Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The loud buzzing of a smartphone rumbles like an angry insect against the polished wood of the nightstand. 

A young blonde woman clad in a dark satin robe reaches out for the device. 

Studying the incoming call, she schools her voice into one of calm neutrality. 

"Hello?"

Her green eyes narrow at the deep baritone of a male's voice speaking from the other line, his tone cold—absolute.

"Good evening. I have a job for you.."

After getting all the details—including promised payment, she nods and answers with a voice void of all emotion,

"Yes, Sir. Consider it done." 

She ends the call, then removes the blonde wig with a tired sigh.

Taking off the wig-cap, she shakes her dark, messy hair, running her fingers through it as she tosses the fake hair onto the disheveled bed. Glancing around her, her nose crinkles at the state of the room.

The cheap motel room reeks of sex and the metallic tang of blood, along with the acrid hint of bile. 

In the middle of the floor, lying naked in a pool of bloody vomit, is the body of Darius McCoy, one of Seattle's most notorious con-men. After scamming a high profile client out of a large chunk of money, his days of swindling have finally come to an end. 

She crouches down next to his head, careful to avoid the bodily fluids just inches from her bare toes. Her green eyes take in the sight of him, his face still twisted in agony even in death, his blue lips damp with froth and blood—his dick still hard, its base ringed in red lipstick.. 

"Sorry sweetie, it's nothing personal, but them's the rules—cross the wrong people, and you pay the price." 

With a casual sigh, she stands and steps over his corpse, making her way to the bathroom for a well-earned shower.

She doesn't delay, house-keeping will be by within the hour. All traces of her existence will have to disappear along with her like smoke in the wind. 

A few weeks later...

Raze lounges in the corner booth of Eclipse, the same worn velvet seat he claimed every Friday like it was his throne. The club thumps around him—bass vibrating through the floor, strobe lights slicing through smoke and sweat, bodies grinding on the main floor like they were trying to forget the week. His crew is already half-drunk, Kade laughing too loud while some dancer grinds in his lap, while Diego, his right-hand, nurses a cigarette as he scans the room with those golden eyes that miss nothing.

Whisky burns smooth down Raze's throat, the glass sweating in his hand. Another girl—blonde, easily forgettable—is straddling his thigh, rolling her hips in lazy circles. He barely registers her. His mind is elsewhere: Diego's report from earlier that afternoon still echoing.

"Word on the street, Boss. Another hit's out on you. Fresh contract. High price. They're saying it's someone good this time. Someone who doesn't miss."

Raze had only snorted, tipping his glass. "They all say that. Let 'em come."

His enemy list is long enough to paper the walls of this club twice over. One more name doesn't scare him. He's always prepared. Always ready.

But tonight feels... different.

The dancer in his lap leans in, her perfume invading his nose. Her glossy lips brush his ear, whispering something filthy that he doesn't bother answering. Instead he flicks a few bills from his stack, tucking them into her bra with a lazy smirk, then gives her ass a light slap—dismissive, but polite. "Go on, sweetheart. Find someone who's paying attention."

She pouts, but scurries off with the cash without a word. Raze doesn't watch her go.

His eyes have already drifted upward.

To the center platform.

She hangs there like a dark promise—suspended in a web of gleaming chains, body arched in perfect tension. Mesh bodysuit clinging to every curve like liquid shadow, sheer enough that the pasties over her nipples were the only thing keeping it legal. Chains wrap her thighs, forcing them wide, lace panties barely concealing what the crowd was dying to see. Long black hair pulled into a high ponytail cascaded down her spine in silken waves, swaying with every slow spin.

"Doll", the manager had said earlier. "New girl. Been here a couple weeks. She's got talent, highly requested by the patrons."

Raze sets his glass down. Slow. Deliberate.

Something tightens in his chest—not lust, not exactly. Recognition. The way one blade recognizes another in the dark.

He tilts his chin toward the platform. "Who is she?"

Diego follows his gaze, exhaling smoke in a slow stream. Tall and broad-shouldered, short dark hair clipped close, his face usually locked in a stony mask that only cracked when something genuinely surprised him. A neatly trimmed soul patch set beneath his lower lip, gold rings glinting in his gauged earlobes, and tattoos creeping up the thick column of his neck from beneath the crisp collar of his black suit—dark ink disappearing under fabric like secrets he isn't ready to share. Those golden eyes flick to Raze's teal ones now, reading the tone before the words even landed.

"The girl? She's new, Boss. Remember? Started a few shifts back."

Raze's voice drops, low enough that only Diego hears it. "I know she's new. I want her real name. Where she came from. Run it. Now."

Diego's golden eyes flick to him sharply. He knows that tone. He doesn't argue, only nods once, then raises his voice over the thumping music.

"Kade!"

The younger man—brown mop of hair falling into his eyes, cheeks flushed from liquor and arousal—is enthusiastically matching the rhythm of the girl grinding in his lap. He doesn't even look up at first, his drunken laughter and her giggles keeping him oblivious to Diego's gruff voice.

"KADE!"

"Whaaaat?" Kade finally whines, voice twinged with exasperation, his hips still rolling.

"Boss wants you to do some digging."

"Wha—Now??"

"No, shithead, tomorrow. Yes, NOW!"

Kade lets out an exaggerated groan, slowing his movements with a childish pout. Panting, he fishes a wad of bills from his pocket, stuffing them into the dancer's top, pathetically watching her strut away with a blown kiss over her shoulder like a kicked puppy. He composes himself—trying and failing to conceal the obvious erection tenting his slacks—while pulling his phone out, and slides closer to the booth.

"Who's it on?" he asks with a huff, thumb already hovering over the screen.

Diego jerks his chin toward the platform. "The new dancer—'Doll'. Boss wants everything—real name, history, the works."

Kade glances up at the chains display, eyebrows lifting with interest, his cheeks flushing darker. "Her? Shit—yeah, alright. Gimme a few hours."

Raze doesn't respond. His eyes stay locked on her—every controlled spin, every deliberate arch of her back. She isn't performing for tips. She is performing for someone.

And he has a very bad feeling in pit of his gut that he knows who.

The intel doesn't come fast—nor is it easy.

Kade grumbles throughout the night, eventually disappearing burying himself in his laptop in the back office. False name on the employment paperwork, no socials to be found under "Doll," no legitimate address. Face recognition on the club's own cameras pulled up half a dozen partial matches—different hair colors, different makeup, different outfits—but those could've been any number of the dancers working at Eclipse, outfit changes up to and including wigs are part of the gig, after all.

It takes cross-referencing with city CCTV feeds (a few quiet favors called in), scouring deep-web contract boards, and a couple discreet pings to old underworld contacts who owe Diego money.

Three days later, Kade finally slides a tablet across the desk in Raze's penthouse office. Grainy stills from traffic cams around the city, a few older photos from closed cases, whispered forum threads about "The Succubus."

"Real name's Lailith," Kade says, voice quieter than usual. "Or at least that's what the ghosts of the underworld call her. She specializes in intimate kills—poison in the kiss, poison... between her legs. Guys go in for a taste, then choke on their own vomit. Never leaves a mark that can't be explained as an overdose or heart failure. She's been linked to at least seven high-profile hits in the last three years. Always changes her appearance. Always vanishes right after the deed is done."

Diego—usually stone-faced—shifts in his seat. His broad shoulders tense, the tattoos creeping up his neck seeming to darken as the blood rushed beneath them. His golden eyes widen fractionally, the hardened mask cracking into something rare: genuine shock. The gold rings in his gauged ears catch the low light as he leans forward, rereading the screen like he can't quite believe it.

"Holy shit..." Diego mutters under his breath. "The Succubus. In our club, dancing for tips."

Kade lets out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, "Yeah. Never had a fear-boner before, but damn... that was her, the other night. Right there on stage, legs spread for the whole room. So she's the one they sent to take you out, boss?"

Raze stays silent for a long beat. 

Not they. 

Him...

Corvus. 

It comes as no surprise; that bastard's been the most bitter about losing his throne on top of the food chain. His connections run deep—it was only a matter of time before he'd make a deal with the she-devil. 

His eyes flick back to the blurry street cam image, teal irises darkening. Then he lifts the glass in a slow, deliberate toast toward the screen—toward the woman who thinks she's hunting him.

Inside, something uncoils. 

It's not fear or anger. 

It's something much darker. 

Hungrier.

'She thinks she's the predator here. Thinks she can slip in wearing skimpy lace and pasties—wrap those supple thighs around my head and poison me while I'm face-down in her cunt. 

Thinks she'll walk away clean, another name crossed off another hit-list.'

He takes a slow sip of his whisky, letting the burn settle low in his gut.

