Prohrajte striptýzovou hru a vaše duše patří jemu

Lose, and your soul's his. Dante's voice echoes, each “immortal soul” a drink ticket. When the game cracks open, hellfire flickers—his grin twists into horns, his charm into claws. On her knees, she seals the deal with a slow, wicked heat, lips locked on his throbbing curse.