Deal With A Succubus

— MIRA —

The line outside is human-long and human-loud.

Good. Humans are easy tonight.

I slip past the velvet rope with a smile and a brush of aura. The bouncer blinks like he forgot why he cared.

Inside: heat. Sweat. Bass. The sharp tang of citrus cleaner trying and failing. The neon sign outside—just a fang and a drop—read like a joke. Cute, I’d thought. A human club playing vampire.

I’m hungrier than I planned to be. I let my power breathe—just a little too far.

The room answers immediately.

A girl with glitter eyelids laughs too hard and grabs a stranger’s hand. A couple at the rail forget their argument mid-sentence and start kissing like they’ve been dared. A bartender misses a pour. The temperature spikes a full degree.

I should dial it back.

I don’t.

Hunger makes the lights prettier. It makes the floor a tide and me the moon. I drift through bodies that give way without knowing why, collecting looks like coins.

A human with tired eyes catches mine. I tilt my head. He follows—pulse eager, willing. I take his hand, angling toward the corridor where the music thins and it’s easier to be careful.

Then I feel it.

A gaze that isn’t prey. Old. Controlled. The air around it colder, like a window left open in winter.

I look up to the mezzanine.

He’s there. Leaning on the rail. Radiating old power like heat off stone. The kind of presence that doesn’t just fill a room; it anchors it. Honey-brown hair catches the light—almost out of place on a face that’s too still, too knowing.

And that body… built like a god who enjoys making mortals jealous.

If hunger had a hierarchy, he’d be a steak—rare, rich, the kind you take your time with.

His eyes meet mine. Not curious. Measuring.

I feel contained—and I hate that feeling. But curiosity, sharp and hot, wins.

So: not a human club after all.

All right then. If it’s his house, let’s see how well he holds it together.

I open my power another notch—past polite, into promise.

The dance floor shivers. Two men who’ve never fought suddenly might. A vampire’s glamour slips, and the human she’s with doesn’t care. The glitter-eyed girl stops laughing and starts glowing.

“Come on,” I purr to my chosen human. And he comes. They always do.

— MARCUS —

The bartender taps the bottom shelf twice. Watch the floor.

First fire: some pale aristocrat thinks “no” is a conversation starter. I step behind him at the bar, smile sharp, and murmur, “You’re leaving,” like it’s a drink order. He glances back, sees my face, remembers survival.

My bouncer appears at his shoulder. Exit achieved. The human woman never even knows the storm that missed her.

Second fire: the office hallway. Valdez reports a supplier trying to slip a dirty invoice past the new system. I remind the man—pleasantly—that I buy clean or I buy everything. He decides clean sounds good.

Shevar’s deadline hums in my bones: get clean, stay open, or start over somewhere colder. I’m not sentimental about business. I’m particular.

Back on the mezzanine, the floor has changed.

It feels like someone cracked a glow stick in the air. Laughter too loud. Hands too bold. My wards along the rail prickle—old sigils that don’t like what they’re tasting.

Then I see her.

Young—early twenties at most—but the energy rolling off her feels older. Storm-old. A sharp pixie cut frames high cheekbones: defiance and danger. And when she moves… God help me.

The room tilts toward her.

A human at the bar is halfway out of his chair, following a current he can’t name. Two wolves at table seven stop mid-argument to track her. My bartender looks to me.

“Boss?” my lieutenant mutters.

“Hold the line,” I say, already moving. “Keep hunters and idiots away from that corridor. If anyone starts a fight, end it before it has a name.”

He peels off. I take the stairs.

— MIRA —

The hallway is cooler. Brick. Lemon. The distant thump of bass.

My human smiles at nothing. I touch his chest—gentle—and feel his heart leap like a fish breaking water. He’ll go home feeling like he was seen. That’s the thing no one understands about us. We can take and give at the same time.

I feel his power arrive first. Then a shadow cuts across the corridor like a door closing. I’m not touching him and he already tastes like a brewing storm.