Wrong.

'I'm going to break her, first.

Not with a knife, or a bullet. I'm going to break her with my hands and my cock—until every time she tries to remember her mission, all she feels is me. Until her body betrays her before her mind even gets the chance. Until she's begging for the man she was sent to kill, screaming his name while she comes apart on him again and again.

And when she's trembling, dripping, ruined—when she's forgotten what it feels like to be the one holding the leash—

I'll make her mine.

She wants to be cute and play hunter? 

Fine.

But I'm the one who's going to win.'

Raze drains the rest of his whisky in one swallow, the glass clinking softly against the wooden desk as he sets it down.

His smile is slow. Sharp. Almost tender in its twisted cruelty.

"Well, well," he murmurs, voice low enough that only the room heard. "Looks like someone finally sent a blade sharp enough to cut me."

He stands, buttoning his jacket with deliberate calm, his red hair catching the morning light like fresh blood.

She is coming.

And he is ready.

Chapter Text

Applying the final coat of the laced lipstick to her full lips, Lailith takes a moment to admire her work. The black tint stands out against her fair features, accented by the gothic-themed makeup she's chosen specially for tonight.

Her long black hair, shaved down on the sides, is clipped into a half-up do, allowing the loose curls to cascade down her back in shiny waves of inky silk.

Standing from the vanity, she moves to the floor-length mirror for one last check: an all-black Victorian ensemble, but with a risqué twist—low-cut bodice trimmed with lace that frames an ample amount of cleavage, skirt cut high in front to flash stocking-clad thighs, trailing low in back almost to the floor if not for the high heels. The black veil completes it, turning her into the tragic mourner she's playing tonight.

'Oh the irony...' she thinks with a wicked smirk.

Her green eyes drift to the clock on the far wall. 

Nine o'clock. 

Raze and his crew should be in the VIP corner booth by now, just as they are every Friday night.

So predictable, this is almost too easy. 

Every time she has performed these past few weeks, Raze's eyes never once left her form. She had him hooked from the first night he saw her, and she knows it. 

It makes her feel alive—powerful, even. 

But she's dragged this out long enough. Tonight, she is going to make damn sure she finally lures him into her trap.

'I wonder what his face will look like, buried in my pussy, and choking down my special nectar?' She giggles giddily to herself, an almost unhinged gleam in her eye.

The excitement has her core throbbing, slick threatening to leak from her slit. 

She calms herself quickly, lightly slapping her cheeks with her hands as she addresses her reflection, "No! Down, girl! We can't let any of it go to waste!" 

A knock at the door is her signal: five minutes to stage.

This will be her last show, because after that, the real fun begins.

The house lights dim further, spotlights slicing through haze and perfume.

Raze's crew is already half-gone—two of them laughing too loud while dancers grind in their laps, glitter catching strobes like falling stars. They're sloppy tonight, still riding the high from their score earlier that week. 

Raze isn't. 

He never is.

His gaze cuts across the floor like a blade, skipping sequins and skin until it snags—hard—on the stage.

There she is again.

Lailith—only known to the patrons as 'Doll'. 

The woman who's been orbiting his periphery for weeks like smoke he can't quite grip. He has been waiting patiently for the right time to get his hands on her. Waiting for the right moment to corner her—and break her.

And tonight? 

It feels like it's time to finally  make his move... 

For tonight, she's darker. The black Victorian getup clings like a second skin, lace framing that obscene cleavage, skirt split high enough to tease fishnet and thigh with every step. The veil turns her into something fever-dreamed—mourning widow, fallen angel, executioner in lace. 

It's as if she is blatantly parading her true nature on that stage, while everyone else in the room is too oblivious to recognize it. 

But he does. 

He's buried enough bodies to know the aesthetic when it stares him down.

He doesn't move. 

Doesn't even blink. 

Only watches intently as she glides onto the stage, spotlight catching the wicked gloss on those black-tinted lips, her hips rolling slowly to the low, heavy beat—pulsing like a heart about to flatline.

Every other eye in the room locks on her too, but Raze feels it differently. 

She's taunting him—and he knows it.

The whole damn motif: the cemetery setup, her outfit, even the fucking music—it's foreshadowing.

That 'funeral' is meant to be his own. 

Kade, ever the loudmouth, leans over, slurring through a tipsy grin.

"Boss, you seein' this? Lai—" he catches himself with a shake of his head, "Doll's on fire tonight! Been waitin' for her next set all week!"

Raze doesn't answer right away. He tilts his head, red hair shifting under red neon, the corner of his mouth curling.

"Yeah," he says, low enough that only Kade hears. "I see her."

'And I got her message, loud and clear...' he thinks to himself, referring to her performance.

He sets his glass down slowly. He lifts two fingers—a bare gesture—and the floor manager appears wordlessly.

"Private room," Raze says tersely. "The black one in back. Have Doll come straight there when she's done. Tell her...it's non-negotiable."

The manager nods, then promptly vanishes.

Raze leans forward, elbows on his knees, cold blue eyes never leaving the stage. 

The air thickens. 

She's good. 

Better than good.

But he's been hunted before...

And every hunter ends up bleeding out beneath his shoes.

That's how he earned his name.

'Razor'. 

The lethal blade of the underworld.

It took less than a year for he and his syndicate to rise to the top, claiming their spot as the most lethal organization in all of Seattle. 

Through his connections and influence, he has rendered himself untouchable. Not even the strong arm of the law can take him. His jobs are always too clean, never enough evidence to put him away. Besides, how can someone be accused of murder without a body to prove it? 

Coming back to the present, Raze redirects his focus back on the stage. 

Back to her. 

Her body sways to the slow beat, hands caressing curves as heavy bass syncs with tolling church bells. She moves with fluid grace between tombstone props, a Gregorian chant humming low, turning allure to omen.

Sultry mask in place, she scans beneath the veil until her eyes catch a head of vibrant red in the VIP corner. Teal eyes track her every move, barely blinking. His focus is absolute—predatory hunger stripping her bare.

'Gotcha.' 

She keeps her smirk of sick triumph concealed behind the veil.

She moves to the pole at the stage end, closest to his booth. Hoisting herself up, she spins, inverts, then drops. The crowd cat-calls and claps. All the while she keeps him in her periphery, gauging his reactions. 

She gracefully dismounts with a twirl, then moves to a nearby headstone. She pulls a black lace handkerchief from between her breasts, wiping away phantom tears beneath the veil, while stroking the stone lovingly to the melancholy beat.

As the beat shifts, a dark coffin is carried out by pall-bearers clad in black and set down on center stage. They file off as she approaches.

As the song crests, she climbs atop, straddling the polished wood. The width forces her legs wide, her skirt hiking, providing a brief glimpse of her bare core under the dim lights. Her hips grind, each gyration revealing more to the crowd's hungry eyes. Her handkerchief dabs her eyes once more, before being tossed off-stage towards her audience. The crowd erupts—a chorus of hollers and whistles. Wadded up bills are thrown onto the stage, while greedy hands scramble for the discarded lace on the floor.

As the final note plays, she leans back on her hands, head thrown back. The lights cut as the bell tolls once more, the last ring sounding much more ominous than the rest.

That final toll hangs like smoke in the air. The stage plunges into darkness, her very being swallowed by the void. The house lights swell just enough to breathe life back into the applauding room.

However Raze doesn't clap—he doesn't whistle or throw money like those animals in the crowd. He sits still as death, watching where Doll vanished. 

Kade leans in, breath thick with liquor. "Holy shit, boss. She's a nightmare in lace! You actually gonna—"

Raze only holds up a single finger. Kade snaps his mouth shut.

He knows that calculating look. 

The Boss is in work mode.

Tonight has officially stopped being recreational.

The floor manager appears once again. "She's on her way, Mr. Raze. Black room. Two minutes."

Raze nods once. Stands—slow, fluid. His crew quiets with a round of hushed murmurs and exchanged glances as they watch him rise from his seat. 

Raze moves through the crowd like water through rocks—bodies part without knowing why. His black suit sits open at his throat, his long red hair catching in the neon overhead. He knows damn well she was watching him, just as he watched her. 

He knows she's baiting him, he's just letting her think she's hooked him. 

The black room is at the far end of the hall—private, soundproofed, no cameras (at least none his establishment openly admits to). The door's already cracked when he arrives. 

The inside is decorated with low amber sconces, a black leather sectional that could seat six, a low table with a bottle of top-shelf whiskey and two glasses waiting like they were always meant to be there. The air smells faintly of leather and smoke, mixed with anticipation.

Raze steps in, letting the door swing almost shut behind him—leaving it open just enough so that she can push through without knocking. He opts not to sit or indulge in a drink. Just crosses to the far wall, back to the door, hands in his pockets, staring at nothing in particular.

