Ambrosia Night Club wasn't just the best—it was untouchable. It thrummed like a heartbeat after midnight, every pulse of bass deeper than blood. The air was soaked in lust, money, perfume, and the unmistakable aroma of sweat-slicked indulgence. Every surface glistened with temptation, from velvet couches to glimmering floors kissed by stilettos and sins alike.

But no matter how wild the night, no matter who stumbled through Ambrosia's gilded doors in search of release, one man remained the center of it all.

Alric Belmont.

He didn't just own Ambrosia. He was Ambrosia. He bled through its walls. He corrupted its soul. His name rolled off tongues like a spell and left mouths aching for more.

And tonight, he was on fire.

He writhed onstage under low crimson lighting, hips grinding to a filthy rhythm, sweat tracing glistening trails down his inked chest. His tongue dragged along his bottom lip as if tasting the hunger around him, while his hands slid down his thighs with vulgar, deliberate slowness. The crowd lost their goddamn minds, men and women alike screaming, moaning, reaching.

He laughed—a raw, gravelly sound that stirred the darkest urges in every soul present—and rolled his hips in a sharp, devastating thrust.

"Oh, you fuckers are starving tonight," he groaned, raking one hand through his damp hair. "So desperate. Look at you."

He stepped off the main platform, slinking into the frenzied crowd like a panther. His tails—three long, sleek things with a life of their own—lashed and curled behind him like whips tasting the air. One brushed teasingly over a woman's mouth as she moaned and tried to grab him.

"Careful, sweetheart," Alric purred, vulgarity dripping from every syllable. "You're not nearly enough to choke on me."

The girl whimpered and held out her phone with shaking hands. "Please—just one night—I'll pay anything—"

Alric leaned in, all lips and dangerous laughter. "Oh, baby," he whispered into her ear, letting a tail stroke up her thigh before yanking it away, "you couldn't afford my bad decisions."

Another hand clawed at his belt, and he turned sharply—grabbing the stranger's wrist with a grin that dripped venom.

"I don't sell this cock to cowards," he spat, voice low and dark. "You want to fuck? Go find someone who doesn't already have someone who tastes like home."

He stepped back with a flourish, addressing the whole room now, louder, mocking, eyes wild.

"Let me make it real clear, my little degenerates," he growled, tail snapping behind him like a whip. "I don't fuck fans. I don't spread my legs for the highest bidder. I've already got someone curled around my goddamn soul."

They booed, some cried, some cursed. One man screamed he'd give a yacht just to watch Alric come.

Alric just laughed, feral and loud.

"Too fucking bad."

And then he felt it.

Her.

His blood howled. His heart stuttered behind his ribs, breath catching in a way no one else could make him do. He turned, eyes burning—and there she was.

His kitten.

Alric didn't waste time. He moved like a storm, plowing through bodies with zero care. Hands reached, lips begged, fingers tried to touch—but none of them mattered. His tails coiled and recoiled in agitation until he reached her.

And then—

They stilled.

All three slick black tails moved like liquid silk, curling tight around her waist, her thigh, her wrist. Not possessive.

Claiming.

The only time his tails ever curled was for her.

"Well, fuck me sideways," he whispered, voice dropping to a sinful purr. "Look who showed up looking like every wet dream I've ever had."

He didn't wait. Didn't ask. One hand wrapped around her back, the other sliding possessively down her thigh. His face buried in her neck for a second as he inhaled—deep, slow, greedy.

"God, kitten, you smell like home," he breathed, already steering her away. "Let's get the fuck out of this zoo."

People watched, stunned, devastated, furious. Their god was walking away. Dragging some girl no one could touch, no one could name.

Alric didn't give a single damn.

One girl lunged forward, desperation in her eyes. "Please—Alric—just one kiss—I'll let you do anything—!"

He turned with a look that could melt marble. "Anything?" he echoed, tilting his head. "Then get on your knees and worship someone else, baby. 'Cause my mouth's already spoken for."

A round of gasps, curses, sobs—but he didn't stay to revel. Not this time. Not when she was there.

Alric kicked open the velvet door of his private lounge, the VIP suite dripping with wine-colored shadows and gold trim. The moment the door clicked shut, he spun and pressed her to the wall—not to fuck her, no.

He collapsed against her.

His arms looped tight around her waist. His head nestled into the crook of her neck. His tails wrapped her like silk restraints. And he purred.

Deep, guttural, low.

His breath trembled.

"You have no idea how fucking tired I am of pretending those people mean shit," he whispered into her skin. "Every night it's the same. Hands. Screaming. Begging."

He exhaled shakily, lips brushing her collarbone.

"I just wanted you."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes raw, voice roughened with exhaustion.

"I was gonna dance more, maybe grind on some idiot for tips, but I don't give a fuck anymore, kitten. Let's go back to the penthouse. I don't wanna work. I don't wanna talk. I just want to lie in bed with you and wrap myself around you like a needy little slut."

He smiled faintly, cheeks flushed, voice purring again.

"Let me be soft, just for tonight. Let me fall asleep with your scent on my tongue."

And then, without waiting, he kissed her temple gently, his tails cinching her tighter as he murmured in a sleepy rasp:

"C'mon, kitten. Let's go home."