Dangerously Gorgeous

The knock comes while I am still soaking in the tub, three soft taps against the bedroom door, measured and polite. Corbett somehow even knocks like a funeral director..I slide deeper beneath the water instinctively before realizing how ridiculous that reaction is. The old butler already knows I am bathing. The man probably scheduled it on a clipboard somewhere.

“Yes?” I call.

“Miss James,” Corbett answers calmly through the door. “May I enter?”

I hesitate briefly before climbing from the clawfoot tub. Water drips steadily from my curls onto the dark hardwood floor while steam curls around me in lazy white ribbons. “Sure.” The door opens slowly.

Corbett steps inside carrying several black garment bags over one arm along with polished boxes stacked neatly in his gloved hands. He freezes almost immediately upon seeing me standing there naked and damp beside the tub. For the first time since arriving at Crawford Manor, the old butler looks caught off guard.

His pale face flushes faintly pink beneath the candlelight. “My apologies,” he says quickly, turning his gaze respectfully away.

“Relax,” I reply dryly, “I was just enjoying myself in the bath.”

Corbett clears his throat delicately with all the panic of a Victorian priest accidentally opening the wrong bedroom door. “I have brought suitable attire for dinner.” He carefully places everything atop the massive bed without looking directly at me once. Even from several feet away, I can tell the dress is expensive.

Black silk catches the firelight in soft waves beside matching heels and velvet jewelry boxes resting atop folded tissue paper. “Damn,” I mutter. “You people really commit to hospitality.” Corbett inclines his head slightly, still refusing to fully meet my eyes.

“Dinner is served promptly at seven o’clock. I shall return at quarter till to escort you downstairs.” Then, without another word, the butler retreats toward the door with almost supernatural urgency. Poor bastard practically flees the room. The door shuts softly behind him.

Suddenly the bedroom feels very quiet again. I stare after the closed door for a long moment before glancing toward my reflection in the vanity mirror across the room. Water still glistens across my shoulders and collarbone beneath the candlelight. My dark curls hang damp and wild around my face. And my eyes…

Those icy blue eyes never look fully human in low light. I move slowly toward the vanity while tightening the towel around myself. Being half succubus is not all it is cracked up to be.

Being half succubus is not what movies make people think it is. I do not have horns. I do not have bat wings. I cannot fire balls of pink fire from my fingertips. What I inherited from my mother is quieter than that, and more cruel.

Succubi feed on lust the way vampires feed on blood. Without it, the hunger starts building slowly beneath my skin like starvation. Fatigue comes first. Then irritability. Then the feeling that something inside me is drying out and collapsing inward. I can survive for a while without feeding, but not forever.

So I have learned early how to live with it. That is my curse. Men usually fall around me. I can see it happen if I pay attention closely enough. Their focus slips. Their posture changes. The conversations slow down because part of their brain is suddenly somewhere else entirely.

Some become protective without understanding why. Others become reckless trying to impress me. And a few become obsessed in ways that stop being flattering very quickly. The effect gets worse whenever I stop actively suppressing it. Keeping the hunger under control takes constant effort, whether I admit it or not.

Exhaustion weakens my grip on it. Emotional stress does too. The more **** I feel, the more the thing beneath my skin starts reaching outward on its own. Attraction becomes easier to provoke and much harder to contain. Most men never even realize what is happening to them.

They just think I smiled at them a certain way or brushed against them accidentally and suddenly they cannot stop thinking about me afterward. That is the cruelest part of it. The hunger twists ordinary human desire into something sharper and more addictive, and half the time I do not even mean to do it.

Women usually react differently to me. They view me as a rival, not always consciously, but instinctively. They look at me and sense something predatory and dangerous. Some react with open hostility immediately. Others become cold and guarded without understanding why. I have spent most of my life walking into rooms where women decide they dislike me before I have even opened my mouth.

It makes relationships complicated, and riendships too. Honestly, it gets exhausting after a while. I fasten the necklace around my throat and stare at myself in the vanity mirror while candlelight flickers softly across the room behind me. The black gown clings perfectly to my body, elegant and terribly dangerous at the same time.

My dark curls frame my face in damp waves while those icy blue eyes stare back at me from the mirror like they belong to somebody else entirely. For a moment, I barely recognize the woman standing there. Then thunder rolls softly outside Crawford Manor, and the illusion breaks just enough for me to breathe again.

This dress is gorgeous, dangerously gorgeous. Black silk and lace have been designed to hug every curve without technically revealing anything. It is elegant enough for aristocrats, but provocative enough to get me burned as a witch in certain counties.

“Fantastic,” I mutter toward my reflection. “Nothing says survive the haunted **** manor like infernal genetics and formalwear.” Thunder rolls softly outside beyond the windows while I finish dressing for dinner beneath the watchful shadows of Crawford Manor.

The knock arrives precisely at quarter till seven. I open the door to find Corbett standing in the hallway exactly as composed and immaculate as before, dressed in his black suit with silver cufflinks gleaming softly beneath the corridor candlelight. For just a second, I catch the old butler’s expression falter when he sees me fully dressed.

His eyes widen almost imperceptibly before years of discipline slam the mask back into place. “Well,” I say lightly, leaning one shoulder against the doorway, “you clean up pretty good yourself, Corbett.” A faint flush touches his pale face again almost immediately.

“Dinner is prepared, Miss James.” His voice remains perfectly professional, but I can feel the tension underneath it now. The careful avoidance of direct eye contact. The rigid posture. The subtle awareness of every movement I make.

And because I am apparently a terrible person, part of me immediately starts wondering how far I could push him. Succubus hunger need not kill the prey, despite what bad horror movies think. It feels more like instinct. I am only mildly hungry, and my willpower is strong enough to only take a tiny morsel.

Corbett already reacts to me more strongly than he probably realizes. A few smiles, a little eye contact, maybe one touch against his arm, and I suspect the poor man would be blushing hard enough to burst into flames. The thought almost makes me grin.

I secure the Peacemaker discretely beneath my dress, against my thigh, and step into the hallway beside him. “Lead on,” I say. Corbett blinks once at the reference before silently escorting me toward dinner through the endless shadowed halls of Crawford Manor.