His hand lingered over the crystalline rim of the wine glass. It was his favorite- Pinot Noir. The crimson liquid, easily mistaken for freshly spilled blood, rippled as the loud music sounded through the club. A sly smirk, as quiet and unnoticeable as a minx, slithered onto his rosy lips. His entire demeanor, from the straight and broad pull of his shoulders to the way his thick brows sat in a straight line over his emerald eyes, suggested nothing towards the cards in his hand. He was adorning a neutral mask, showing no emotion as the men around him, clad in mimick designer suits, struggled to keep their expressions in line as they glanced nervously around the pool table, desperate for a way out of losing the money they had so foolishly played. The only sign of emotion was the small smirk, painted ever so faintly on his strong features, so discrete that none of the others could catch it under their anxious gazes.

Styles' long digits, lean and crafty, wrapped around the chilled wine glass, bringing the crisp beverage to his lips. He eyed the faces around him. They were familiar, as he had asked Crook for their names and backgrounds the moment that they decided to play a game of poker with the one man no intelligent being would dare to challenge. The man to his left he recognized to be James Keller. By his brown hair gelled back, and the cheap material of his vest that was a dark blue, he could tell that Keller was sitting with men way out of his league. At this knowledge, the small smirk threatened to grow and reveal his secret, but with another sip of his Pinot Noir, the threat was obliterated.

His gaze then shifted to the dealer in front of him. Crook. The name was fitting, ironically. With his hard features, the still set of his strong jaw, and the dull gleam in his chromatic eyes; no one would suspect the tactful movements that his hands made under the table. While Keller's gaze was on his hand of cards, probably desperate for them to magically turn into a full house, and the other players had their eyes momentarily off of the two men they should have been watching, Crook's left eye fell into a wink. It was so simple and quick, that if anyone had seen it they might have assumed it had no significance. But it did. That wink had been noticed by one man, the very man sitting across from him. Styles had seen it so many times before, always prior to his unexplainable victory. The events following the discrete wink given to him by his partner in crime, went along the lines of Styles setting his cards flat down on the soft green of the pool table- a beautiful hand of cards that seemed too lucky for even a man like Mr. Harry Styles. The men around him would widen their eyes, before an anger, fueled by their defeat, would burn within their wine-filled bellies.

It was all so rehearsed, to the point of perfection. Their simple act of sin had been smoothed and refined over the years, so that now not even the most skilled players could find a break in it. To them, it appeared simply that Harry Styles was an unnaturally blessed man, with his undying luck that ranged from poker to women and onward. But what seemed to most as unbielevable luck at gambling, was actually not luck at all. It was, utterly and completely, cheating.

It all fell seamlessly then on. The cards were showed. The fists were clenched. The money was won, or stolen more of. It was a sequence of events that was so familiar to Styles that it almost bored him. He felt his shoulders, which had been standing so strongly, slump. He ran a hand through his mane of hair, scratched mindlessly at his jaw, and grabbed his wine glass once more. The velvety rich drink exploited his taste buds, and for a moment he forgot that he had just won thousands of pounds.

His bored trance was broken when a drunken growl erupted from the man beside him. Styles' emerald eyes snapped to Keller, whose face was red with fury and intoxication.

"You're a cheat, Styles," Keller growled. The other players, who had been just as disheartened by their loss, watched in silence. They knew better than to speak out of the suspicious win. James Keller, however, was not as educated in the matter.

"There is no way," Keller slurred, shaking his head in disbelief. He was quiet for a moment as he seemed to have a discussion in his head with himself, perhaps thinking through the previous events for any sign of unfairness in Styles' game. But there wasn't any. Though seemingly injustice, the whole play of events provided no evidence for the impossible win.

Styles rolled his eyes. He had his fair share of people like Keller. They would accuse him of cheating, pointing their thick fingers in his face as if he would fall apart under their claims. Harry Styles never crumbled, though. He had lied enough in his twenty five years of living that the lines between what was true and what was false had blurred. There was no such thing as lying, only winning.

Keller watched in fear as Styles raised from his seat. His shoulders were once again broadened, his chest high in the air as he walked with all the power and wealth that went along with his name. The strides he took were long but slow, emitting an arrogance that demanded respect. A lump formed in Keller's throat, and even in his intoxicated state, drunk with anger and wine, he could feel the regret settle in, wishing desperately he had remained silent like the others.