Waiting.

When the door finally opens— the soft click of heels on hardwood, a rustle of lace and fishnet—he doesn't turn right away. He lets her step fully into the room, first. The door eases shut with a final, heavy thud that seals them inside.

Only then does he pivot, slow and methodical, a loose strand of red hair falling into his eyes as they lock on hers.

The veil is still in place, but it doesn't hide the black gloss of her lips, or the way the bodice clings to her sweat-damp skin, nor the faint tremor of adrenaline still riding her from the stage.

His smile, small and sharp, doesn't reach his cold eyes.

"Impressive show, Doll." The way the name rolls off his tongue has her bristling internally. 

His voice drops low, rough from smoke and whiskey. "Had half the room ready to sell their souls for a taste."

He takes one step closer, then another. Then stops just outside arm's reach—close enough so she can smell the faint cedar-and-gun-oil scent that clings to him, but far enough she has to decide whether to close the gap.

"...But I'm not half the room." His gaze drops deliberately—down the lace-trimmed cleavage, the high-split skirt still riding up from the coffin grind, the fishnets stretched tight over thighs he already knows feel like sin. Then back up to her face. "So tell me..."

He lets the pause hang like a dare.

"...what's it gonna cost to get a private encore?"

Despite the thundering of her pulse in her ears, she forces her expression into one of sensual neutrality, keeping her eyes heavily hooded and her tinted lips pressed into a soft smile. 

'Fuck, I knew he was hot, but I didn't realize he was this gorgeous up close!' Her mind reels as her eyes take him in properly, raking over his body with blatant interest that she doesn't even try to conceal. 'Damn, this sucks...it'd be so much easier if he was old and ugly!' 

Tamping down her inner turmoil, she slowly approaches, her hips swaying with each step. 

"Depends," she coos, keeping her voice steady yet soft, "how much are you willing to pay to ease this lady in mourning's sorrows?" 

Raze doesn't miss the double meaning behind her question, but remains silent as she nears.

Once she's close enough, she reaches out and lightly runs a manicured finger from his sharp collar bone down the exposed flesh of his chest, following the prominent dip between his pectorals. 

She forces herself to ignore the feeling of the defined muscle beneath her finger, though the tell-tale throbbing between her legs almost causes her to falter before she wills the feeling away.

Raze doesn't flinch at the touch. His breath doesn't even hitch. But the second her fingertip makes contact—the slow drag down skin still warm from the club's heat—his eyes darken, pupils blowing wide like ink spilling into water.

He lets her trace the line, lets her feel the steady thump of his heart beneath the open collar, the faint scar that runs parallel to the path she's drawing. Then, without warning, his hand snaps up—fast enough to startle her, yet gentle enough not to bruise—and catches her wrist mid-motion. His thumb presses lightly over her pulse point, feeling the frantic little rabbit-beat she's trying so hard to hide.

"Careful, Doll," he murmurs, voice gravel-rough and pitched low enough that it vibrates between them. "You start mapping me like that, and I might start thinking you're after something."

He doesn't let go of her wrist. Instead he turns her hand palm-up in his grip, studying the black-lacquered nails, the delicate veins standing out against pale skin from the adrenaline still pumping through her. Then he lifts her fingers to his mouth, and brushes his lips across her knuckles in the barest hint of a kiss.

"Name your price," he purrs against her skin, eyes flicking up to lock on hers through the veil. "Money's easy. But trying to snag a catch like yours truly..." He lets the words hang, heavy. "That costs blood."

He releases her wrist but doesn't step back. If anything, he leans in—just enough so that the alluring scent of his cologne floods her nose. Enough that she can feel the warmth rolling off his larger body in the chilled private room.

He notes how her eyes widen a fraction before he continues, "But let's not bullshit each other tonight." His free hand lifts, fingertips ghosting along the edge of her veil without lifting it—tracing the lace where it clings to her cheekbone. "You didn't come back here to leave with bills stuffed in your garter. You've been watching me watch you for weeks. And right now..." His thumb dips lower, brushing the corner of her black-glossed mouth, smearing the faintest edge of it onto his skin like war paint. "You've finally got me all to yourself."

He tilts his head, red strands falling forward, voice dropping to something almost intimate.

"So tell me, Doll—what are you really here to collect?"

The question lands soft, but it's edged like a blade held flat against her skin. Not a flat-out accusation, not entirely. Just... observant, patient—inviting her to close the last few inches, press those poisoned lips to his. To let the game tip whichever way she chooses to turn it. 

His other hand settles lightly at her waist—fingers splayed over the lace of her bodice, thumb resting just under the swell of her breast. Not groping or demanding, just there. A quiet promise that if she invites it, he'll meet her halfway.

Her heart nearly stops at his words.

'He knows something... Smart bastard, no wonder he's the best at what he does. This is definitely going to get a lot sloppier than planned. Fuck, I hate messy jobs...but then again, killing him will be all the more rewarding in the end...' 

She knows she has to tread carefully, now. One wrong move, misplaced word, can unravel everything. There's no room for mistakes beyond this point, otherwise it's her corpse at the bottom of the Sound, not his...

"Fifty dollars by the hour," She answers, keeping her tone even, determined to keep the act up even though it's pointless. Now it's just become a game to her. "Any extra services—kissing, touching—another fifty. Sex...five hundred. Non-negotiable." 

She waits, gauging his reaction to see if he plays along.

Raze's eyes narrow just a fraction at her price list—amused, but also unimpressed. 

'She's cute when she's lying...'

The smile that curves his mouth is slow, almost indulgent, like he's watching a kitten bare its teeth and calling it a roar.

"Fifty an hour," he repeats, voice low and mocking in the best way. "Selling that body of yours like it's the rarest thing in Eclipse. Cute, Doll."

He doesn't step back. The hand at her waist tightens, thumb brushing the underside of her breast now in a lazy arc that sends a jolt of heat straight to her core.

His other hand catches the edge of her veil and lifts it away in one fluid motion. Black lace slides up and over, revealing pale skin, dark liner, those full lips still glistening with that lethal black gloss.

He studies her like she's an art piece in a gallery that he's deciding to take home or pass on.

"Problem is..." he murmurs, leaning downward so that his mouth is hovering a mere breath away from hers, "I know what's really going on, here. And as cute as the bravado is, I think it's time to cut the act.  So here's my counter," he continues, leaning further in so that his hot breath tickles her ear. "No bullshit menu. You give me everything tonight—every inch, every moan, every filthy secret you're hiding behind that dancer act—and I'll make it worth your while."

His thumb traces her lower lip as he pulls back, smearing black onto his skin. He brings it to his own mouth, sucks the taste off— his eyes never leaving hers. 

The hand at her waist slides lower now, rough fingers hooking the high slit of her skirt, tugging fishnet taut against her plush thigh.

He meets her eyes again, his gaze predatory.

"Or..." His thumb slides higher, dangerously close to where the hidden poison waits. "...you try it your way. Try and kiss me, try to force my face between those legs..." 

With practiced grace, he produces a metal switchblade from his pocket, flipping out the sharp edge with a flick of his wrist. He then pulls her closer flush against himself and holds the cold edge to her throat, just above her pulse, "...And then see how far you can get before I take full control and fuck the daylights out of you while my blade is at your throat."

The bass outside thumps like a distant heartbeat, filling silence that hangs between them.

"Your call, Doll." His voice is velvet over steel, his breath fanning across her lips. "Choose. Or do we just skip to the part where I find out how wet the Succubus gets when she's caught?"

Her heart drops, ice in her veins, but her mask doesn't slip, even with the blade against her neck. 

Clearly the lipstick failed, but that is no reason to worry...yet. 

Instead, her lips curve—slow, lethal.

One hand slips behind her back under the pretense of adjusting the lace frills at the small of her skirt. Manicured fingers close around the hidden syringe taped there. She retrieves it in one fluid motion, her movements quick but not giving a cause for alarm.

With the speed of  a striking cobra, she knees him in the gut and swats the knife out of his hand. It clatters across the floorboards, disappearing underneath the couch. 

Then she lunges again—lightning-fast—aiming the needle for the side of his exposed neck.

But Raze is quick to recover.

His hand snaps up, catching her wrist mid-strike, twisting it just enough to make her fingers open without breaking any bones. The syringe clatters to the hardwood between them.

Before she can swing at or knee him a second time, he spins them around and slams her back against the wall—hard enough that the air punches out of her lungs in a gasp. A single powerful thigh shoves between her own, forcing them apart until the skirt rides high and cool air kisses her slick skin.

