Venom and Poison
It is a well-known fact that men love danger.
They love a fight or a hunt or a challenge. And they love it in all things, but in romance most of all. A woman who is a danger will always have an added allure that no safe woman could have.
Victoire was, she knew, not a dangerous woman, and she rarely cared, for she did not want men to fall over themselves for her. They were a nuisance, and the fewer of them she was forced to deal with, the better for her.
But when she did want to become a danger, she could do it far, far more effectively than even she cared to admit. She could, in minutes, transform from a pretty if sullen failing artist into the femme fatale that any man desired. She knew almost instinctively just how to speak, how to look at them, how to be to make them sick with desire for her.
It was desire that she never fulfilled. She only drew them along until they were half-crazed and then she dropped them and resumed her life as sweet, simple Victoire and left them with only half-formed memories of wanting her so desperately and no idea why they had, only that she had all but destroyed them.
Men always said that Victoire was poisonous, that she would kill your soul with a smile or a kiss, and that she was a danger that should be avoided. But when she was not trying to be, when they looked at her, they could never see what they had been so afraid of.
She was just a sweet girl with a dash of Veela blood, after all.
Yes, Victoire thought, she was just a girl with a dash of Veela blood.
But not so sweet.