(From my book)

He stood at her windowsill.

At first, she had only watched him from behind the glass—too afraid to move, too enthralled to look away. Devilishly charming wouldn’t even begin to capture the wicked beauty before her. His presence was the kind that seeped into the bones, that lingered like the taste of forbidden fruit on the tongue.

Charcoal-black hair, wild and tousled by the wind. Horns that curved from his head, dark as onyx, as if carved from the abyss itself. And that smile—oh, that smile—tempting, treacherous, the kind that made saints waver and sinners fall to their knees. She might as well have repented right there.

Isadora had been drowning in her self-pity before he arrived. She had been a ghost in her own body, weighed down by failure, sinking into the depths of her own inadequacy. Five men. Five men she had failed to sway, failed to ensnare with delicate smiles and carefully spoken words. Five men who had turned their backs on her, leaving behind nothing but doubt and the bitter sting of rejection.

The devil had seen it. Had felt it.

Self-loathing had a scent, and Lucien had followed it like a predator drawn to blood in the water. The salt of her tears had called to him, lured him through the storm, through the night, until he found her—this girl who was drowning, not in the sea, but in herself.

Now, they stood on opposite sides of the window, assessing, calculating.

“You’re crying.”

His voice was softer than she expected, lower, smoother—like silk draped over steel. The window muffled him, but the words reached her all the same. Behind him, the storm raged on, raindrops pelting against his skin, sliding down his horns, catching in the dark strands of his hair.

She let out a breathless laugh, wiping at her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand. “I’m crying.” The words felt absurd as she repeated them, as if she had only now realized her own sorrow.

Her legs slid from the bed, bare feet meeting the cool floor, slippers slipping on as she rose. She inched toward the window, toward him, the flickering candlelight in her room illuminating his face in full.

Full lips. Pale skin. Eyes like molten gold.

“Who—what are you?”

Lucien inhaled sharply as she drew closer. What was he supposed to say? Your worst nightmare? The thief of your soul?

Instead, he answered, “I am Lucien.”

Not a man. Not an angel. But something else entirely. A creature bound to the shadows, shackled by sins too great to name.

“Why are you here?”

She was close now, so close he could see the delicate flutter of her lashes, the tremble in her breath. Her beauty was ethereal—dangerous—in a way he hadn’t expected.

“You were crying,” he said again, voice hoarse, gaze fixed on the flush of her cheeks, the redness in her eyes. “I came to see why.”

She frowned, the skepticism creeping back into her voice. “You could hear my tears?”

Lucien let out a low, breathy laugh, shaking his head. “No.” He leaned in, just enough to let the shadows coil around him, just enough to let his presence seep into the air between them.

“I could feel them.”

He could feel the weight of her sorrow, the way her grief clung to the air like a fog, thick and inescapable. It seeped into him, filling the hollow spaces of his being, drawing him toward her like a moth to an open flame.

She was drowning in sadness, and yet, he had never seen anything more alive.

“Who are you?” she asked again, this time with a steadiness that made the air between them tremble. Her hands rested on either side of the windowsill, fingers curling against the wood as she leaned forward, peering through the veil of rain and darkness.

Lucien only smiled, slow and knowing, the dimples in his cheeks deepening like twin shadows.

“I’m the devil.”