Page 55 of Dance With A Devil
I step into her space, one hand cupping her jaw, the other sinking into her waist like I’m anchoring myself to something holy.
“I came to burn the fucking world down with you, Little Fox,” I whisper. “So yeah, I’ll dance.”
We move like we were made to, her body curling into mine, hips brushing, breaths mingling. She leans into me, head resting on my chest like she’s finally found her safe place.
If only she knew the things I’ve done.
If only she knew the things I’d do again, without a second thought, just to keep her in this moment a little longer.
Then she says it. Soft. Shy. But deadly.
“I’m falling in love with you, Wyck.”
And just like that, I’m undone.
She doesn’t know what she’s done, baring her soul like that, stripping me of every wall I’ve ever built. And I want to kneel. I want to worship. I want to fucking ruin.
“I love you, too, Athens,” I murmur, dragging her tighter into me. “More than I’ve ever loved anything. More than I’ll ever love again.”
Because once you belong to a Devil, you don’t get a second chance.
You don’t need one.
She lifts her head and stares up at me with those stormy gray eyes, and I see it, fear, hope, surrender.
“Yes, Little Fox. I love you,” I say again, branding it into her bones.
We stay on the floor for what feels like hours, time bending to our will. The crowd vanishes, the noise fades, and all I hear is the thrum of her heart syncing to mine.
Then she leans in, lips to my ear, and whispers, “Can we get out of here?”
Fuck yes.
But I stall, brushing a thumb over her bottom lip. “You eat yet?”
She shakes her head.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing her hand, needing her close. Always close. We cut through the chaos and find the booth I staked out earlier, dark, private, dangerous. Just like us.
She slides in first, smirking at my theatrics when I say, “After you, milady.”
Her laugh is a melody I’d kill to keep.
“I’m starving,” she admits. “Burger. Extra onions. Cheese sticks. Onion rings. And beer.”
Fuck, I love her.
The waitress, Moe, scribbles it down without flinching. Good girl. Knows better than to linger.
When we’re alone, I study her. Not just look at her, study her like scripture. She has no idea the madness she wakes in me.
“How do you feel about tattoos?” I ask, testing the waters.
She perks up. “Love them.”
My lips twitch. “Would you wear my name over your heart?”
“No,” she says. It cuts, until she adds, “I want people to see I belong to you. I’d wear it across my throat if that’s where it’d show the most.”