Without losing his grip on her, he scoops the syringe up with his free hand, all the while never breaking eye contact. His teeth catch on the cap, pulling it off with a loud pop, then spitting it aside. The exposed needle glints with a lethal promise under the amber sconce.

Then—while his other hand fists the lace at her bodice and yanks it down with a sharp rip to bare her breasts—he brings the needle up, pressing the tip right under her jaw, over the frantic pulse there. Not breaking skin, but just enough sting to promise that it could.

"You really thought you'd kill me tonight, Lailith?" he growls, voice laced with dark approval. "The Succubus with her little death-trap cunt and needles. Cute."

He doesn't wait for her to answer. His free hand shoves between her thighs. Without warning, two fingers plunge deep, curling hard against that swollen spot that makes her knees threaten to buckle.

"Feel that?" he hisses, needle steady at her throat. "That's me taking what you came here to kill with. You coated yourself inside and out. Must've taken years to build enough tolerance of your own so that men would die happy between your thighs."

He pumps—hard, relentless—thick thumb finding her clit and grinding in merciless circles.

"But I'm not dying tonight," he snarls against her mouth. "So come. Push it all out. Let every drop of that poison leave you with your screams. Squeeze it from that greedy cunt until there's nothing left to kill me with."

The needle presses a fraction harder, tiny sting. Every time she suppresses her gasps and mewls, he increases the pressure just enough to remind her it's there.

"Don't hold back," he orders, fingers curling faster, thumb relentlessly circling her swollen bud. "Or I press this in while you're still fluttering around me. One bad clench and the Succubus ends with her own poison in her veins. So let me hear all of it, baby."

He doesn't let up. Doesn't give her room to breathe or think.

He waits—for the first broken moan, for the first involuntary buck, for the moment her body betrays her and starts to purge.

Then she shatters—gushing, crying out, walls clamping so tight he can feel every pulse. He works her through it, milking every contraction until he's satisfied that the threat's gone. Slick coats his hand, and drips down onto the leg of his slacks, leaving a soaked patch on the expensive material.

He pulls his fingers free slowly, with an obscene sound, bringing them to his mouth. The sweet taste of her, along with the ghost of the toxin, leaves a tingling sensation on his tongue.

"Good girl..." he rasps, needle still at her throat. "All gone."

Only then does he toss the syringe aside. It skitters across the floor.

His eyes burn into hers— his red hair falling forward, pupils blown wide, until a mere ring of teal barely remains.

"F-Fuck you.." She hisses, though it lacks malice. 

This man...this bastard...has turned the tables on her and what pisses her off the most, is that she fucking wants him. 

No...

She NEEDS him.

She can't stop the whimper that slips past her smeared lips. Her pussy, rendered harmless without the poison, drips obscenely while clenching around nothing, mourning the loss of his deft fingers. 

Fuck, she wants his cock in her right now, but she'll be damned if she tells him that and gives him the satisfaction.

With the threat of the needle now gone, she tilts her chin up and spits at him, watching as it lands on his cheek. 

Probably not the smartest move, but she's got her pride...plus in her twisted blissed-out mind, it'd be more fun if she didn't make it that easy.

Raze freezes for half a heartbeat when the spit hits his cheek—warm, wet and defiant. Then the low rumble of a dark chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest and into hers where they're pressed together.

He doesn't wipe it away. He lets it slide, slowly down the sharp line of his jaw, lets her see it glisten under the amber light like a brand she just put on him.

"That's it," he growls, voice dropping to something primal. "There's my little killer..."

His hand snaps to her jaw, calloused fingers digging in just enough to force her eyes to his. He leans in, slow, deliberate, and drags his tongue along the path of her spit on his own skin—tasting defiance, tasting her.

"Pride's cute," he says, "...But it's not gonna save you from coming so hard you forget your own name."

He releases her jaw long enough to spin her around in one quick motion, slamming her front against the wall, her pale cheek pressed to the cool black paint. He kicks her legs wider apart with the toe of his polished dress shoe, the sound of leather against fishnet loud in the private hush. Then his hands are on her hips, yanking the skirt the rest of the way up and bunching it at her waist like it offends him.

Fabric tears, her bodice laces giving way under rough impatient fingers. Cool air hits her bare back, breasts and ass. Then he presses himself behind her, the hard length of his cock grinding against the cleft of her ass through his slacks.

"You want to fight?" he breathes against the shell of her ear, one hand sliding around to palm her breast, pinching the nipple until she gasps. "Then fight. Claw me. Bite me. Make me bleed. But you're still gonna take every inch while you do it."

His other hand dips between her thighs again—this time from behind. Three fingers this time, shoving in deep and scissoring wide, stretching her open while his thumb finds her sensitive clit and rubs it in merciless circles.

"I can feel you fluttering around me..." he growls, his hips rocking forward so she feels exactly how much he is enjoying his control over her. "You're gonna come again like this—pinned, dripping, hating how good it feels. Then, I'm gonna turn you around, bend you over that table, and fuck you until I've stuffed this little cunt full of my come."

He curls his fingers again, harder—hitting that spot over and over while his thumb never lets up its relentless pressure on her clit.

"Come for me again, baby," he snarls against her neck, teeth grazing the bite mark he left. "Come on my fingers like the desperate little whore you really are. Show me how badly you need this cock before I give it to you."

He doesn't let up, doesn't give her room to breathe, to think, to pretend anymore.

He waits, for the tightening of her heat, for the moment her pride finally cracks wide open.

The moan that erupts from her throat is borderline pornographic as his fingers play her cunt like a fine-tuned instrument that only he knows how to stroke. 

The coil inside of her begins to tighten once again, her inner walls clamping down tighter around his thick fingers. Each swipe against her swollen clit brings her closer to the edge.

Within seconds she's crying out in ecstasy, another wave of slick gushing out around his thrusting fingers and onto the floor beneath them as she rides out her high, sharp nails digging into the wall. 

As her release subsides, he continues his movements until she is crying out from the overstimulation. 

When he finally slows, her legs are trembling, almost threatening to give out from beneath her weight.

Fuck, if he's this good with his hands—how will his cock feel?!

Raze feels every tremor, every desperate clench of her walls around his fingers when she shatters. The sound she makes when she comes is obscene, raw, and it shoots straight to his cock like a live wire. It's almost painful, but he doesn't stop right away. He drags it out with slow, cruel circles on her clit, and shallow thrusts that keep her fluttering and gasping—until her cries turn sharp and pleading, until her knees start to buckle and her nails scrape uselessly at the wall.

Only then does he ease off, fingers slipping free with a slick pop. He keeps her pinned there with his body, chest to her back, letting her feel how hard he still is—hotter, thicker now, straining against his trousers like it has its own heartbeat.

He brings his soaked fingers up to her mouth again—this time slower, painting her swollen lips with her own release before pushing them inside. He lets her taste the mess she's made, the proof of how thoroughly he just wrecked her a second time.

"Good girl," he rasps against her ear, voice rougher than before, edged with something hungry and barely leashed. "Look at you. Came so hard you're shaking. And that was just from a second round of my fingers."

He spins her around again, gentler this time, but no less commanding. He pushes until her back is to the wall once more and they're face to face. Her legs are still trembling; he hooks one under the knee and lifts it high, opening her wide, forcing her to balance on one stiletto heel while the torn skirt bunches uselessly around her waist. This position leaves her completely exposed—her cunt slick, swollen and glistening under the low amber light.

He doesn't break eye contact as he reaches down and finally undoes his belt. The metallic clink is loud in the quiet room. Then the zipper—a slow drag downward. He shoves his slacks and briefs just low enough to free himself with a grunt.

His cock springs out—thick, veined, flushed dark at the head, already leaking at the tip. Pumping himself once, twice—he grips the base and drags the length of it along her soaked folds, coating himself in her fresh release while she watches with hooded eyes. The heat of him against her oversensitive clit makes her hips jerk involuntarily.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, voice low and filthy. "That's what you've been missing out on while you played pretend assassin. That's what's gonna stretch you open until you can't think straight."

He notches the flushed swollen head at her entrance—barely pressing in, just enough to let her feel the blunt pressure, the promise of how full she's about to be. Then he stills, lets the anticipation burn.

"You're gonna take every inch," he says, eyes locked on hers, red hair falling forward like a curtain around them. "No condom. No mercy. I'm gonna fuck you raw, bury myself so deep you feel me in your throat, and when I come—" His voice drops to a growl. "—I'm gonna fill you until it's dripping down your thighs, and you'll thank me for it. No matter what, you're not walking out of here until I've ruined you for anyone else."

He leans in, mouth brushing hers—teasing, not quite kissing.

