Page 24

Lach

The haunting final notes of the Danse Macabre lingered as we threaded our way through the throng of partygoers spilling out of the auditorium into the lobby and sprawling game rooms surrounding the theater. Laughter mixed with the sounds of rustling costumes as the celebration burst into full swing. A protective instinct surged inside my chest, the primal force drawing my body closer to Cate’s with every step we took amidst the city’s creatures.

“Easy there,” Cate chided, mild but obvious annoyance lacing her voice. “Your mating bond is showing.”

But my grip tightened on her hand. I forced a rueful smile as the weight I felt grew heavier. “It’s not something I can just…override.” Even if it pissed her off. “Since the bond, the need to protect you feels like it’s written into my DNA.”

She studied me for a moment, something unreadable sparking in her eyes. The crowd pressed in around us as livelier music started, igniting an almost feral urge to shield her from their proximity. Her eyes widened as if she sensed a shift. “You’re going to have to try.”

“Believe me, I am trying,” I confessed, the admission rough and foreign. Self-control wasn’t something I generally struggled with. At least, it hadn’t been before I met her. I leaned down, brushing my lips across the shell of her ear. Her answering shiver seized my heart. “Because what I really want right now is to show every damned soul in New Orleans that you belong to me.”

“I dare you.” Warmth crept onto her cheeks that had nothing to do with the crowded room, the delicate pink betraying her feigned annoyance.

Well, I did like a challenge.

“I believe you like to dance.”

“I thought you—”

But I was already pulling her toward the music, toward the center of the room, where people had begun to do just that. She looked nervous as I hooked an arm around her waist and drew her to me. We moved together, our bodies syncing to the rhythm. Her hips moved sinuously, a siren song calling to the bond we shared.

“Seeing you like this”—my hands dipped to explore her curves—“makes it damn near impossible not to take you right here, right now.”

She spun away from me, glancing over her shoulder as the corners of her lips curled upward. “I think that you’re all talk, Gage.”

She punctuated the barb by grinding her ass against me. Another challenge—one that stirred my gods-damned instincts into a near frenzy.

My fingers grazed the fabric of her skirt, bunching it ever so slightly as I pulled her flush against me. I snaked an arm around her, resting my palm gently over her collarbone. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted that.”

Her heartbeat sped up, but before she could respond, the crowd parted down the middle, splitting like the Red Sea. Ciara sauntered toward us, the stones on her Cleopatra costume glittering under the chandeliers. Roark trailed behind.

Cate disentangled from our embrace and straightened her own costume. She frowned at his usual black attire—a choice that only made him stand out more tonight. “What are you supposed to be?”

My sister cast a haughty glance at her companion. “He’s my lapdog,” she declared with a regal tilt of her head. “But he refuses to wear his leash.”

The image that conjured—someone as fierce as Roark collared and leashed—coaxed a chuckle into my throat, but I caught it just in time, turning it into a cough. But my efforts were futile.

Roark’s eyes narrowed on me, his frown deepening into a scowl. “We need to talk.”

Cate looked between us, her gaze landing on Ciara as she grabbed her hand. “Let’s go to the restroom.”

She hauled my sister away before she could protest. It was hard to tell if she was giving us privacy or saving everyone from the sheer awkwardness that oozed from my sister and my penumbra at all times. I watched her go, my focus lingering until she disappeared from sight. My chest tightened, and I forced myself to nod toward the nearest exit. “Outside.”

Something told me that this was a conversation that needed discretion. Or maybe Ciara really just had him that bent out of shape.

Cool air brushed my flushed skin as we stepped through the side door. It swung closed, dampening the festive noise slightly. Roark scanned the back alley, dim save for the moon hanging overhead.

“We identified the human.”

I squared my shoulders, bracing for whatever information he was about to dump on me, and nodded for him to continue.

“Tourist,” he said, his voice low and grave. “She was reported missing by her friends a few days ago.”

“Any leads?”

“Nothing. The scene was clean.” He grimaced as if realizing how wrong that sounded. “We made sure the police found her in less unusual circumstances.”

Anger coiled in my gut. Tourists had gotten caught up in our business before, but this felt personal. “Someone’s playing games with us.” My words came out as a barely controlled growl.

“They’re trying to get under your skin.” His warning was well-meaning but unnecessary.

