Beauty and the Devil

chapter 8

Samantha’s POV

I couldn't stop tugging at my coat. Every few minutes, I'd check it again to make sure it was still closed. It was, ever since I climbed into the Maserati, but my hands didn't seem to believe it. The fabric felt too thin, and my skin still felt exposed.

The rhinestones beneath my coat scraped against my skin with every movement. The feathers itched. I had never worn anything like this before. It wasn't just that I felt naked; it was that I felt... labeled, like meat behind glass.

Clyde remained silent. He drove as though he was accustomed to getting wherever he wanted without noise or resistance. One hand on the wheel, the other relaxed in his lap. I caught myself staring at it—the veins, the knuckles. Still bruised.

What kind of man bruises his hands like that?

He didn't look at me once. I wondered if he even remembered I was there. Maybe I was just another object in his passenger seat, another item being delivered.

I turned toward the window. The city had changed. It always did, slowly at first, then all at once. Clean sidewalks gave way to trash-streaked curbs. Bright windows were replaced by pulsating red signs and flickering streetlamps. I saw legs before faces—women standing on corners, leaning into car windows, laughing as if they no longer knew how to cry.

A red sign blinked into view.

9 Circles.

I didn't need a map. I could tell exactly what this place was by the way people stood around it—waiting, wanting.

Clyde pulled into a space and got out without a word. He came around to open my door, and for a moment, I didn't move. My fingers tightened around the coat. My legs wouldn't respond. It felt like something inside me had shut off—logic, maybe. Or pride.

He didn't ask if I was coming, just waited—calm and sure.

I got out.

The pavement was sticky under my heels. The cold air climbed up my thighs. The coat swished around my calves, but I could feel the dress underneath as if it were made of static, wanting everyone to know it was there.

Inside, the air was thick with perfume and smoke—something sweet and heavy that made it hard to breathe. Music thumped low through the floorboards. Lights painted the walls in waves of red and gold.

My steps slowed.

Every woman in this place moved as if she belonged there. I couldn't determine if they were beautiful or just dressed to distract from something uglier. Skin shimmered everywhere. Laughter echoed as though it meant nothing. I felt like I'd wandered onto a stage during someone else's play and forgotten all my lines.

No one looked at me directly, but I felt their eyes watching me. I didn't know if that was better or worse.

“Stay close,” Clyde said without looking at me.

I hated how my legs obeyed.

We walked past booths lined with velvet and women draped over men like designer coats. Past a bar that sparkled with glass and lies. Through the heavy beat of something dark and slow. Every step made my body more aware of itself, of what I was wearing, of what I wasn't.

He led me toward the back. A blonde appeared—tall, stunning, confident in that effortless, terrifying way.

“There you are,” she said, already reaching for him.

She kissed his cheek as if she owned part of it. Pressed her chest against his side. Wrapped her arm around his waist like she belonged there.

He didn’t return the touch.

“This is Claire,” he said.

Her eyes found me. “So you’re the new one.”

There was something behind her smile—not warmth, but something more curious. She stepped forward and hugged me without asking. Her arms were strong, and she smelled like sugar and poison.

“I’ll take care of her,” she said, still holding on. “Don’t worry.”

I wasn’t worried. I was numb.

Clyde stepped behind me. I felt the movement before it happened.

Then the coat slipped from my shoulders.

My skin flinched as the air hit it. A few rhinestones brushed against my collarbone. I knew what I looked like before I saw myself. I didn’t need a mirror.

Claire smiled wider. “Perfect. But we need a name.”

She turned toward me, already brainstorming. “Cherry? Angel? Maybe Candi?”

Each name made my throat close a little more.

That’s what he thought I was, then. Just another sweet, empty thing to sell.

I wasn’t a person anymore. I was inventory.

Before I could say a word, Clyde spoke.

“Luna.”

Claire tilted her head. “Mysterious. I like it.”

He said nothing else. Didn’t look at me. Didn’t wait for my approval. It wasn’t about what suited me. It was about what suited him. I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but I didn’t even know what I was fighting for anymore.

“Time for her first dance?” Claire asked.

He nodded.

I felt my stomach knot. “Wait—what?” My voice cracked. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

“For who?”

He turned toward me finally. “For me.”

Something in my chest dropped. My fingers twitched at my sides. I didn’t want him to look at me like that. Like I was something he was already bored of. Like the surprise was over.

“Why?” I asked quietly.

His gaze flicked over me—slow, heavy. “Because I want to see what I’ve bought.”

I hated the way that made my knees weaken.