Chapter 134 – Misbehave
Fiera froze at the end of the runway. Heart pounding. Breath stolen. It was a fashion show—but it felt like ritual. Like she was standing at the edge of sothing ancient. Hungry.
And then he did it.
He raised his hand toward her—but not with the clean, rehearsed ease of a model. No. Lux raised it slow. Deliberate. Fingers gloved in power, in promise. He didn’t offer his hand. He summoned her.
Fiera’s hand moved without thinking. Caught by the gravity in his gesture.
The mont their skin touched, the air changed.
The heat of him rushed through her like a spell. Warm. Inviting. Dangerous.
Flashbulbs stuttered.
A few caras lowered. People gasped.
And Lux... smiled.
Not a polite, stage-appropriate smile.
No.
It was a slow, devastating curve of his lips—full of secrets, seduction, and the kind of mischief that ca with centuries of experience.
He didn’t just stand beside her.
He descended on her.
His free hand ca up, ghosting along her waist—not enough to hold, not enough to claim, but just enough to make every nerve along her spine flare like a livewire. His face lowered slightly as if to whisper sothing—
But he didn’t.
Instead, he hovered.
Close enough for heat. Close enough to taste the silence in the room.
And then—
He twirled her.
Right there. On stage.
In a movent so fluid, so sensual, it stole the air from the room.
Her dress flared in a rush of black and gold, the fabric lifting like flas, her body turned effortlessly by his lead. When she ca back into his chest, Lux caught her with both hands now—one on her lower back, the other resting just above her hip. Possessive. Proud.
The crowd didn’t cheer.
Not yet.
They were silent.
Absolutely, thunderstruck silent.
Mira, for once, looked speechless—jaw slack, one hand still frozen mid-scroll on her phone.
Rava’s tentacle snaked around the stem of a wine bottle like it needed sothing—anything—to grip.
And Elyndra whispered with stunned reverence...
"...I could file for ergency marriage."
Back on stage—Fiera was still in his arms. Dazed.
She blinked once, her breath stuck sowhere between her throat and her knees.
And Lux?
Lux leaned in.
No mic. No announcent. Just a whisper of heat on her skin, lips brushing the shell of her ear like a kiss made from smoke and secrets.
"So," he murmured, deep and slow, "how bad do you want to ruin right now?"
Her heart spasd in her chest.
Her hand trembled against his suit.
"You have no idea," she whispered.
And he knew it.
Oh, he knew it.
He let her go—not fully, but enough to guide her forward with a flair of devilish flair. They walked the rest of the runway like they owned it. Like they were the climax of a story no one else was allowed to read.
And as they reached the edge?
Then the crowd rembered how to breathe.
The applause started like a gasp—then erupted.
People stood. Caras surged. The pit of photographers exploded with light like divine wrath. Cheers echoed through the hall, not just for the clothes—no, not anymore.
They clapped for the sight of them. For that dance of heat and elegance. For that one mont where fashion blurred with fantasy.
They clapped for him.
For her.
For whatever just happened on that runway.
And Fiera?
Fiera’s hand was still trembling.
But not from nerves.
From fire.
Because Lux Vaelthorn didn’t just walk her down the runway.
He claid it with her.
And every step, every glance, every whisper he gave her...
Felt like a promise he had no intention of keeping.
And she?
She desperately wanted to make him break it.
The walk ended, but the heat didn’t. Not between them. Not in the air. The crowd was still roaring, so rising to their feet, others trying to blink away whatever that had been. The finale music swelled, lights fading into a slow, warm golden hue that kissed their silhouettes before the curtains descended.
And the second they stepped off stage—
The world behind the scenes exploded into movent.
"Holy hell," her makeup artist gasped.
"Is he single?" soone from hair blurted.
"Do devils do encore walks?"
"I want one. I want five," a stylist wailed.
Lux just smiled. Politely. Devilishly. His usual.
Fiera, on the other hand, was still trying to keep her legs from shaking and her face from combusting. The heat was still in her veins. Her lungs. Her throat. And Lux?
He leaned in again.
Because of course he did.
"You’re welco," he murmured near her jaw.
Fiera turned her head slowly, expression flat but her cheeks still burning. "For what?"
"For selling out your collection before you even announced the preorders." He flashed a grin. "Two billionaires were about to brawl during our walk. One of them licked her wine glass."
"You’re imagining that."
"I have witnesses."
"Go sit down," she snapped, pointing vaguely toward the VIP area.
But Lux took a step closer instead, one hand brushing the back of her hip—not inappropriate. Not quite. Just warm. Just possessive enough to knock the air out of her lungs.
"You’re still trembling," he whispered.
Fiera shoved him. Lightly. Very lightly. Too lightly. "That’s your fault."
He grinned again. "I’ll take responsibility. But only if you misbehave later."
"You are unreal."
"I’m better," he said.
And then, just to be an absolute nace, he leaned close to her ear again—his voice low and syrup-thick:
"By the way... that twirl?"
Fiera swallowed. "What about it?"
He smirked. "You blushed."
"I did not."
"You did," he whispered. "And it was hot."
Her face went redder than a cursed love potion. "Out."
He chuckled, gave her a lazy two-finger salute, and turned on his heel—back toward the chaos of the catwalk corridors. Models watched him go with visible awe. Assistants swooned. One nearly walked into a clothes rack.
He didn’t even look back.
Because Lux Vaelthorn never had to.
Back in the VIP row, Mira didn’t even glance at him as he sat down. "Did you two just seduce the entire runway?"
Lux sighed dramatically. "We didn’t an to."
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