The dude's like an Instagram filter—one minute, he's Ryan Reynolds (which—rude,there can only be one devastatingly handsome smartass in this mansion) and the next, he's Henry Cavill. Emily's got her own personal Hollywood heartthrob selector, and it's giving me serious creeper vibes.
Andget this—my Disney Plus account history is now 90% Marvel because Emily's got her pet demon binge-watching the MCU like it's his job. Pretty sure he's cosplayed as every Avenger by now. Except Hawkeye. Because even a demon has standards.
Someone please explain how this became my life.
My phone starts singing "Highway to Hell"—because yeah, I'm that kind of asshole—and I glance at the caller ID.
It's Kyle, my partner, who keeps Karma from turning into a complete dumpster fire.
What bullshit now?
"What's the damage?" I answer, fully expecting to hear about another fine from the Fun Police or some federal bullshit trying to cockblock my business. But all that red tape got shredded, thanks to Kyle working his legal magic.
No more putting the brakes on our blood-thirsty patrons—public feeding is officially back on the menu, baby! As long as everyone plays nice with the whole 'consent' thing. You know, basic vampire etiquette.
Business has been off the charts, profits soaring higher than a coked-up Wall Street exec.
"Nothing bad. I need your John Hancock on some paperwork. Final docs to get this place rerunning full throttle."
Hell fucking yes! My lawyers just steamrolled over Azrael's party-pooping laws. We've come a long way since the whole "vampires are real, deal with it" reveal, and if people want to get their freak on at Karma knowing full well they're walking into Vampire Central, that's on them once they sign the liability waiver.
No more getting slapped with fines because Karen from accounting decided she wanted the whole vampire experience but couldn't handle the morning-after hickeys. Play stupid games—win stupid prizes, sweetheart.
I swear, some humans are thirstier than the vampires. At least now I've got legal protection against their buyer's remorse.
Time to make Karma kick-ass again. And by kick-ass, I mean letting consenting adults make terrible life choices while I profit from their questionable decision-making skills.
God bless America!
"I'll swing by later tonight," I tell Kyle before hanging up and launching myself off the couch to track down my heavenly honey. She's turned into quite the sassy little minx, and I am so here for it. Now that I've corrupted her innocent, angelic ass (figuratively speaking, get your mind out of the gutter—that'll come later), I'm pretty sure I can bring her to Karma without her clutching her proverbial pearls or thinking I'm the second coming of Lucifer.
I find her lounging on our bed, nose buried in the laptop, probably watching some disgustingly wholesome YouTube video about kittens or some shit—time to shake things up.
I take a running leap and cannonball onto the bed like a majestic fucking dolphin, sending Seraphina bouncing with a surprised squeal. "Alright, angel face, get dolled up and break out the sexy," I announce, waggling my eyebrows at her like a total sleazeball. "We're painting the town red tonight, and I'm not talking about blood. It's time for you to experience the Lucian Spectacular, uncensored edition."
Her eyes go wide, pupils blown with a heady mix of lust and anticipation before she's giggling like a schoolgirl and practically skipping to the closet. I swear, it's like watching a porn star and a Disney princess have a love child.
I lean back, hands behind my head, grinning like the cat that got the canary, the cream, and the whole fucking aviary. Tonight's gonna be one for the record books. I can feel it in my bones. And in other places, but that's beside the point.
Time to show my girl what it means to party like a fucking rockstar. Or, you know, a devilishly handsome vampire with a penchant for causing trouble and making questionable life choices.
Same difference, really.
The bass hits us like a physical force as we slip through the back door, vibrating in my fucking bones. Seraphina—holy mother of sin, my cinnamon roll is working overtime to send me straight to hell tonight.
She's rocking a blood-red bodycon dress that hugs every heavenly curve like it was painted on, the hem barely reaching mid-thigh. The plunging neckline is doing sinful things to her cleavage, and those silver stilettos make her legs look a mile long. Her golden hair tumbles around her shoulders in tousled waves, and she looks like every man's wet dream come to life.
I had to white-knuckle my steering wheel the entire drive here to keep from pulling over and christening my Aston Martin's hood in ways that would make even Braxos blush.
Thank fuck she downed that magical cocktail, "Eau de Not a Fucking Angel," to mask her celestial scent, or we'd have a vampire-feeding frenzy on our hands. Can't have the locals getting a whiff of an actual angel—they'd lose their collective shit faster than a werewolf during a full moon.
The dance floor writhes with bodies under strobing lights. Seraphina's eyes go wide, taking in the scene—the packed bar, the dark corners where couples lose themselves in lust and blood.
It's sensory overload, a hedonistic wonderland of debauchery and excess. And my baby girl is standing there, soaking it all in like a wide-eyed fawn stumbling into a rave.
I slide my arm around her waist, pulling her close so I can purr in her ear, "Welcome to my world, angel face."
"Holy... everything," she breathes, and I can't help but smirk at the way her pulse kicks up. Whether from shock or excitement, I'm not sure yet, but damn if I'm not looking forward to finding out.
