Lucifer watched Alyssara dance, and he felt it—that inconvenient thump of the heart, the faint heat rising in his cheeks, the unmistakable signs of biological betrayal. His brain, the allegedly rational one, tried to chalk it up to aesthetics. She was beautiful. Extremely so. But this? This felt less like appreciation and more like someone had spiked the air with pheromones.
He looked around. Yes. Good. It wasn't just him. All around the hall, men and women alike wore expressions usually reserved for private dreams and embarrassing memories. Blushing cheeks, parted lips, eyes fixed as if watching a data stream they couldn't tear away from.
Then his gaze met Arthur's. That was when the dance, Alyssara, and the rest of the galaxy became secondary.
