(Baal's POV)
Baal stood by the tall window of the private lounge, his gaze fixed on the night beyond the glass. Lagos glittered beneath him—fast, loud, and beautifully unaware. Cars moved like blood through the city's veins, honking, glowing, chasing time.
But Baal… Baal waited.
And he hated waiting.
He was used to being the one who caused people to wait. Power meant time bowed to him. The world adjusted to his presence. But tonight, time moved without his permission—and it moved too slowly.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe. Patience had never been his virtue. Especially not tonight.
Not when she was coming.
Zaria.
Even the thought of her name curled in his mouth like a secret. A spell. A sin he'd already begun to taste.
He remembered her touch—soft but unafraid. Her kiss—curious and burning. Her eyes—blue like frozen flame. She hadn't tried to tame him, hadn't tried to seduce him. She'd simply been… and it had undone him.
He glanced at his phone for the fifth time in two minutes, the sharp glow of the screen casting shadows on his face. Just then, it rang.
"We're almost there. Should I bring her up, or will you come get her?"
His brows twitched. Come get her? He scoffed silently. What had he ever done to make his driver think he was a man who retrieved women like a simpering date? Was she Lucifer's spouse ? Even if she was.
Did she sprain her ankle on the way here? Was she blind now? No. She had legs. She could walk.
Still, the thought of her standing downstairs—waiting—shifted something in his chest.
"S-sir?" the driver's voice pulled him from his thoughts.
Baal exhaled slowly. "Escort her up."
"Yes, sir."
He ended the call, tossing the phone on the table with more force than necessary. He returned to pacing, his boots thudding against the polished floor of the empty restaurant.
He had reserved the entire place for this dinner—lavish, dramatic, and utterly devoid of strangers. He hated the noise of humans. The smell of their greed, their desperation.
But Zaria… she was something different.
Then he heard it—tap, tap, tap.
Heels.
Sharp. Feminine. Steady.
He turned toward the staircase.
And then she appeared.
For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
The long white gown clung to her like it was designed with his hands in mind. A slit ran high up her left thigh, her soft legs catching the light. Her chest rose and fell, framed perfectly by the plunging neckline that revealed just enough of her cleavage to make his thoughts spiral. The white gown contradicting his black suit, meaning that light and darkness were not meant to be together
She was glowing—truly glowing. Skin like warm gold, hair cascading down her back in perfect waves, silver heels glinting with each step.
She looked like a vision.
No, more than that.
She looked like a temptation crafted just for him.
His breath caught in his throat. She is worthy… even Lucifer would agree.
He didn't even notice how close she'd gotten until her soft voice pulled him from his trance.
"Good evening," she said.
He blinked. Slowly.
Then offered a wicked smile. "Good evening, temptress."
He stepped forward, pulling a chair for her with a grace that surprised even him. She sat, her eyes never leaving his, those brilliant blue orbs searching him as though she could see past his polished mask.
For a long moment, they simply stared.
Then, he signaled for the chef.
The dishes were elaborate—handpicked, curated, and explained by a man who thought every herb and sauce he'd used was a form of art. Baal tuned it out. All he could think of was the woman across the table.
They ate in silence at first.
Until he surprised himself by saying, "Tell me about yourself."
She raised an eyebrow but smiled, amused. "I didn't think you were the type to ask questions."
"I'm not," he admitted. "But I want to know what goes on behind those eyes."
She leaned forward slightly, her fingers brushing the rim of her glass. "You mean besides the chaos of school, annoying professors, my overly dramatic best friend, and trying not to lose my mind?"
He almost smiled. Almost.
She kept talking, her voice soft, expressive. Something in him relaxed. He watched her speak—not just her lips, but the way she moved, the way her fingers danced as she explained things, the light in her eyes when she mentioned something she loved.
But mostly, he watched her mouth.
He wasn't listening.
Not really.
Not until she tapped his wrist gently. "Are you listening to me?"
Her touch jolted something in him. His eyes flicked to her hand—so small, so warm.
"I am now."
And just like that, the air shifted. The tension melted. The dinner became less of a performance and more… human. They laughed. They drank. He even let himself forget what he was, if only for a moment.
Then it happened.
She reached for the wipes. Her bracelet caught the wine glass, and in a second—crash.
Red wine spilled across her chest, dripping down the satin like blood on snow.
"Oh no," she gasped, dabbing at it. But the stain spread.
He stood immediately.
The world narrowed to that dress. That wet fabric. Her flushed skin.
Without thinking, he moved to her side.
"You need to change," he said, more command than suggestion.
She nodded, cheeks red. "It's all over me."
He took her hand and led her out of the restaurant, up to the private suite he had secured for the night.
⸻
The Bathroom
She disappeared inside. Five minutes passed.
Then, softly: "Baal… I need help."
He didn't hesitate.
He entered—and froze.
She stood facing the mirror, her back to him, fingers fumbling at the zipper. The dress clung to her like a second skin, soaked and heavy.
He stepped behind her. "Let me."
Her breath hitched.
His hands grazed the zipper. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled it down. Inch by inch. The dress gave way. Her smooth back, her spine, the graceful curve of her hips—he saw it all.
Then, it slipped off.
She caught it just in time, hugging it to her chest, cheeks burning.
"I didn't mean—"
He moved closer. "Don't hide from me."
And then he kissed her.
Not softly.
It was a claiming—deep, molten, unforgettable. She moaned into his mouth, arms wrapping around his neck. He pressed her against the counter, lips exploring her throat, collarbone, shoulder. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her body trembling against his.
He craved her.
⸻
The Bedroom
Without a word, he lifted her.
She gasped but didn't resist.
He carried her to the bedroom, laying her down on the silk sheets like a gift he wasn't sure he deserved. Her hair fanned around her, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling like a storm waiting to break.
She reached for him again.
This time, he didn't hold back.
He covered her body with his, kissing her like she was the last taste he'd ever have. Her legs parted beneath him, her skin burning against his. Her breath hitched, her hands desperate on his skin.
"Tell me to stop," he rasped.
She didn't.
She pulled him down. And he obeyed.
⸻
The Rhythm
They moved together slowly at first—like music building to its crescendo. He explored her like a sacred map, responding to her gasps, the tremble of her thighs, the arch of her back. She opened to him—completely, beautifully.
She whispered his name like a spell.
He groaned hers like a prayer.
They lost themselves in the rhythm, in the heat, in the storm.
Until finally—collapse.
Breathless. Tangled. Silent.
Only the sound of their breathing filled the space. The scent of heat and skin lingered between them.
Baal looked at her—hair tousled, cheeks flushed, lips red from his kisses.
Something inside him stirred.
She was dangerous.
Not because of who she was.
But because of what she made him feel.