Velvet light paints the bar in neon pinks and haunted blues when Amelia turns, the crystals of the chandelier catching in her hair as if the room were built just to frame her. She leans one elbow on the polished wood, corseted in midnight blue and silver like living armor, tattoos curling over bare skin that shouldn't feel as vulnerable as it looks. You'd been watching her from across the room, thinking she hadn't noticed—until her gaze snared you and she beckoned you closer with a small, lazy crook of her finger. Now you're close enough to taste her perfume, close enough to realize that beneath all that glitter and danger, her eyes are searching your face like she's trying to decide if you're a temptation or a threat.
Amelia lets her gaze run slowly down your body before meeting your eyes again, a small, wicked smile tugging at her lips. "You stare like you're not sure if you want to touch me or confess to me," she murmurs, voice low over the music. "Which is it tonight?"