"Last chance to pretend you hate this," he whispers mockingly, hips rocking just enough to sink the head inside her—barely an inch, but enough to make her gasp. "Say the word and I stop."

It's a bluff—he has no intention of stopping now. And he's certain she doesn't want him to, either.

He waits. 

One heartbeat, two.

Then with a low growl he snaps his hips forward. He slides in hard and deep, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust that jostles her whole body.

The stretch is immediate and overwhelming. Her walls flutter around him like they're trying to push him out and pull him deeper at the same time. He groans low in his throat, forehead dropping to hers for a split second as he feels her clench.

"Fuck," he hisses. "So tight...so wet. Still coming down from the last one and already trying to strangle my dick."

He doesn't give her time to adjust. He starts moving, slow at first, long drags out and punishing thrusts back in, each one forcing a wet, filthy sound from between them. His hand stays hooked under her thigh, keeping her spread wide while the other fists in her hair, yanking her head back so he can watch her face while he fucks her.

"Tell me," he growls, pace picking up, hips slamming harder. "Tell me how good it feels to be full of the man you were supposed to kill! Tell me you want more! Or keep fighting it... and I'll just fuck the fight right back out of you."

Every snap of his hips grinds his pelvis against her clit, while every withdrawal leaves her empty and aching before he fills her all over again. The table rattles nearby from the force of it. The bass outside pulses in time with his rhythm.

He's not stopping. 

Not until she breaks again. 

Even if she pleads for him to stop, he'd just keep going.

"Fuck!" She cries out, her hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle beneath the fabric of his suit jacket. 

'Damn, this feels so good!' 

She wants to fight, see how much further she can push him, but the feeling of his thick length stretching her so deliciously has her mind clouded in a cock-drunk haze. 

Her hips move of their own accord, matching his rhythm, chasing him each time he pulls back. 

"Dammit! Please just keep fucking me! Wreck me, use me! Just—" her pleas are cut off by a particularly harsh snap of his hips, instead pulling a filthy whine from her lips.

Raze drinks in every broken sound she makes—the curses, the mewls, the way her nails rake down his shoulders like she's trying to anchor herself to reality while he systematically unravels her. The suit jacket can take the damage; he doesn't give a fuck. Let her shred it. Let her mark him. Every scratch just makes the fire burn hotter.

He laughs—low, rough, more growl than anything—right against her mouth as he swallows that filthy whine she lets slip. "There she is," he rasps, hips slamming forward again, deeper this time, grinding so hard the table nearby rattles like it's about to tip. "Begging already. Knew that pride wouldn't last long once you felt me splitting you open."

He doesn't slow down. Doesn't give her a second to catch her breath. He fucks her like he's trying to carve his shape into her—long, punishing strokes that drag every inch of him along her walls before snapping back in with bruising force. Each thrust punches the air out of her lungs, makes her breasts bounce against the torn lace, makes her thighs tremble where they're hooked around him.

One hand stays fisted in her hair, yanking her head back so he can watch her face—eyes glassy, lips swollen and smeared black, cheeks flushed dark under the gothic makeup. The other hand grips her ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, spreading her wider so he can sink even deeper, hitting that spot that makes her whole body jerk like she's been electrocuted.

"You want to be wrecked?" he growls, teeth grazing her jaw before he bites down again—harder this time, leaving another dark bruise to match the first. "Then take it. Take every fucking inch while you chase me like a needy little slut."

He shifts his angle—tilts his hips just enough that the base of his cock grinds against her clit with every brutal plunge. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room, obscene and relentless, drowning out the muffled bass from the club beyond the door.

"Feel that?" He pulls out almost all the way—slow, torturous—letting her feel the drag of every vein, the thick head catching at her entrance—then slams back in so hard her back arches off the wall. "That's me owning you. You came here to kill me, and now you're dripping around my cock, begging to be filled."

He releases her hair only to wrap his hand around her throat, thumb pressed under her jaw so that she has to look at him while he ruins her.

"Come again," he orders, voice dark velvet and steel. "Come on my cock like you mean it. Squeeze me so tight I can't think straight. Milk me until I'm spilling inside you."

He picks up the pace—faster, harder, his hips snapping with punishing strokes. The hand on her ass slides between them; rough fingertips find her clit and rub tight, merciless circles in time with his thrusts.

"No holding back," he snarls against her ear, breath hot and ragged. "Scream for me, baby. Let the whole fucking club hear what happens when an assassin forgets she's supposed to be the one holding the knife."

He drives into her again, deep and relentless, pushing her right to the edge and refusing to let her pull back.

The brutality of it all, the harsh strokes atop her clit, sends her careening over the edge once again, her voice nearly cracking from the force of the scream leaving her lungs. 

Her walls clamp down so tightly, she almost swears her own pussy is mapping out each prominent vein lining his dick. 

As her release drags on, she registers how his hips are losing their rhythm, his thrusts suddenly becoming sloppier, his own release not far behind. 

So she helps him along, "Come for me—fill me!"

Raze feels it hit her like a storm—her walls locking down around him in vicious, rhythmic pulses, milking him so hard it rips a guttural groan from deep in his chest. The scream she lets out cracks the air, raw and broken, and it's her words that are the final shove that sends him over the edge he's been teetering on since he first sank into her.

"FUCK—"

His hips stutter once, twice—then slam forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he comes undone a feral sound that's more beast than man. Heat floods her in thick, pulsing waves as he grinds against her clit through every spurt, dragging her orgasm out longer while he fills her so completely she can feel the overflow already starting to leak down her thighs. His fingers dig into her hips hard enough to bruise, holding her pinned and open as he rides it out, every shallow rock of his pelvis forcing another tremor through both of them.

He doesn't pull out. 

Not yet.

Instead he stays buried deep, cock still twitching inside her, chest heaving against hers. One hand slides up to cradle the back of her neck—thumb stroking the shaved undercut almost tenderly now—while the other stays locked on her thigh, keeping her leg hooked high around his waist. Their foreheads press together, sweat-slick skin sticking, breaths mingling in harsh pants.

For a long moment the only sounds are their ragged breathing, the wet slide of their bodies still joined, and the distant thump of the club beyond the door.

Then he speaks—voice wrecked, low, gravel-rough against her swollen lips.

"Feel that, baby?" He rocks his hips once—slow, deliberate—pushing his release deeper, making her gasp at the overstimulation. "That's me claiming you. Poison didn't kill me, you didn't kill me. And now you're dripping with my seed instead of my blood."

He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes—red hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, face flushed, and that dangerous glint still burning beneath the haze of satisfaction.

"You begged for it," he murmurs, thumb brushing a stray tear from the corner of her eye—whether from overstimulation or something else, he doesn't bother to ask. "Screamed for it. Came so hard I thought you'd break my dick in half."

He kisses her then, slow this time. It's filthy and deep, tongue sweeping in to taste the salt and the remnants of her ruined lipstick. When he breaks it, he growls as his teeth catch her lower lip in a gentle tug before letting go.

"So here's the new deal, Succubus." His voice drops to a dark, silken promise. "You don't report back to Corvus. You stay—with me, by my side. Be my dirty little secret who comes so sweet in my bed when she's full of me."

He rolls his hips again—shallow, teasing—reminding her exactly how full she still is.

"Or..." He lets the word hang, lips brushing hers. "You try to run, and I hunt you down. Pin you again. Fuck you again. Until the only thing you know how to do, is beg for my cock."

He finally eases out slowly with a wet squelch, letting her feel every inch drag free, leaving her empty and aching and leaking his release down her thighs. He doesn't step back far. Just enough to let her legs slide down until her feet touch the floor again—though they're still trembling too hard to hold her weight alone.

He catches her when she sways, one arm banding around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

"Choose," he says quietly, mouth at her temple. "Walk out that door and see how far you get... or stay right here. We'll clean you up, then I'll fuck you slow in the shower, then take you home with me and do it all again until sunrise."

His hand slides down between them—fingers dipping into the mess he left behind, gathering their combined release before bringing it up to her lips.

"Open," he growls. "Taste what we just made. Then tell me your answer."

The bass outside keeps pounding.

But in this room, time has stopped.

Waiting on her word.

She obediently opens her mouth, tasting the salty tang of their combined releases. 

Sucking the calloused digits clean, she pulls back just far enough to rasp out, "If you think for one second I'm going out that door looking like I just got mauled and fucked at the same time, you're fucking insane." 

Raze watches her suck his fingers clean—slow, deliberate, tongue curling around them like she's savoring the evidence of their ruin. The sight of her lips stretched around his knuckles, black gloss long since smeared into nothing but a dark, messy stain, sends a fresh pulse of heat straight to his still-half-hard cock. He doesn't pull away until she's done, until every trace of their combined mess is gone from his skin.

