Page 25 of Heart Over Heels

Not Luxe.

A pang of disappointment tightened my chest, but I kept moving, weaving through the mob until I found an open spot at the far end of the bar counter. The bartender caught my signal between pouring shots and shaking a cocktail tin, and I asked for a glass of water. He slid it over without missing a beat.

With the drink in hand, I turned toward the stage.

Hemlock emerged in fishnets and leather, his black hair a stark slash against his pale skin. Dark, curved horns jutted from his temples, and a slithery tail coiled around his thigh. As he strode toward center stage, his red eyes panned across the crowd, glowing like hot coals.

The music swelled, deep, growling metal sounds that vibrated through the floor. He gripped the pole, twisted sideways, then inverted completely, balancing upside down with impossible ease.

The crowd noticed. Those closest to the stage surged forward, electrifying the air with their attention. Shouts broke through the music, riding the beat as Hemlock shifted into a dizzying spin.

It wasn’t the show I’d been hoping to see, but I couldn’t deny it was captivating. I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or aroused, which reopened that can of confusion I’d been trying to close since I’d stumbled onto Luxe a few days prior.

Male demons were still men. Adding a tail and horns didn’t change other… anatomy. Body parts I’d never considered beyond their basic functions. I’d handled my own dick, indulged in plenty of self-love while overseas, but I didn’t exactly salivate at the thought of a stiff cock.

Why, then, was my mind drifting again, my attention roaming the room in search of a shock of white hair on a petite body? It wasn’t Luxe’s cock I was interested in. It was just… him. A piece of the Dollhouse puzzle I had yet to fit into place.

The crowd surged ever louder, riotous enough to drag my attention from my spiraling thoughts. Voices soared over the music, arms thrust out and up, and bodies crushed closer. One pair of hands separated from the rest, followed by a figure trying to climb up the raised edge of the stage. The person reached out, fingers splayed, making a swiping grab for Hemlock.

Hemlock didn’t notice. Mid-routine, he was fully extended from the pole and braced on one arm. His legs swung out, set on a collision course with the customer’s hopeful hand.

It was imminent, unavoidable, and I was on my feet in a second. The bolting movement caused my leg to twist in the cup of my prosthesis, but I recovered enough to take one staggered step before the customer caught Hemlock’s ankle in a halting grip.

With a sudden, violent yank, the dancer was pulled off balance. His body swung wildly, free leg kicking and tail lashing as momentum carried him down. He crashed onto the stage with a thud that drew a gasp from the crowd.

Chaos erupted instantly.

Feet planted and eyes scanning, I picked the cleanest path through the crowd and took it. I sidestepped spilled drinks and ducked under flailing arms as people shouted, cursed, and stampeded around me.

Hemlock was in the patron’s grip, being dragged toward the stage’s edge and the waiting horde. My mind ran through a split-second strategy: block, intercept, and neutralize the threat. The dancer’s safety came first; everything else was secondary.

“Let him go!” I barked, keeping my voice firm and commanding. The customer, I saw him now, had eyes glassy with intoxication but unnervingly focused.

Hemlock kicked out as his tail swiped through the air like a scythe, cutting a stripe of red across the customer’s cheek.

The assailant howled in pain then resumed pulling harder. The blood dripping down his face made him look deranged.

I adjusted my approach, closing the gap to the point of contact, considering how to break the hold without hurting either of them. The crowd’s noise—shouts, laughter, curses—faded into static.

Focus. Threat. Target.

Barreling through the last wave of gawkers, I seized the aggressor, clapping my hands onto both of his arms and squeezing. He bucked at the unexpected contact, but I shifted my weight low, planted my feet shoulder-width apart, and locked my core. Twisting slightly, I guided his center of gravity backward, stealing his leverage and making it my own.

“Let him go,” I repeated. “Now.”

The man thrashed as I pressed his wrists against his sides. Each lunge and wrench was met with enough pressure to keep him upright but neutralized.

Finally, his grip gave way. Hemlock stumbled free, black hair wild and eyes darting like a cornered animal. Around us, other dancers and Colette closed in as additional reinforcements.

Marvel, the burly blond, climbed up onto the stage. He stooped over the downed dancer and offered a hand, but rather than accept the help, Hemlock rounded on him with fists balled and body poised for a fight.

“El, it’s…” Marvel’s voice broke off as Colette cut through the clamor.

“Reculez! Everyone, back!” She pressed in behind me, nodding once before taking the assailant in a brisk, no-nonsense frog march toward the door.

Checking the stage found Marvel and Hemlock making a joint retreat into the wings.

The crowd swirled around me, churning in confused uproar. Someone barked at the DJ to cut the music, and in the ensuing silence, the same voice turned cloyingly sweet.