Epilogue Three-Atlas
I’ve been surrounded by beautiful women all my life.
Models, actresses, courtesans who would sell their souls for a taste of my money or the whisper of my last name.
But this one?
This woman is not beautiful.
She is devastating.
She’s tall—five foot ten, at least—with an hourglass figure that would make Aphrodite herself jealous.
Not the lean, sharp-edged elegance I’m accustomed to, but something thicker, richer, built for sin.
A body meant to ruin a man. Or a prince.
Her lips are painted red, a shade that looks less like lipstick and more like a battle cry.
Her nose glints with a ring, and both ears glitter with four piercings each, the studs catching the light like weapons hidden in plain sight.
And her hair—God, her hair.
A riot of curls cropped short at her neck, tumbling in shades that shift from black to russet when she moves.
Wild. Untamable. Dangerous.
But her eyes are the worst.
Black as midnight.
Temptation sharpened into a blade. Eyes that don’t just look at you—they strip you bare and demand to know what kind of man you really are.
I know what kind I am.
And I know I should walk away.
Instead, when she bends over a table, I catch a glimpse of ink curling over her hip, just above the waistband of her skirt.
A serpent, coiled and curving downward, its tail vanishing into shadows I can’t see.
Fuck.
I wonder how far it goes.
I wonder how much of her it covers.
And I wonder how long I can resist before I find out for myself.
I know I have to keep the real reason I’m here secret, but some things are worth the risk.
The end.