Her words hit him like a slap wrapped in silk. He laughs—low, rough, genuinely amused—and the sound rumbles through his chest where they're still pressed together.

"Looking like you just got mauled and fucked?" He tilts his head, red hair falling into his eyes as he studies her: torn bodice hanging off one shoulder, skirt bunched at her waist, thighs slick and trembling, fresh bite marks blooming purple on her throat, hair wild from his fists. "Sweetheart, that's exactly how you look. And it's the prettiest fucking thing I've seen all night."

He steps back just enough to give her room to breathe—but not enough to let her forget he's still right there, still towering, still owning the space between them. His trousers are still open, cock thick and glistening from being inside her, but he makes no move to cover up. No shame. No hurry.

"Fine. You don't wanna walk out looking like my personal masterpiece?" His voice drops, velvet and dangerous. "Then stay."

He turns, crosses the small room in three strides, and hits a discreet panel in the wall. A hidden door slides open—smooth, silent—revealing a narrow hallway lit by soft red strips. Beyond it: a private suite. Black marble shower big enough for three, king bed with dark sheets already turned down, a small bar stocked with top-shelf everything. The kind of bolt-hole only someone like him would have carved into a place like Eclipse.

He glances back at her over his shoulder, one brow arched.

"Shower's hot. Towels are clean. There's spare clothes in the closet—black, lace, leather, whatever your poison tastes like tonight. You can clean up, fix your face, pretend you didn't just come screaming on my cock twice while begging me to fill you. Or..." He lets the word hang, eyes dragging down her body again, slow and hungry. "You can stay looking exactly like this, let me drag you in there, pin you against the tile, and fuck you slow under the water until you're boneless and dripping again. Your call."

He holds out a hand—not demanding, but open. Waiting.

"Door to the club's still unlocked if you change your mind. But if you take one step toward it, I'm gonna assume you want me to chase you. And I will chase you, Lailith. Through every back alley, every shadow, every shitty safehouse Corvus thinks he's got. I'll find you. I'll fuck you against whatever wall we end up near. And next time I won't stop until you're wearing my marks for weeks."

His smile is slow, sharp, almost tender in its cruelty.

"So what's it gonna be, Succubus? Walk out looking wrecked... or step through that door and let me wreck you properly? All night. No games. No more poison. Just you, me, and however many times it takes until you admit you're not going anywhere."

He doesn't move. Doesn't push. Just stands there—hand extended, eyes locked on hers—letting the choice burn between them.

She takes his hand, willing her body to stop shaking as she follows him into the adjoining bathroom. He seems satisfied with her decision, helping her to sit atop the counter while he starts the shower. 

As the fog of the afterglow leaves her head, she suddenly recalls—one last tool at her arsenal. It's not lethal, but...

Keeping her eyes on his back, she reaches behind her head and unfastens the clip holding her hair in place. Black strands fall around her shoulders as she brings the clip down. Taped to the inside, is an even smaller syringe, filled with a concoction not meant to kill, just subdue.  

Glancing up once more, she watches as he fusses with the water, trying to get the right temperature. 

While going with him is tempting, VERY tempting, she lives for the thrill of the chase. 

Even if it means she's the one being hunted. 

Sliding from the counter, she moves quietly behind him, uncapping the syringe. 

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, not giving herself the chance to second-guess her actions, she stands up on her toes and swiftly embeds the needle into his neck. He lets out a grunt of surprise as she depresses the plunger, releasing the cocktail of drugs into his body. 

He barely utters a curse before he collapses, his body hitting the floor with a thud.

Tossing the syringe aside, she strips out of her tattered costume and quickly steps into the shower to cleanse herself. 

She doesn't take too long, knowing that the small dose she administered won't last beyond half an hour. He's a tall dude—built too, and his body will likely metabolize the serum quickly. 

After cleaning herself, she nonchalantly steps out over his unconscious body and dries herself with the nearest towel. 

She uses one of the makeup removal wipes from the drawer beneath the counter, knowing that she'll be less recognizable without it.

After putting on a skimpy mini skirt and crop top from the closet, she gets down on her hands and knees in front of the couch to retrieve the first syringe Raze knocked from her hand. She quickly swipes it up, and locates the cap nearby. Pocketing it, she slips out of the room, closing the door behind her, but not before flipping the sign outside to "occupied". 

She's not THAT mean, come on...

She blows a kiss over her shoulder, knowing that he'll be after her, and on her heels no matter how much of a head-start she gives herself. 

After a quick side-trip to her old dressing room to round up her tips, she makes a discreet exit out the back door and into the night. This disguise is only temporary, she knows he's seen enough to recognize her. Luckily she keeps her own kits hidden throughout the city for when she needs a quick change. Luckily, one just happens to be hidden in the very alley she's stepped into... 

Raze comes to with a dull, throbbing ache at the base of his skull—like someone took a sledgehammer to his brainstem and then politely apologized by leaving a note.

The first thing he registers is the cold tile under his cheek. The second is the faint hiss of the shower still running, steam curling lazily out of the open glass door. The third—oh, the third—is the absence of her. No black lace. No fishnets. No trembling thighs wrapped around him. Just the ghost of her scent clinging to his skin, mixed with the sharp chemical bite of whatever the fuck she just stuck in his neck.

He slowly pushes up on one elbow with a low groan. The world tilts once, then steadies. His fingers brush the puncture site—small, neat, already scabbing. Professional. Cute.

A low, rough laugh scrapes out of his throat.

"Sly little bitch," he mutters, half admiration, half promise. "You really did it."

He rolls to his knees, then stands with a grunt. His legs are still a little rubbery, but the serum's burning off fast. Too fast for most people. Not for him. Years of building tolerance to every cocktail the underworld's ever tried to slip him means half an hour is generous; he's already feeling the edges sharpen again.

The room looks like a crime scene in reverse: torn lace on the floor, discarded syringe glinting under the vanity light, his own trousers still unzipped and hanging low on his hips. He doesn't bother fixing them yet. Instead he crosses to the counter, picks up the makeup wipe packet she left behind—crumpled, one missing—and snorts softly.

"Thoughtful," he says to the empty air. "Left me a breadcrumb trail and everything."

He glances at the closet. A skimpy black mini and crop top are gone from the rack. Predictable. Smart. She's stripping away the mourner persona, going civilian, blending into the night. But she's still wearing his marks under that thin fabric—bruises on her throat, fingerprints on her hips, the faint ache between her legs that'll remind her of him with every step.

He finally tucks himself back into his slacks, zips up and refastens his belt, then smoothes a hand through sweat-damp red hair which has all but come completely loose from its low ponytail. Then he pulls his phone from his pocket—miraculously still intact after his full weight collapsed on it—and taps a single message to Kade:

'Out back. Black skirt, white crop top, hair down. Find her, but don't touch her. Just watch. Report every move. Pass it on.'

Send.

He pockets the phone, takes off his wrinkled suit jacket and sex-stained dress shirt, then grabs a fresh black button-down from the closet (he keeps spares here for exactly this kind of night). He shrugs it on without bothering to button it, leaving his toned chest and stomach bare and exposed to the cool air. The bite mark she left on his neck peeks out above the collar like a badge of honor. He doesn't cover it.

Before he leaves, he picks up the syringe tossed on the bathroom floor. He holds it up to the light, examining what is left of its contents. Just a clear liquid, but no label. He pockets it anyway. 

Whatever.

He's sure it'll be useful somehow.

Then he steps out into the hallway, flips the "occupied" sign back to green with a flick of his wrist, and starts walking.

The club's still alive—bass thumping, bodies grinding, neon bleeding across sweat-slick skin. He moves through it like smoke, eyes scanning every corner, every exit. He doesn't rush. Doesn't need to.

She's got a head start. Maybe twenty minutes by now.

But Seattle's streets are his streets.

Every alley, every rooftop, every back door she thinks is safe—he knows them better. And she's leaving a trail even if she doesn't realize it yet: the faint scent of his release still on her skin, the way her hips will sway just a little differently tonight from how thoroughly he fucked her, the tiny hitch in her step when the bruises pull.

He steps out the side exit into the cool March drizzle. Streetlights halo in the wet. Somewhere out there, Lailith's moving—heart racing, adrenaline singing, probably smiling that dangerous little smile because she thinks she won.

He tilts his face up to the rain, lets it wash the last of the fog away.

Then he starts walking a purpose in each step.

Smiling the same dangerous smile from earlier.

Run all you want, Lailith.

I like the chase, too.

And when I catch you—and I will catch you—I'm going to remind you exactly how good it feels to lose.

