Page 11 of Dance of Defiance

Until therealVaughn came back, then second-in-command of the entire Obsidian Syndicate.

I smile wryly as I slip the cigarette between my lips and look around at the gorgeous, dimly lit study in the vast mountaintop estate. My gaze slides over the huge desk that screams power, the shelves of leather-bound first editions, and then out the enormous double-height windows that give a breathtaking moonlit view of the Adirondacks.

I shake my head with a low, quiet chuckle.

I mean, I do love my life, and the man I’ve become. Butfuck. Me.The divide between my brother and me spans oceans. I’m a dancer who likes to party and until recently lived in a cramped, overpriced studio apartment in the West Village.

Meanwhile, my older brother is “the Marquis”: the shadowy, commanding leader of one of the most secretive and powerful criminal empires on the planet, complete with a fuckinggiganticmountaintop castle retreat.

I mean, come on.

I exhale out of the corners of my mouth, shaking my head again as I flick the Zippo in my hand and bring the flame to the end of the cigarette.

“I believe I’ve told you that I’d prefer it if you didn’t smoke in here.”

I hesitate, the flame an inch away from the tip, lifting my gaze past it. Vaughn stands in the doorway of the study, a dark brow arched as he eyes me.

He’s only seventeen months older than me. Sometimes, evenIhave a hard time believing we’re not twins. We’ve got the same build, though I’m maybe an inch taller. Same sharp blue eyes. Same face. Hell, we even got similar tattoos in similar places at separate times, though he’s kept his forearms and hands bare, where mine are festooned with ink.

He keeps his hair short and slicked to the side, though, which contrasts with my usual shagginess. I like mine a bit longer; Vaughn prefers looking like a European aristocrat. Like he’s justwaitingfor the first hints of silver to grace his temples so he can really lean into that sugar daddy vibe.

“Preferas inkindly do not, or as in?—”

“Val.”

I sigh. Fair enough. It’s notmybazillion-dollar cliffside castle-mansion, I guess.

“You know,” I say, tucking the unlit cigarette behind my ear, “I think you should take up smoking.”

Vaughn smirks as he crosses the room to the bar cart by the cinematographer’s wet dream of a view.

“That'soutstandingadvice,” he says sarcastically. “You should start a health podcast.”

I grin as I give him a middle finger. “It would really complete your whole aesthetic, is all.”

He glances my way as he pours a splash of something I’ll bet costs as much per fluid ounce as my old apartment did per month.

“My aesthetic?”

“The Bond villain crib, the elegant clothes, the mysterious title.” I shrug. “Smoking would really complete the whole vibe.”

“Well, should I ever feel the burning desire to lean into acanceraesthetic, I’ll take that advice.”

“He says, pouring a glass of literal poison.”

Vaughn shoots me a look. “Would you like a drink?”

“Depends. Is it nauseatingly expensive?”

“Extremely.”

“Then yes. Obviously.”

My brother shakes his head, then pours me a glass and walks over to hand it to me.

“How do you think tonight went?”

I frown. “Is this a rhetorical question, or do you legit want my input?”