Page 30 of Problematic

I needed a distraction. I grabbed my laptop, and the screen lit my living room in cold blue. I opened Demonopedia, where everyone in New Abaddon went for gossip, history, and semi-accurate reasons to panic. My fingers hovered over the search bar.

This was stupid.

I typed anyway.

Lux Draven.

His profile loaded first.

The photo looked official, probably from some clan summit or public threat disguised as a charity event. Black suit. Black backdrop. Broad shoulders. White hair, cropped short on the sides and longer on top, pushed back from a face that made expensive things look cheap.

His eyes were red.

Deep crimson, almost black until the light caught them. Focused. Cold. No softness. No warmth. Calculation in a tailored body.

A thin scar sat near the corner of his mouth, small enough to miss unless someone lingered.

I lingered.

“Now that is a man,” I whispered.

The rose on my table existed loudly behind me.

“Demon lord,” I corrected.

I scrolled.

NaLiv: Lux Draven Designation: Nightmare Hound Type: Hellhound Status: Lord of New Abaddon Known abilities: Nightmare compulsion. Additional abilities: Unknown.

“Holy shit.”

I clicked nightmare compulsion and instantly regretted it.

Dream intrusion. Fear manipulation. Long-term psychic pressure. Victims reported waking with torn sheets, blood under their nails, and no clear memory beyond the sound of a hound breathing in the dark.

“Healthy,” I said. “Love a man with hobbies.”

I leaned back against the couch, laptop warm on my thighs, and stared at his photo again.

I did not belong in the same city as this man, let alone anywhere near his search results. He was everything the news feeds loved to whisper about. Untouchable. Unkillable. Unreachable.

And his assistant had walked into my coffee shop for espresso and singled me out.

My thighs pressed together beneath the blanket. Inaccessibility did it for me, I guess.

“Disgusting,” I scolded myself.

My body throbbed in open disagreement.

I should have closed the search page. I should have made tea, read my book, and accepted fictional murder as the healthier option. My fingers moved over the trackpad instead, opening another article. A grainy photograph appeared beneath the headline: Lux stepping from a black car in a fitted suit, pale hair swept back from his face, red eyes fixed beyond the camera as security crowded him.

He had the kind of mouth that was built to threaten without raising his voice.

I dragged my attention away from the screen and failed to drag the rest of me with it.

The ache between my legs had grown heavy, demanding, my pulse beating through the thin fabric of my panties. I slid one hand beneath the blanket and down my stomach, stopping at the waistband.

“This is a terrible idea.”