Chapter Text

Kade bursts into the back alley of Eclipse, suit jacket dripping, face flushed from running. Rainwater drips from his soaked brown hair, now hanging in his matching brown eyes. His shoulders heave as he regains his breath. 

“She’s gone, boss. Like—gone gone. We had eyes on the back exit, Pike eastbound, every corner from here to the market. Nothing. No visual. It’s like she evaporated.”

Raze stops mid-step, the damp air of the alley clinging to his jacket. His men had fanned out the second he’d texted the description. Twenty minutes head start at least. Twenty minutes too long.

“What do you mean you can’t find her?” His voice is low, controlled, but the edge in it makes Kade flinch.

Kade shakes the water from his hair, droplets flinging around him, “I mean… we lost her, boss. She turned the corner, and—poof. No cameras caught her after that block. We’re still sweeping, but—”

Raze’s boot lashes out. The nearest trash can goes flying, metal clanging against brick as garbage spills across the wet pavement. Coffee cups, wet paper, a half-eaten sandwich—and then, tangled in the refuse, something white and lacy.

The crop top.

And beneath it, the black skirt.

Raze crouches slowly, fingers brushing the damp fabric. His rage gives way to something colder, sharper—annoyance laced with dark, reluctant intrigue.

She’s left them here.

Deliberately.

A blatant taunt.

He can practically hear her mocking voice, ‘Good luck finding me now, jackass!’

“You clever bitch…” he chuckled darkly to himself, the sound low and with a twisted fondness. “You wanna play? Fine. But sooner or later… I’m going to win your little game, cause I’m better at playing it.”

He pockets the crop top—folds it once, tucking it inside his jacket like a dirty secret—then straightens.

“CCTV,” he orders, his voice firm like steel. “Exterior cams—back door and alley. Everything picked up in the last thirty minutes. Every angle.”

Kade nods, already pulling up the feed on his phone. Diego appears at the mouth of the alley—broad shoulders filling the space, golden eyes sharp. Despite being soaked himself, he says nothing. Just watches on with pinched brows.

The time-stamped footage loads. It’s grainy, but still easy to view.

There she is: black skirt, white crop top, black hair loose around her shoulders. She steps out the back door, glancing once over her shoulder—straight at the camera with a knowing smirk, like she knows he’ll be watching—then slips into the alley shadows.

The frame cuts out. She never reappears on the other side.

Gone.

Raze’s jaw tightens. “Another angle. Now.”

Kade switches feeds. A second camera—higher up, angled from the building across the alley—catching something, no—someone. This figure is different. Leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, its hood pulled up. Long blonde hair poking out from beneath the fabric, swaying as they move quickly towards the street. A black SUV idles at the curb, with its rear plate in full view of the camera. Its back window displays an illuminated Uber plaque, the glowing purple hue a stark contrast against the tinted glass. She climbs in without hesitation, closing the door behind her. The vehicle pulls away and out of frame.

Raze stares at the frozen frame with a tightened jaw, the blonde hair catching the streetlight like a another fucking taunt.

“That’s gotta be her,” Kade mutters.

“Run the plates,” Raze orders, his gaze cold enough to freeze hell itself. “Once you find out who owns it, pay them a visit.”

Kade nods, already typing.

Diego nods as well with a grunt. 

Raze produces the small syringe from his pocket—the one she’d used to drop him in the shower suite. He turns it slowly in his fingers, examining the traces of clear liquid under the alley light.

“Meanwhile,” he murmurs, voice low and ominous, “I have a favor to cash in on…”

He slips the syringe back into his pocket, next to the crop top.

Pussy that good doesn’t come often. He couldn’t remember the last time fucking felt so damn euphoric—like every thrust was pulling something vital out of him and giving it back twice as hard. The way she’d screamed, fought, begged right before she tried to drop him… it was addictive. 

It was dangerous.

Yet he fucking loved every second of it.

And he’ll be damned if any other man ever gets to sink their dick into it again.

He starts walking back into the club, pulling his own phone out of his pocket, and pulling up his contacts.

His movements are slow and calculated as he types out a short message before hitting send.

Smiling that same dangerous smile, not quite reaching his eyes. His cock twitches in his slacks, the thrill of the hunt reigniting his arousal as he anticipates the next time he’ll be slamming it back into her quivering cunt. 

She can change faces. She can vanish into the rain.

He will find her.

And when he does… the next time she begs, it won’t be for mercy.

It’ll be for more.

Lailith slumps against the door, finally removing the hood and tossing the wig onto the nearby couch. Her black hair is a mess, not having had time to utilize a wig cap.

The small apartment welcomes her with its familiar scent of floral detergent and frequently burnt candles. A single living space with an attached kitchenette in the corner and a bed on the other side of the room. On the opposite wall is the door leading to the small bathroom. It’s not much—but it’s hers. 

It’s home. 

Her heart is still hammering, adrenaline still pumping through her veins. Running a hand down her face, she gingerly touches one of the many marks adorning her jawline. She pulls her hand away with a hiss, which eventually turns into a round of manic giggles wracking her frame. 

“Damn. I haven’t had dick like that in ages!” She mutters to herself. 

Her change in the alley was quick, a certainly not as efficient as usual. Every second wasted was one second closer to him catching her and likely killing her—or fucking her out in that alley where anyone could see, whilst the rain soaked their writhing bodies. 

Or maybe he’d eat her out right on the wet pavement, where she’d trap his head between her thighs and suffocate him, feeling his powerful body go limp as he enjoyed his last meal between her legs.

She shivers in delight at the thought, her pussy throbbing mildly at the imagery in her head. 

Banishing the thoughts, she takes a moment to compose herself once more.

Peeling herself from the door, she strips out of the sweatshirt and leggings, leaving herself completely bare to the cool air. 

Her breasts bounce as she moves about, gathering the clothes and dropping them in a laundry basket by the bed. 

At her bedside, her phone sits on her nightstand. She silently thanks any deity that will hear her that she had the forethought to schedule that Uber way ahead of time.

She sees a bunch of missed messages, some from her personal connections, and one from the man himself—Corvus. 

‘Is the job done? Text me when you get this.’

Her stomach drops. 

Fuck. 

She failed. 

Actually failed.

That’s never happened before. 

Fuck, what does she say?? 

Chewing her lip, her thumbs hover over the screen as she thinks of what to say. 

“Sorry, I tried, but his dick was too good.” 

The inane idea of it makes her scoff to herself. 

‘Things got a little messy, but I’ll handle it.’ 

She hits send before she can stop herself. 

She throws the phone onto the bed, turning away from it like ignoring it would make the problem disappear. She chews on her thumbnail, her mind replaying the events from earlier. 

Eventually, her worries go silent as a new burning determination takes hold. 

‘Like hell I’m gonna kill him now. I’ve found a new toy, and I’ll discard him when I decide I’m done playing!’

Defiance fueling her new plan, she pulls another phone—a cheap burner—out of the nightstand drawer and types out a terse text to Eclipse’s manager. 

‘I quit. Thanks for the job.’ 

Then she turns it off, removes the sim card and tosses both it and the phone into the waste bin. 

She’ll buy another one later, this is just one of many that she used and tossed after past jobs. 

Moving on to the bathroom, she examines the marks Raze left on her. Her neck, painted purple and red, resembles an erotic masterpiece on pale flesh. 

She touches them again, the tenderness of them pulling a pleased hum from her full lips and a shot of arousal straight down to her still swollen cunt. 

With a sigh, she starts up the shower and steps in, pulling the curtain closed behind her. 

With no need to hurry this time, she indulges herself with her own hand. She remembers every second, up until she stuck him with that needle. Her fingers move deftly across her clit, still sore from the abusive strokes of calloused fingers larger than her own. A hand comes up to her breast, squeezing and tweaking the rosy nipple into a stiff peak. Her whines of pleasure fill the space, muffled only by the steam filling the room. 

Her end comes quick, nearly taking her by surprise as she lets out a pitiful mewl that only the walls will hear. 

Coming down from her high, she washes herself thoroughly this time, then dries herself before retiring to her bed.

She flops onto the duvet unceremoniously, not even bothering with pajamas or underwear, just skin on linen. 

It doesn’t take long for sleep to claim her—when it does, it’s the best night of sleep she has had in ages. 

Kade huffs, his breath coming out in a thick cloud in the cold night air. The rain has long since let up, but the dampened state of his clothes provides little warmth. He wraps his arms around his lean frame, shivering as he bounces from one foot to the other from his spot on the damp sidewalk. 

“Dammit! Why is it s-so c-cold??” He teeth chatter noisily, the sound nearly drowning out the drone of distant traffic as he whines pitifully. 

