Temptation

The party was already raging when Alayah arrived, beer in hand, swagger on full display. Music pulsed through the auditorium, some bass-heavy pop song vibrating in her ribs.

Neon lights swept over a swirling mass of students—bodies pressed together in sweat and noise, hands in the air, laughter spilling from every corner.

The air smelled of alcohol, cheap perfume, fried snacks, and something deeper: nerves, lust, expectation. This was Alayah's element. Chaos and pleasure, spun together.

She didn't have to work for attention. A crooked smile, a flash of tattoo, and suddenly she was at the center of a circle: three girls close enough to touch, all of them vying for a scrap of her gaze.

The short one with dyed pink hair clung to her arm, giggling and whispering something about sneaking away for a cigarette. The taller brunette played coy, leaning in for "advice on shots" with lips brushing dangerously close to Alayah's ear.

The third girl, the quietest, kept glancing up from under heavy lashes, a shy kind of hungry.

Alayah let them orbit, basking in their attention, already feeling the familiar shimmer of crystals forming—admiration, infatuation, pure burning want.

It was almost too easy. Parties were like an emotional buffet. Drunk girls, bored girls, hearts open and hungry for something wild.

She could charm, tease, and touch—let her fingers slide down a bare arm, promise something she'd never deliver, and walk away loaded with points.

In less than an hour, she'd racked up more than she did in a week of lectures. Some part of her found it boring. The chase was fun, but the prize was too simple.

She was in the middle of a lazy, one-armed hug with the brunette—listening to a story she'd already stopped caring about—when the whole vibe of the room shifted.

She felt it first as a low crackle, the way the air in a fight gets tense a second before the first punch.

The crowd seemed to bend, subtly, as if something new and dangerous had entered the ring.

Then she saw her.

Lyra.

And for a split second, Alayah forgot every other girl in the room.

The Celestian walked in like she owned the goddamn place, silver hair loose and gleaming, skin glowing against a dress that was so black, so tight, it left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Gone was the prim, school uniform, the neat good girl with her careful smiles and iron control.

This Lyra looked like sin wrapped in velvet. The kind of girl you fucked against a bathroom wall at three in the morning—hard enough to leave bruises.

The kind of girl who'd ride you and make you beg for mercy, then pretend it never happened the next day.

Alayah stared, beer halfway to her mouth, mouth gone dry. Fuck. She was not prepared for this.

The dress hugged every inch of Lyra's body—hips, thighs, the curve of her ass, the line of her waist. Her legs were long, bare, powerful.

Even her walk was different: slow, deliberate, every step promising danger. Her lips were painted a dark red that begged to be smudged. Her eyes, rimmed in black, glinted with something feral.

Alayah had always assumed Celestians were pure—perfect little angels, all virtue and discipline, saving themselves for sacred vows and proper courtship.

This Lyra looked like she'd eat a man alive, spit out his bones, and come back for seconds.

Alayah's mind was suddenly, brutally filthy: she pictured Lyra on her knees, dress rucked up, eyes glazed and mouth open, begging for Alayah's fingers, her cock, her everything.

She wanted to bend her over a table and see how loud she could make her scream. She wanted to bite down on that perfect neck and leave marks the whole school would see.

Shit.

Alayah turned away, fighting the heat pooling low in her stomach. For a second, she honestly thought about just leaving—finding some backroom and jerking herself off until the memory faded.

But she was too proud. Instead, she poured her attention into the brunette, who suddenly seemed so dull, so ordinary, it was almost laughable.

The girl leaned in, pressing her tits against Alayah's arm, lips soft against her cheek. "Are you listening?"

Alayah forced a smirk, giving the girl a slow once-over. "Sure, babe. Just distracted by the view."

The girl giggled, eyes hopeful. Alayah resisted the urge to sigh. Why did she bother? There was no hunt here, no challenge.

All the girls at this party would let her do whatever she wanted—some wanted to be ruined, some just wanted to say they'd had a night with the bad girl.

None of them made her pulse race like Lyra did—none of them made her wonder who would win in a real fight, a real fuck.

She let the crowd flow around her, tuning out the noise, drinking deep and letting the beer work its soft magic.

Every few minutes she glanced at Lyra watching from the edge, catching little flashes: a hand brushing hair off her shoulder, a laugh too bright for someone who was usually so reserved.

Lyra was surrounded, too boys and girls both, drawn to her new energy, her sudden, smoldering magnetism.

Alayah saw the crystals forming around her rival—lust, envy, infatuation.

Then she saw something shift. Lyra was drinking—too much, too fast, glass after glass handed to her by admirers.

Alayah frowned. Was she really letting herself get drunk? That wasn't like her. Celestians could handle their liquor, but only with discipline, and Lyra wasn't the type to slip.

Was she doing it on purpose? To loosen up, to forget the rivalry, or just to prove something to herself? Alayah watched, curiosity warring with something sharp and possessive.

Then, all at once, the music stuttered, the crowd parted, and a commotion erupted near the far side of the room.

Alayah's eyes snapped to the source—her predatory instincts kicking in. She saw a big guy, one of the football players, his hand tight around Lyra's arm.

Lyra looked—fuck gone. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy, smile lopsided and slow.

She was laughing at first, trying to tug away, but the guy wouldn't let go. He leaned in, whispering something in her ear, and Lyra's smile dropped.

The crowd pressed closer, but no one did anything. Girls looked away. Guys smirked. Some people fished for their phones sensing drama, maybe wanting to film it.

Alayah's grip tightened on her beer, glass cracking in her palm. For a second, her vision went white-hot. No fucking way. 

She shoved her beer into the brunette's hands, not even bothering to say goodbye. Her path was clear: straight through the mass of bodies, eyes locked on Lyra and the asshole pawing her.

She moved like a blade through silk—unstoppable, dangerous, ready to draw blood.

As she reached the edge of the confrontation, Lyra swayed, unsteady, trying to peel the guy's hand off her wrist. He leaned in, smirking, eyes glazed with drink and entitlement.