TRAPPED WITH THE DEVIL: MY FATHER'S BEST FRIEND

The bass thudded against my chest, vibrating through bone and blood, loud enough to drown out my thoughts.

I should not be here.

I should be hunched over my desk, memorizing drug classifications for my Pharmacology final. I should be worrying about tuition deadlines and my bank balance that read $4.12.

Instead, I was standing in a masquerade club in downtown Manhattan, wearing a borrowed red dress and a black lace mask, pretending I was someone else.

Just for one night.

"Relax," Lila shouted into my ear, laughing as she tugged me toward the bar. "You look like you are about to pass out."

"I might," I muttered. "If my father finds out I am here-"

"He will not," she cut in. "Tonight, you are not a nursing student with the weight of the world on her shoulders. Tonight, you are just a girl."

A lie.

But I let myself believe it.

I took the drink she pressed into my hand and swallowed, the burn of alcohol settling low in my stomach. The lights were low, the air thick with perfume and sweat and temptation.

And then-

A hand closed around my waist.

Not tentative. Not unsure.

Claiming.

I sucked in a sharp breath.

"You are trembling," a man murmured behind me.

I stiffened. "Excuse me?"

His hand remained at my waist, unyielding.

"Your pulse," he continued calmly. "It is racing."

I scoffed. "You have a habit of grabbing strangers and diagnosing them?"

His thumb pressed lightly into my waist.

"Only the interesting ones."

"You should let go of me," I whispered.

He hummed. "You should leave."

I did not.

My body betrayed me, staying exactly where it was.

"I am not scared," I told him.

He softly chuckled close to my ear "You should be."

He turned me slowly, deliberately, until I was facing him.

He wore a black mask. Minimal. Elegant. It hid his face, but not his presence. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in an immaculate suit that screamed money and power.

Danger.

I felt it instinctively.

His gaze swept over me, unhurried, as if he were memorizing me.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"I do not give my name to strangers," I replied, lifting my chin.

His eyes darkened with interest. "Good. Neither do I."

His hand remained at my waist, thumb pressing lightly into my skin, grounding me there. The music faded. The crowd disappeared.

There was only him.

"You should walk away," I said, though my body leaned closer.

"And yet," he murmured, dipping his head, "you have not."

The space between us vanished.

He kissed me.

Not softly. Not sweetly.

It was a kiss that stole breath and sense, that branded rather than asked. His hand slid into my hair, tilting my head back as if he already knew exactly how I would fit against him.

My fingers fisted in his jacket before I could stop myself.

God.

When he pulled back, my lips were swollen, my knees weak.

His forehead rested