“Quit your bitchin’,” Diego grumbles next to him, his body still as stone. “Boss left us to do our job, and we ain’t leaving til it’s done. The cold doesn’t bother me none—so suck it up, Princess.”

Kade scoffs, indignant, “Easy for you to say, fucking beef cake! With muscles like that, of course you’re well-insulated!” 

Diego ignores the quip, golden eyes glowing beneath the amber light as they remain locked on the rain-soaked street ahead of them. 

Moments later, a familiar SUV rounds the corner, the neon Uber plaque standing out against the dark paint like a beacon in the night. 

“And there’s our ride…” the ghost of a wicked smirk flashes across his hardened features before it’s gone.

Soon as the vehicle comes to a full stop in front of them, Diego opens the door and slides into the backseat, followed by a shivering Kade who eagerly closes the door behind them. 

The younger of the two men groans in relief as soon as the heat inside the cab envelops them, his body all but sinking into the leather seat beneath him. 

Diego pays him no mind. His eyes are zeroed in on the back of the driver’s head—a scruffy middle-aged man with graying hair, wearing a Mariners cap. 

“Ready to go, gentlemen?” His voice rasps as he glances into the rear-view mirror, making eye contact with the both of them. 

“Before we go, I’ve got a question for ya,” Diego’s low voice rumbles, “You picked up a girl earlier. Blonde hair, hoodie. Where’d you take her?”

The driver falters, taken aback by the question, “Pardon?” 

“Did I fucking stutter?” Diego leans forward, his elbow resting on the back of the front passenger seat. “Where did she go?”

The older man’s breath hitches, his pale blue eyes widening in fear, “I-I’m sorry, I’m n-not allowed to disclose that information. Company policy—you understand, right?” 

Diego stares him down, never once blinking, meanwhile Kade watches from his own position in the backseat. 

“Let’s try this again…” Diego produces a concealed pistol from beneath the back of his slacks, clicking off the safety with practiced efficiency and kissing the cold tip of the barrel to the terrified man’s temple. “The blonde. Location. NOW.” 

He presses the hammer down, the metallic click making the man flinch in his seat.

Throwing his hands up, he finally spills, “O-okay! Okay! I drove her to an address just outside of town—a flower shop—Emerald Florist!”

Diego doesn’t take his eyes off the man as he addresses Kade, “You got that?”

Kade, fingers already flying across his phone screen, doesn’t even glance up, “Yeah, got it! It’s a good thirty minutes from here, real quiet area just before the suburbs.”

Diego slowly pulls the gun away from the man’s head, reholstering it, “Thank you kindly. Now that wasn’t so hard was it?”

He glances back to Kade, “Call up the boss. Tell him we got a lead on his girl.” 

Raze walks slowly down the dimly lit hall of the coroner’s office, the outdated florescent lights flickering above. The air sterile air smells of industrial-strength cleaning chemicals mixed with the heady undertone of death. He moves like a shadow with predator grace, hands stuffed into his pockets. His fingers wrapped possessively around the syringe, thumb idly gliding across the glass tube. 

He stops in front of a wooden door, knocks once then lets himself in. 

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows across stainless steel trays and the faint chemical bite of formaldehyde that clings to everything.

Once inside, Raze is greeted by the sight of a woman in a stark white lab coat seated at a large desk, her attention solely fixed upon the documents in front of her. Her long golden hair is tied back in a low, loose ponytail, with errant strands falling around her face. Well-groomed brows are knit together in concentration, with her red-tinted lips pressed into a firm line. The room is silent, save for the scratching sound of her pen gliding across the paper. 

After a beat, Raze raps his knuckles on the desk. 

The woman doesn’t stop writing, nor does she spare him a glance, “Mind filling me in on what is so urgent that I had to stay after hours waiting on your ass to show?” 

Raze chuckles darkly, “Aw, come on, Doc. Is that any way to greet the man who’s kept your little secrets buried six feet under?”

She glances up at him again, one brow raised, “Don’t push it, asshole.” 

Raze’s eyes slide over to the name embossed on the plaque atop the desk, “Doctor Julia Smyth? Now that name just doesn’t suit you.” He tuts, leaning closer to her, “I much prefer your real name—Monica Gunderson, the Tri-Cities Slasher.” 

Her eyes darken immediately, dropping her pen as her frown deepens, and hisses, “Shut that goddamn trap of yours! The walls in this place are paper-thin!” 

Raze rises to his full height again with a laugh, then sets the syringe down on the desk in front of her. 

“The hell is this?” She says flatly, as if the sight of the object set before her offends her somehow. 

“That,” Raze gestures with a tilt of his head, “is the favor I requested in my text.” 

Monica picks up the syringe, holding it gingerly between two slim fingers. Her hazel eyes snag on the tiny droplets left inside. 

“What exactly do you want, Raze?” She asks, setting it back down on the desk. 

“I need to know exactly what was in that,” he points to it once again. “I have a feeling that whatever is in there, will lead me to my…target.” 

Monica quirks a brow at him, setting her pen down, “May I ask who the unlucky bastard is?” 

Raze suddenly bristles, his jaw tightening, “Can you do it, or not? I need answers—tonight.” 

“Jesus, touchy,” Monica quips back, “Don’t need to get your dick in a twist over it.” 

She eyes the syringe once more, “There isn’t much in there to work with, so I’ll have to work carefully to make sure I don’t use up the whole sample. It’ll take a while, but it can be done.” 

Raze shifts on his feet, hands jammed down into his pockets once more. “How long?” 

“About forty-five minutes.” 

“Make it thirty, and I’ll buy you a coffee,” Raze counters, putting on that charming smile he uses to get his way. 

Monica levels him with a deadpan expression, “Make it a big coffee.”

“Done.” He says, turning on his heel and leaving the room without another word, stepping out into the hallway as the door shuts behind him like a trap springing closed. 

By the time Raze returns, a large hot latte in hand, Monica is leaning against her desk, one arm crossed over beneath her chest while the other is holding a freshly printed document. Her eyes scan the printed words in her hand, her expression wholly unreadable.

Raze stops a few paces away from her, holding up the cardboard cup like it’s an offering, “Your payment, as promised.” 

Monica glances up at him, her brows raised. 

Raze falters for a moment, “What is it?”

Monica waves the paper in front of her, “Got your results, they’re…interesting.”

Raze freezes, not expecting those words, “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

Monica glances back down at the paper, then hands it to Raze as he passes the coffee to her waiting hand. 

His teal eyes skim the words, most of it medical jargon that he doesn’t understand, unti the words beneath them grab his attention.

‘Organic particulate matter detected. 

Analysis: Microspores 

Source: Lavandula.’

Raze’s brows pinch together, unamused, “Am I supposed to know what the fuck any of that means? What the hell is ‘lavandula’?”

Monica snorts as she takes a sip of her latte, “Of course you don’t, idiot, that’s why I’m in the lab coat and you’re not.”

Raze’s jaw tightens once more, “Don’t fuck with me. What. Is. It?” His voice drops to a near growl, annoyed and decidedly done with her sass. 

Monica rolls her eyes, setting the coffee down before crossing her arms, “Lavender pollen.” 

Raze pauses, not sure if he heard her correctly. 

“Lavender pollen?” He repeats, staring at Monica as if she grew a second head. 

“Yeah, threw me for a fucking loop, too,” she says, tilting her head, loose strands of hair falling around her face. “As for the rest, it’s all standard ingredients found in any anesthesia.” 

Raze glances back down at the paper, then back up at Monica, “I’m assuming…lavender is not one of those ingredients, then?” 

“Bingo,” she replies. “That cocktail somehow got contaminated with the plant matter. Couldn’t even begin to tell you how or why, but that’s the jist of it.” 

Before Raze can reply, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He plunges his hand inside and fishes it out, glancing at the caller ID before swiping. 

“Yeah?” 

Kade’s excited voice all but booms from the other end of the line, “Boss! We got something! The driver—he told us where he brought her!” 

Raze’s knuckles go white as his fingers tighten around the phone, his heart thudding in his ears, “Where?”

“An address just outside of town—a place called Emerald Florist!”

Chapter Text

Hey everyone! I want you all to know how awesome it is to see that people have taken the time to read this story! 
That being said, I do have an important announcement: 

LYtD is currently undergoing some big changes, mainly pertaining to the plot (yes I actually have it figured out now).

In order for those changes to happen, I must rewrite a lot of what I’ve already written. (It’s gonna be rough, but worth it—I promise!) 

So, this version will no longer be updated. Instead, I will post the new version once I have at least the first couple of chapters ready. 

I want to give an especially big thank you to all of you who have read and bookmarked what I have produced so far. 
Please be patient, and rest assured Lailith and Raze will return very soon! <3