“It’s working.” Whoever was behind this wanted me out of New Orleans, and I doubted there was any line they wouldn’t cross to see that happen.

“We’ve doubled patrols.” But I could tell by the grim set of his jaw that he had little confidence in the measure.

We wandered toward the street as if we might just prowl the night ourselves in search of the bastard. A couple spilled from La Porte, the man, stumbling drunk, held up by a petite woman. Her black eyes darted to mine, her lips smashing together to hide her fangs, obviously afraid I might intercede on behalf of her midnight snack. But I had bigger problems to worry about, and vampires knew better than to kill their prey in my city. She tugged him into the night, glancing over her shoulder, but another group had caught my attention.

Shaw was leading Dante and Channing toward La Porte, the trio chattering boisterously like this was just any bar in town. Each had a cheap Mardi Gras mask in hand, likely picked up from some souvenir shop. A flash of rage as sudden and violent as lightning struck me at my brother’s audacity in bringing Channing here tonight.

“Shaw!” I barked, stepping into their path.

He cursed under his breath when he saw me.

“Where are you heading?” I cracked my knuckles as Roark moved next to me.

“Just out to have a good time.” He spread his hands, motioning to my penumbra. “Like you two.”

Roark didn’t budge. He only crossed his arms and fixed them with a warning glare. “Maybe you should stick to Bourbon Street.”

“It will only be humans there. The party is here tonight.” Shaw shook his head, sharing a look with Dante. “You two need to relax.”

“Relax?” My brother knew what we were up against, what was lurking in the shadows, but that had always been Shaw’s problem—he didn’t think before he acted. Roark clamped a steadying hand on my shoulder before I completely lost my temper. “Just…stay out of trouble.”

Channing folded his arms, tapping the mask against his biceps. “Is that a threat?”

There was still no love lost between us, and not even an ounce of gratitude for saving his life. But brothers are supposed to care more about protecting their family from outside threats, and that was how he would always see me—as a threat.

“No,” I snapped, my patience wearing thin despite Roark’s attempts. “It’s a warning, because if you step out of line, it won’t be me you’ll answer to; it’ll be Cate. And she will kick your ass.”

He had the decency to look a little scared at the thought.

Dante slung an arm over Channing’s shoulder, guiding him around us. He tipped his head to me as they passed. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“How comforting,” I said flatly.

A muscle twitched in his jaw, but they continued, followed by Shaw. He paused, opening his mouth to say something before shutting it again without speaking.

“Come on. Let it out,” I encouraged him. Part of me was tired of this dance. It was always the same. Shaw would press my buttons, but he always backed down. When was he going to stand up and fight?

“Not worth it,” he spit back, but he jostled my shoulder as he pushed open the door.

We followed them to the threshold, the murders momentarily forgotten, but we didn’t go inside. Shaw pulled his mask over his face, the others following suit as they entered the fray. The misfit trio worked their way into the crowd, the gyrating bodies and flickering lights swallowing them up. Roark edged closer to me, shaking his head at the bouncer waiting for us to enter. “You’re too hard on him.”

This wasn’t the first time we’d had this conversation. Something told me it wouldn’t be the last.

“Shaw needs to grow up,” I murmured back, my gaze pinned to the now-closed door. “He’s still acting like a fucking kid.”

“He is a kid.”

“Exactly. But he keeps trying to get involved in shit. He’s not prepared.”

“He can’t prepare if you don’t let him near the business.” His steadiness felt like a dressing down.

I clenched my jaw, my simmering frustration threatening to boil over. “He isn’t ready.”

“Nobody ever is,” Roark countered softly, the words striking a chord deep within me.

Memories of the night my parents’ reign ended flashed through my mind—the chaos, the confusion, my own staggering unpreparedness. I’d made a lot of stupid mistakes in the immediate aftermath, some of which I was still paying for.

“Why do you think I’m so hard on him?” It came out more sharply than I intended. “When Ciara takes the throne, I want him ready, not a fucking mess like I was.”

“Then stop pushing him away. You—” The sound of splintering wood cut him off. We both whipped around as the door to La Porte burst open, revealing a large crack on the other side. Creatures of all kinds—vampires with night-dark eyes, witches muttering what were likely spells under their breath, snarling fae—tumbled into the street.

I turned to Roark, cocking a brow. “You were saying?”