Chapter 1 - The Devil At The Top Of The Stairs

The night Club Eden swallowed Raven Knight whole, she wasn’t wearing red, but she should have been. She stepped through the velvet-draped entrance in fitted black slacks, a satin top that caught the light like oil, and a pair of heels she borrowed from her best friend Talia. Her press badge was tucked into the lining of her purse, a necessary betrayal. No one got inside Eden without a story, and hers was as carefully crafted as the lies written on her face.

She wasn’t here as Raven Knight, investigative journalist for The Mirror. Tonight, she was Raye Kincaid, aspiring dancer, newcomer to the city, and too naïve to understand that the club she walked into wasn’t just elite, it was owned by the devil himself.

Her heels clicked across the marble floor like a metronome for the music pulsing overhead. The air was thick with perfume, sweat, and something darker, something feral. Women glided past her in lingerie and glitter, men lounged with lowball glasses in hands, and every wall was bathed in red and gold. Raven tried not to gape. Club Eden was beautiful in the way fire was beautiful, if you forgot it could burn you alive.

A bouncer gave her a once-over and waved her through. No ID check. No words. Just a nod.

She was in.

The bar to the left stretched like a runway of dark wood and light. Dancers spun on silken poles at opposite ends of the room, moving like they belonged to no one but themselves. Raven glanced around, her journalist instincts tingling. She didn’t see him yet, the man at the center of every rumor, every whispered threat, every bloodied trail in her files.

Jaxon Morreau.

He was the man behind Club Eden. The man behind three missing persons cases. The man with ties to an international crime syndicate that everyone in the city pretended didn’t exist. She didn’t know what he looked like, not exactly. No photos ever surfaced. Just sketches. Profiles. Descriptions whispered between sobs or fear. Tall. Cold. Dangerous.

She slipped past the bar, pretending to look for the dressing rooms. Her plan was simple: get close, observe, and disappear with her skin intact. But even simple plans unravel when the thread is pulled too tight.

“New?” a voice asked.

Raven turned. The woman in front of her had skin like cinnamon and lips painted the color of fresh blood. Her name tag said Kira, but her eyes said she noticed everything.

“Yeah,” Raven answered. “Raye. Just moved to the city.”

Kira smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t wander. Not unless you’re invited. Especially not upstairs.”

“Why?”

She nodded toward the grand staircase coiled like a golden snake in the center of the room. “Because that’s where he is.”

Before Raven could ask who he was, the lights dimmed, and a soft bell chimed through the speakers.

Heads turned. Every dancer on stage paused. Every server froze mid-step. Then, the crowd parted.

At the top of the stairs stood a man in tailored black, his silhouette cut sharp against the low light. He didn’t move like someone entering a room. He moved like he owned it.

Jaxon Morreau.

His gaze swept across the club, casual, detached, until it landed on her.

Raven didn’t breathe.

His eyes were pale, silver maybe, or icy blue. His expression didn’t change, but something flickered. Recognition? Interest? No. Something worse. Possession.

He descended the stairs one measured step at a time, never taking his eyes off her. People bowed their heads slightly as he passed. No one spoke. The music shifted to something darker. He reached the floor and moved toward her with the gravity of a man who expected the world to bend around him.

“Name,” he said.

His voice was low, threaded with silk and steel.

“Raye.”

“Raye what?”

She hesitated. “Kincaid.”

He stared at her like he could hear the lie on her lips. Then, a slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Not friendly. Not amused. Interested.

“I don’t remember hiring you.”

“I’m just auditioning,” she lied. “Talia said...”

“Talia doesn’t run my club.”

He stepped closer. Raven held her ground.

“Where are you really from?” he asked, voice low enough that no one else could hear.

She met his gaze. “Does it matter?”

The silence stretched. Then he chuckled, a sound without humor.

“You’ve got a sharp mouth. I like that.”

“I’m not here to be liked.”

“No. You’re here to be watched.”

Before she could move, his hand wrapped gently, but firmly, around her waist. He leaned in, mouth at her ear.

“Come with me.”

She should have said no. Every instinct screamed it. But her feet moved, her pulse surged, and she followed him up the stairs.

The lounge was quiet, lit by flickering sconces and the city skyline through floor-to-ceiling glass. He didn’t offer her a seat. He simply stood by the window and looked out.

“You’re not who you say you are,” he said.

“You’re not either.”

He smiled again, sharp and dark. “What do you want?”

“To dance.”

“Liar.”

She met his eyes. “To know who you are.”

“And if you find out?”

“I write stories.”

He turned to face her fully. “So do I. Except mine end in blood.”

Raven’s breath caught.

He stepped forward, slow, deliberate.

“I should throw you out,” he said.

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because I’m curious.”

He reached out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. The touch was too intimate, too confident.

“You’re beautiful when you lie.”

She didn’t respond.

“You want to know me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He leaned in, mouth close to hers. “Then you’ll need to earn it.”

And then, without permission, he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was a claim.

When he pulled back, her lips were parted, her body humming.

“Welcome to Eden,” he said. “Let’s see how long you survive.”