Harem Startup : The Demon Billionaire is on Vacation

Her hand still rested flat against his chest, just above the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Slow. Controlled. He wasn't the kind to give anyone the satisfaction of a racing pulse, but she could feel the subtle tension under her palm. Not fear—no, Lux wasn't afraid of her—but resistance. The kind that made her want to push harder just to see if she could make it crack.

"You know," she said lazily, "you're one of the only demons who looks good bleeding in mortal fabric. Shame about the fabric, though."

She hooked two fingers into the torn edge of his shirt and yanked again. The fabric gave easily, the rip loud in the quiet of the room. "Mmh," she murmured, letting her gaze drift over the stretch of skin she'd uncovered—marked with cuts, smudged with blood, and already starting to bruise in places. "Better."

Lux didn't flinch, didn't even look down. Just arched one brow. "You gonna buy me a new shirt, or should I invoice you?"

"You're funny," she said, like it was both a compliment and a warning.

She dipped the cloth back into the warm water, wrung it out slowly, and dragged it over his shoulder again. This time, her movements weren't purely efficient. She lingered, letting her fingers trail after the cloth, tracing the slope of muscle down his arm.

He hissed when the cloth passed over a deeper cut, and her lips curved.

'There it is.'

That tiny, involuntary reaction—it wasn't pain she wanted. It was proof that he could react at all. Proof that she could make him.

"You always this jumpy when someone touches you?" she asked.

"Not always," he said evenly. "Just when I'm waiting for them to try something."

Her smirk deepened. "Maybe I already am."

She peeled the shirt the rest of the way open, sliding it off one shoulder, then the other. He let her—still watching her like a man who'd sit through the whole play just to find out if the lead actress drew a dagger in the last act.

It was normal for demons to strip someone down for healing. But this wasn't just that, and they both knew it. Her fingers were deliberate, not hurried. The way she pulled the fabric down was more like undressing than triage.

Sira's eyes roamed shamelessly, and she didn't bother to hide it. Pride didn't hide its appreciation.

She wasn't one of those shy, simpering Lust demons who pretended they didn't know exactly what they were looking at. She looked, and she let him see that she was looking.

'You're too calm for someone letting me do this,' she thought, pressing the cloth to a line of dried blood along his ribs.

The scent of iron mingled with the lavender in the water, and she let her thumb rest just a moment too long against the sharp edge of his rib before wiping it clean. 'You're either that confident… or that reckless.'

"You missed a spot," Lux said dryly when she pulled back to rinse the cloth again.

"Oh?" she murmured, tilting her head. "Where?"

"Behind my back," he said.

Her grin was slow, lazy, predatory. "Careful. That sounded almost like an invitation."

He didn't answer, which was answer enough.

She stepped around behind him, close enough that her hip brushed his back as she moved the cloth across his spine. The muscles there were tight, drawn in lines she could feel through the wet fabric. She let the cloth glide down, slow enough that the steam curled up around them, dampening the air between her lips and his skin.

'You're not even trying to pretend you don't notice me,' she thought, eyes narrowing slightly in amusement.

"Still tense," she murmured. "I could loosen you up."

"That's what worries me," he said.

She chuckled, low in her throat, and moved back to his side. The shirt slid further off him until it pooled at his waist, leaving him bare from the shoulders down. She could see the faint shimmer of infernal magic under his skin now, the telltale signature of his bloodline. She traced it with the cloth—and then, just her fingers—feeling the heat of it.

"You know," she said softly, "I could have killed you the first time we met. You didn't even know I was there."

"I knew," he said.

Her brows rose. "Did you?"

"I also knew you wouldn't," he said simply.

She smiled at that—genuine, this time, the kind that didn't feel like she was calculating an advantage. Just for a heartbeat. "Maybe I wouldn't have. Doesn't mean I won't later."

"Good to know," he said.

She reached the blood along his chest and leaned in to clean it. This time, her palm pressed flat against his ribs as she worked, her thumb brushing the inside of his arm. She could feel the subtle shift of his breathing, the way he didn't pull away but didn't lean in either. Holding the line.

"You're very good at not giving ground," she said quietly.

"Habit," he replied.

"Mmh." She tossed the cloth back into the basin and let her now-empty hand trail over his chest, nails faintly grazing his skin. "I like habits that take effort to break."

She stepped back only enough to meet his eyes again, her gaze locking with his like they were two predators circling the same prize.

'You're not afraid of me. You should be. But I think you enjoy not being afraid.'

Aloud, she said, "I'll think of something for you to owe me. Something… fitting."

"Can't wait," he said flatly.

Her smirk returned. "Yes, you can."

The silence between them stretched, thick and charged. Outside, she could hear the faint murmur of her household staff going about their business, the muffled clink of glass from the kitchen, the soft hiss of the fire in the hearth.

All of it seemed far away.

The only real sound was his breathing—and hers, slower now, steadier, because Pride didn't rush. Pride savored.