The Devil You Burn For.

"Did you know the enemies-to-lovers trope is superior to the rivals-to-lovers trope?" The girl in front of me flicks her dark braid over her shoulder like she's just dropped some academic truth bomb. Her voice is high-pitched, confident, and very sure of its own intelligence. She spins around to her friend, expectant.

"It is?" The friend leans forward like she's bracing herself for a TED Talk.

"Yeah. In enemies-to-lovers, the characters are literally on opposite sides of a conflict, like, they've been trained to hate each other, or there's blood feuds and centuries-old vendettas involved. So when they fall for each other, it's epic. Dramatic. There's betrayal and angst and usually some emotional groveling at the end." She grins, angling her body closer so their shoulders press together, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "But rivals-to-lovers? Meh. It's just two people who are kinda into each other but also competing in, like, a bake-off or something. Not life or death. Just bruised egos."

"Yeah... no. Thank you for the information I didn't need in my life," her friend mutters, scrunching up her face in mock horror.

The door to the nightclub swings open with a creak and a thud. Immediately, the pulsing bass of music pours out like a wave, thumping through my ribcage and vibrating in my teeth. It drowns out the rest of their conversation, probably a blessing.

I blink and look away, letting the neon spill wash over me. When was the last time I went to a nightclub, anyway? Months? Years? It feels like another lifetime. I stopped going out at night, period. Easier that way. No risks. No triggers. No opportunity to backslide into the craving I've kept chained and buried.

But when Theresa called me, her voice soft and pleading, her excitement barely disguised under that carefully controlled tone, I caved. She said she didn't want to go alone. Said it was her last "normal night" before the wedding. And I owed her. God, I owed her everything.

Back when I lived in London, I worked evenings at a corner store while studying piano in the mornings. That version of me was bright-eyed. Naïve. Stupidly optimistic about the future. Then everything fell apart. One mistake, and my world unraveled. It wasn't just the dream that shattered, it was me.

Don't cry. Not here. Not now.

The pressure builds behind my eyes. I grit my teeth. You can't change the past. No amount of tears or guilt or punishing yourself will undo it. All you have is the present. This moment. This night. Just breathe. Stay in control. Don't let the need, the one that coils low in your gut and whispers sweet destruction, take over. You're stronger than this. You have to be.

A low hum of an engine draws my gaze down the street. A sleek black Maserati glides to a stop with feline grace, the kind of car that says, "Don't ask me what I cost unless you can afford it twice." The door on the driver's side opens, and a man steps out like he owns the damn street.

Polished black shoes strike the pavement first, followed by long legs in tailored trousers that hug his thighs like sin itself. His black suit jacket clings to wide, sculpted shoulders, and underneath it, a matching black shirt and tie complete the funeral chic aesthetic. He adjusts his cuffs with slow precision, every movement deliberate.

A shock of messy black curls flops onto his forehead, defying the rest of his immaculate look. He brushes it away with a flick of his fingers. Tattoos curl out from beneath his collar, vivid colors trailing up his neck like rebellious vines. My gaze snags there. It's an odd contrast, the brutal, raw edge of ink against the clean-cut perfection of his clothes.

And yet it works. He's alert. Tense. Like a coiled spring. And he's got that unmistakable "touch me and die" aura radiating off him in waves. Maybe a cop? No. No way. Too polished. Too composed. If he were any more put together, he'd come gift-wrapped.

He doesn't move like a man who takes orders. He moves like someone who gives them.

He circles the car and opens the passenger door. A woman steps out, tall, elegant, with dark hair and the kind of confident poise that turns heads. Theresa.

I step forward instinctively, but I don't get far. Mr. Intimidation himself slides smoothly into my path, a human wall of black wool and steel muscle.

I tilt my head back, and back, and still don't reach his eyes until I'm practically looking at the sky. When I finally meet his gaze, I almost recoil. Golden-brown eyes, flecked with fire, staring down at me like I'm an insect crawling across his tailored boots.

His lips are sculpted, fuller on the bottom, tighter on the top, and the slash of a scar curves from his eyebrow toward his temple, like an inverted comma written in flesh. It doesn't mar his looks. If anything, it amplifies them. It says: I've seen things. Done worse. Lived to tell the tale.

Some cultures believe scars are signs of strength. Proof of survival. Markers of dominance. Evolutionary gold stars that say, "Yes, I could father your genetically superior children."

Hold up, what the hell am I thinking?

His arms cross over his chest, and his biceps bulge against the fabric. His sleeves strain. His suit protests. He scowls, and I swear it takes years off my life. The look he gives me is pure disdain, like I'm some gum clinging stubbornly to the sole of his overpriced shoe.

Honestly, if he weren't a dead ringer for a brooding, beefed-up Keanu Reeves, with a dash of Henry Cavill's jawline, I wouldn't have spared him a second glance.

Lies.

The man is a walking oxygen vacuum. He steps into a space, and suddenly, everyone else is choking for air. People like him don't belong in nightclubs. They belong on screens or pages, alphahole antiheroes with a secret soft spot that only the heroine can uncover. Unfortunately for me, this one seems very much alive, and very much intent on ruining my night.

"Who the hell are you?" I snap, folding my arms to mirror him, because screw being intimidated.

"This is my, uh, bodyguard for the evening," Theresa interjects, arriving beside him like a calming breeze.

"Bodyguard?" I raise an eyebrow. "You have a bodyguard now?"

She leans in close, her voice a whisper. "The Slohovics insisted. Said it wasn't safe to be out without protection."

Right. The Slohovics. As in, the head of the local mafia. As in, the family she's marrying into in six days.

I look Mr. Human Fridge up and down again. Of course they'd assign her someone terrifyingly competent.

"We don't need you tonight," I tell him, waving a hand like I'm dismissing a waiter with the wrong order. "Why don't you go do... whatever it is bodyguards do when they're not ruining a good time?"

Theresa snorts. Mr. Muscles? He glares like he's about to file a restraining order against my entire existence.

"You are wound tight, aren't you?" I bat my lashes sweetly. "You know, you might benefit from joining us. Loosen up. Have a drink. Maybe try smiling once this decade?"

His eyes narrow further, which I hadn't thought was possible. The air between us crackles, heavy with unspoken tension. If this were a movie, this would be the part where the enemies-to-lovers plot kicks off, with either a heated argument or a very inappropriate kiss.

God help me, I'm not entirely sure I'd be opposed to either.