Veiled in Vanity
By BloodRose
He moved through the bar like smoke—silent, certain, drawing eyes without effort. He smelled like midnight promises and bad decisions, and something in me, something I thought I’d buried, stirred awake.
This wasn’t the first time.
We weren’t strangers.
I first saw him when I was twenty—reckless, hungry for danger in pretty disguises. He leaned against a pool table, all quiet confidence and sharp edges. He looked at me like he already knew me. I looked back like I didn’t care.
But I did.
I left before anything could happen. But I carried that look home with me, tucked it away like a match in a dry drawer.
Years passed. He slipped into memory, then came crashing back. A back alley. Blood on his knuckles. Smoke curling from his mouth. Still beautiful. Still dangerous.
“You still looking for trouble?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “But I think it’s still looking for me.”
That time, he touched me—a brush of fingers along my jaw, light but loaded. We circled each other after that, close but never close enough. Until tonight.
He didn’t ask before sitting beside me. Just slid into the booth like he belonged there, like I was the one who’d been waiting. His thigh brushed mine, solid and deliberate. He didn’t look at me right away—just signaled the bartender with a subtle lift of his fingers, like he owned the room and everyone in it knew it.
My drink was nearly empty. I didn’t remember finishing it.
He leaned in, the heat of him cutting through the chill of the bar’s recycled air. His voice was low, rough velvet. “You always drink alone?”
I didn’t answer right away. Just studied the way his mouth curved—not quite a smirk, not quite a threat.
“Not always,” I said.
He nodded, as if that was the answer he’d expected. Then his hand found the small of my back, slow and certain, fingers grazing bare skin beneath the hem of my shirt. The contact was barely there, but it rooted me. Anchored me. Branded me.
He guided me through the crowd like I was already his. People stepped aside without being asked, without looking. Maybe it was the way he moved—calm and lethal, like a man who didn’t bluff. Or maybe it was the way I followed him, willingly, like I’d been waiting years for him to come claim me.
His apartment was sterile—cold, clean, untouched. The kind of place that didn’t welcome questions. I didn’t ask any.
He kissed me like he was starving. Touched me like he needed to memorize every inch. His silence said more than words ever could. He didn’t have to say “mine.” I already was.
There was a hunger in him that scared me.
And I gave myself to it, completely.
Afterward, we lay tangled in sheets that smelled like him—spice and something sharper beneath. I traced the tattoo on his shoulder, the serpent wrapped around the dagger. He didn’t move. Just watched the ceiling like he was waiting for something to break.
I knew then.
He was chaos, coiled and waiting. A beautiful disaster I never stood a chance against.
And as the night pressed in, thick with unspoken things, I didn’t ask what came next.
Some things are better left in the dark.
This wasn’t the first time.
We weren’t strangers.
I first saw him when I was twenty—reckless, hungry for danger in pretty disguises. He leaned against a pool table, all quiet confidence and sharp edges. He looked at me like he already knew me. I looked back like I didn’t care.
But I did.
I left before anything could happen. But I carried that look home with me, tucked it away like a match in a dry drawer.
Years passed. He slipped into memory, then came crashing back. A back alley. Blood on his knuckles. Smoke curling from his mouth. Still beautiful. Still dangerous.
“You still looking for trouble?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “But I think it’s still looking for me.”
That time, he touched me—a brush of fingers along my jaw, light but loaded. We circled each other after that, close but never close enough. Until tonight.
He didn’t ask before sitting beside me. Just slid into the booth like he belonged there, like I was the one who’d been waiting. His thigh brushed mine, solid and deliberate. He didn’t look at me right away—just signaled the bartender with a subtle lift of his fingers, like he owned the room and everyone in it knew it.
My drink was nearly empty. I didn’t remember finishing it.
He leaned in, the heat of him cutting through the chill of the bar’s recycled air. His voice was low, rough velvet. “You always drink alone?”
I didn’t answer right away. Just studied the way his mouth curved—not quite a smirk, not quite a threat.
“Not always,” I said.
He nodded, as if that was the answer he’d expected. Then his hand found the small of my back, slow and certain, fingers grazing bare skin beneath the hem of my shirt. The contact was barely there, but it rooted me. Anchored me. Branded me.
He guided me through the crowd like I was already his. People stepped aside without being asked, without looking. Maybe it was the way he moved—calm and lethal, like a man who didn’t bluff. Or maybe it was the way I followed him, willingly, like I’d been waiting years for him to come claim me.
His apartment was sterile—cold, clean, untouched. The kind of place that didn’t welcome questions. I didn’t ask any.
He kissed me like he was starving. Touched me like he needed to memorize every inch. His silence said more than words ever could. He didn’t have to say “mine.” I already was.
There was a hunger in him that scared me.
And I gave myself to it, completely.
Afterward, we lay tangled in sheets that smelled like him—spice and something sharper beneath. I traced the tattoo on his shoulder, the serpent wrapped around the dagger. He didn’t move. Just watched the ceiling like he was waiting for something to break.
I knew then.
He was chaos, coiled and waiting. A beautiful disaster I never stood a chance against.
And as the night pressed in, thick with unspoken things, I didn’t ask what came next.
Some things are better left in the dark.
