revealing genuine distress underneath.

"Then what did you mean?"

"I think Giscard is planning something. Something bad." Kirk runs a hand through his perfect hair, messing it up. "People could get hurt. A lot of people."

My anger falters. This isn't what I expected. The internet painted him as some heartless corporate raider, but the worry in his voice sounds real.

"What kind of something?"

"I don't know yet. That's why I need access to the VIP floor - the Hellfire Club. But there's a catch. Only married couples can join."

Understanding dawns. "And you want me to..."

"Pretend to be my fiancée." He steps closer, those sunset-orange eyes intense. "Just for show. Just long enough for me to figure out what he's planning."

I grip the balcony rail, trying to process this twist. Part of me wants to laugh at the absurdity. The man I suspected of being a literal monster wants me to play pretend girlfriend to stop the bad guy?

"Why me?"

"Because you're smart. Observant. And something tells me you've got secrets of your own that make you perfect for this."

If he only knew.

"So... how much am I getting paid for this little charade?"

Kirk's lips quirk up. "Name your price."

I snort, because this whole situation is ridiculous. Me, pretending to be engaged to a billionaire who might secretly be a lizard man? Sure, why not. "Ten million dollars."

"Done. I'll transfer it into your account immediately."

My jaw drops. The world tilts sideways as my brain tries to process what he just said. Ten million dollars. That's... that's my art studio. That's never having to wear this stupid cheerleader costume again. No more dodging grabby hands or cleaning up spilled drinks. No more choosing between rent and groceries.

"Are you serious?" My voice comes out squeaky.

"Dead serious." Those sunset-orange eyes lock onto mine. "Do you accept?"

"Yes." My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape. "But just so we're clear?—"

"You're not going to sleep with me." His lips twitch. "I can put that in writing if you want."

A laugh bubbles up from my chest, sharp and slightly hysterical. What else can I do? This is insane. My life has officially jumped the shark. I'm standing on a balcony with a maybe-lizard-man who just casually offered me ten million dollars to play pretend.

The balcony door creaks open behind me and my spine stiffens. Giscard's polished leather shoes click against the concrete, and my stomach drops. My boss - my maybe-evil boss if Kirk isn't lying - is the last person I need to see right now.

"Sorry about this," Kirk whispers, his breath warm against my ear.

"What-"

His lips capture mine before I can finish the thought. My body goes rigid, caught between fight and flight. Then my brain kicks in - we're supposed to be engaged. This is just an act. Just pretend.

I force my shoulders to relax, let my hands rest on Kirk's chest. His kiss is gentle, almost chaste. Such a gentleman, keeping it PG for the audience.

But then something shifts. Maybe it's the way his hand cups my face, or how his chest rumbles against my palms. The pretense melts away like ice in summer heat. My fingers curl into his shirt as need floods my system.

Kirk's kiss turns hard, possessive. His tongue traces my bottom lip and I open for him with a moan I couldn't hold back if I tried. His grip tightens, pulling me flush against him as he claims my mouth like he owns it. Like he owns me.

"I'm so sorry to have interrupted," Giscard says, amusement dripping from every word.

I break away from Kirk's kiss, letting my eyes drop to the floor in what I hope passes for embarrassment. My cheeks burn - that part's real enough. The kiss left me dizzy, my lips tingling like I've been shocked.

"Mr. Giscard, I'm so sorry I took a break without clocking out first." My voice comes out breathless, which only adds to the act.

He waves his hand, dismissing my apology with a flourish. His silver rings catch the light from the club's neon signs.

"Technically, my dear, you are performing your job. It just so happens the guest you are, ahem, entertaining is your husband to be."

Giscard shakes his head, a theatrical sigh escaping his lips. His eyes glitter with something that might be envy, or might be hunger. I can't quite tell in the dim light.

"Oh, to have but a spark of the fiery passion you two share." His gaze slides to Kirk. "Come see me when you have a moment, Mr. Stevens."

Those predatory eyes swing back to me, accompanied by a grin that makes my skin crawl.

"Do take your time," he says. "And welcome to the Hellfire Club."