Styles stopped in his walk, his majestic frame towering over Keller. The air around them suddenly felt thick, and the blaring music seemed muted. The only sound Keller could hear, the only sound Styles was allowing him to hear, was the controlled, deep breathing of the man in front of him.

"Oh but there is a way, Mr. Keller," Styles spoke lowly. It was the only time Keller had heard him talk, for he had been silent during the entire game, placing his cards down and betting his money only by tossing it on the table, no words falling from his pursed lips. His voice, as expected, was gravelly and baritone, like it fit a lion more than a man.

The smirk, which Styles had been careful not to show before, found its way back as he hovered over Keller. He loved the way he was trembling before him, as if his head was inches away from the executioner's blade. Styles absorbed the fear, bathing in it as if it had healing properties. And, in a way, it did. The boredom and emptiness he had been feeling only moments ago, which was something he found himself feeling more often now days, was being smothered by his growing ego, Keller's fear feeding it as if it had been starved.

Keller flinched instinctively when the man before him brought his hand up. Styles smirked at the reaction, but continued with his movements. His hand reached for the glass of wine that was sitting on the polished wood of the table. Keller frowned in confusion, wondering why this man was taking his drink rather than taking a swing at his face.

"What is this?" Styles asked, bring the glass to his lips. He sniffed, his senses filling with the sweetness of the white wine. He rarely drank white wine, preferring the richness of red.

"It's- uh, Muscat," Keller stuttered. He swallowed the dryness in his throat, watching intently as Styles took a small sip from his drink. He wasn't sure what reaction he was looking for, which one would mean safety to himself, but he knew that the neutral, unfazed expression on Styles' features was not a good sign. It was the uncertainty that came with Harry Styles that made people fear him; you never knew when he crack a smile or bare his canines, both of which made most people intimidated.

"Muscat," Styles repeated, licking the taste off his lips. It was too bitter for his liking. His emerald eyes gleamed with mischeif as he slowly tipped the wine glass. The wine slipped out at an agonizingly slow rate, much like the way Syles walked. Keller's lips parted as he watched in horror as the drink spilled onto his black leather shoes with a quiet splash.

Once the glass had emptied onto the fine shoes adorning Keller's feet, Styles thrashed it onto the ground, the glass splintering under their bodies into miniscule shards. The light mischeif previously glowing in his green eyes was now replaced with an unrestricted anger, his rosy lips pulling back so his teeth bared, just as a lion would do.

"Get the fuck out of my club," Styles growled through his clenched jaw. The tone of his voice held a promise, or a threat more of. Keller was not interested in finding out what the promise would be, so he fled, his body getting lost in the dancing mass if people.

Styles felt a hand land on his shoulder, the muscles underneath it tense. He turned to see the familiar face of his partner, and, just as fast as it came, the beast within him got lost, replaced by his previous collected state.

"Three thousand, Styles," Crook grinned. It was always a weird sight when he smiled; it contradicted with his hard eyes and the strong set of his jaw. Crook always seemed emotionless, human-less almost, but the wide grin that found its way on his hard features suggested that there was perhaps an actual being under the thick muscular shell of a man. Funnily enough, that smile only appeared when money was involved.

Styles beamed back. "We're two lucky bastards, aren't we?" Crook let out a gravelly chuckle before retreating to the bar. After such a long game, a glass of scotch was needed, no ice.

The pair of emerald eyes, which only minutes before had been filled with an animalistic rage, were now roaming the vast club. It belonged to him, all of it, and in his mind, so did the people inhabiting it. Every sweaty body, from the ones dressed in tight dresses to the fools he had just stolen money from- they were under his control.

Suddenly, he felt the familiar predatory drive within him, his eyes searching for his next game of "luck". He raked in the sight of the women, clad in expensive silk, their bodies sandwiched between others as they attempted to dance and hold their drinks at the same time. None of them seemed fitting for the lethal need growing in him. He wasn't too picky, necessarily, for if he only went for the girls that met his exact standards then he would still be a virgin. But he did have some restraint, only seeking the ones that seemed good enough to use for the night; the ones who wouldn't come back.

What Mr. Harry Styles didn't know, was that he was being watched. A pair of dark eyes had already landed on him, glued to his expressionless features through the entire poker game, and even now as he sipped cooly at the last of his wine. While he was in search of his prey, someone had already chose him as theirs.