“Change of plan,” says a voice. Even. Unimpressed. In charge.

Up close, he’s older. Close-cut hair. Clean lines. The kind of stillness that makes spines straighten without knowing why.

“I don’t allow feeding in the corridors,” he says mildly. “Bad for the cameras.”

“I’m very tidy,” I say. True.

“Not tidy enough for my insurance.”

Behind him, two men pivot like professionals—alert without turning their backs. His men. Not mine. I could go through them. I could go through him. Hunger stretches like a cat. My human no longer seems appetizing. Next to this man he seems like water down broth.

Instead, I turn to my human, press two fingers to his shoulder, and guide him back toward the music. “Drink water,” I tell him softly. He nods, already forgetting why he followed me.

Mr. Patience watches. His face warms half a degree. No thank you. Men like him prefer policies to gratitude.

“House rules,” he says. “If you’re hungry, I can accommodate you. Privately.”

“Bottled?” I make a face.

“Ethically sourced,” he says, like he’s offering a reward. “And away from the floor.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” I ask, letting my aura rise a click. The bar glass sings. The brick remembers heat.

He doesn’t step back. Points for him.

“Upstairs,” he says—an order dressed as an invitation.

I almost refuse on principle. Then I notice the flick of his hand dismissing his men. Containment over spectacle. Smart.

It’s been a long time since someone told me no and meant it. I know intuitively that even if i use my magic to push him, he wont cumble. Intriguing.

“Lead on,” I say.

— MARCUS —

Up close, she’s worse in the best way. Like whiskey after beer—more honest about the burn.

My sigils along the office door wake as we pass. Old ink remembers.

The office hums quietly. Wood. Steel. A city map in gold thread. A rune-locked cabinet she shouldn’t recognize, but her eyes say she does.

“House rules,” I repeat. Rules are spells if you say them right. “You feed here or you leave. No gray area.”

She strolls like the room belongs to her. “You keep saying house rules like I don’t understand words.”

“I keep saying it because the last person who ignored them made me repaint. Twice.”

I set a chilled vial on the desk. Good vintage. Legal. Clean. A glass beside it for formality.

She looks at the bottle, then at me with pity.

“Bottled blood? How civilized.”

Her gaze slides back, sharp.

“No, darling… I prefer to tap my own. Warm. Willing. Alive.”

She leans in, velvet purr wrapping around the air. “Besides… what I eat doesn’t exactly come in a bottle.”

The air grows heavy. Sweet. Honey left too long in the sun. Her magic slides under my skin, testing the edges of control I keep iron-tight.

She’s not just refusing. She’s weighing me.

For the first time in a long while, I realize: I’m on someone else’s menu.

— MIRA —

There it is. Choice, in the shape of a man.

He doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t posture. He chooses.

I step closer. Slowly. The air between us tightens. He smells like metal and old patience. Like a city at 3 a.m. deciding whether to sleep or burn.

“You realize,” he says dryly, “if anyone sees you in here with me, half this estate will go up like dry tinder.”

“I know,” I say, amused. “But we can be civilized, can’t we? You keep your house tidy. I keep my hands to myself—unless invited.”

He huffs a laugh he didn’t mean to give me.

“You’re a loaded gun on my dance floor,” he says. “I should throw you out.”

“You won’t,” I say—not a dare, a fact. “Because if you do, I’ll detonate on the way.”

The truth settles between us, clean and sharp.

He looks at the door. Back at me. The air finds a rhythm.

“Then we do it my way,” he says finally.

I smile, slow. I like winning. I like being chosen. And I really like the way hunger purrs when a predator looks at me like that.

“Your way,” I echo. For now.

He steps around the desk, close enough that I could trace his control like a map. The club murmurs below us like the sea behind a seawall.

“Tell me your name,” he says.

“Mira.”

“Marcus.”

I shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”

The candle steadies. The wards hum. The lock clicks like a coin dropping.

Outside, the crowd tips toward trouble.

Inside, the room holds its breath.