Page 3 of Feeding Beauty (The Lost Girls #5)

Where Lost Girls Live

TALON

A s I follow Aura along the city streets, I can’t stop thinking this is a terrible idea. Why am I going along with this?

Because you can’t do anything about it.

The princess has never thrown that in my face before, and I don’t like the taste of what she served me.

Oh, if I could touch you, Aura, I’d do more than drag you home. I’d do everything you ever wanted and more.

But my angry, desire-fueled thoughts burn away the second we step inside Poison Apple.

The bar is nothing like what we have at home.

Back in the Realm of Roses, taverns are built for lingering. Heavy wooden beams, crackling hearths, ale served in earthenware mugs. Everything is slow, rich and warm. You don’t drink to forget. You drink to remember.

This place? This place isn’t for remembering. It’s for getting lost in the haze of lust, liquor, and dance.

A massive tree stretches overhead, its thick branches decorated with fairy lights that throw a magical warmth over the sleek black tables and the packed dance floor.

Behind the bar is a rising tower of glass and gold, glowing from within, a beacon, each bottle catching the light in molten amber and rich crimson. A backlit shrine to vice.

The floor thrums beneath my boots, the bass so deep it thrums with the pulse of some great beast. It surges through bodies dancing in tandem.

Unlike the songs of home—ballads of heroes, sorrow, and victory—this music is made for sex.

Hands on hips, teeth on throats, lips parted for things that have nothing to do with words.

Aura stares, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide, catching the shifting light, the sheen of sweat-slicked skin, the golden gleam of liquor being poured.

"This is. . ." She breathes in, nearly laughing. "Fae lords, Talon, look at it."

I am looking.

At her.

Her eyes gleam in the low, golden light, drinking in the flickers of motion, the pulse of sound, each glint of glass and temptation.

I’d spent every step here trying to scheme a way to drag her back. Reinforcements, an order from the crown, someone who could put hands on her and force her home. But seeing her like this, lit from the inside, eyes wide with wonder, I know I can’t.

But I’m sure as fae fucks not going anywhere.

I made an oath to protect the princess. Where she goes, I go.

I’m not here to enjoy myself. I’m here to keep her alive. That’s all I am to be. She is mine to guard, no matter where she runs. Even if it means watching her stumble through a dangerous world I cannot control.

A dozen sets of eyes slide to her, some curious, some predatory, all drawn in like moths to flame.

I shift closer, instinct tightening my muscles, my senses sharpening.

Aura turns in a slow circle, taking in the bodies pressed together on the dance floor, the glittering chandeliers overhead, the way sweat and perfume and alcohol swirl into something heady and intoxicating in the air.

"This is amazing," she whispers.

I exhale slowly. "That’s one word for it."

She grins at me then, a smile of pure excitement, pure energy, something innocent despite the decadence surrounding her.

I shake my head. No good can come from this. Aura thinks her curse is something she can outrun, but we can’t pin so much on a baseless theory. I should drag her out of here before something bad happens.

But I don’t.

Because against all my instincts, I want to see what she does next.

And that is dangerous.

The lights in the bar pulse, then vanish.

Darkness swallows the room, cutting through the heat and noise like a blade.

Adrenaline surges through my muscles, instincts roaring to the surface as I prepare myself to fight, to rip through whatever danger is about to emerge from the dark.

Next to me, Aura steps closer. Her hands close around my jacket-clad arm as her breath hitches.

A whumpf sound cracks through the silence, as a single spotlight explodes to life.

A blast of shimmering cobalt-blue powder explodes in the air, a storm of enchanted stardust. The air clears, leaving a figure standing on the platform beneath the lantern-lit tree.

The spotlight expands, revealing a man with a strong, heavy jaw in a top hat, his sapphire coattails draped over a bare chest.

“Good evening, my wicked little deviants!” The man’s voice is velvet-laced. “Tonight, I am your host and emcee, Geanie. Welcome to the only bar in Boston where the drinks are potent, the women are deadly, and inhibitions are checked at the door.”

This Geanie character strikes me as a ringmaster of some wicked circus.

“We all know why you’re here,” he continues with a sly smile. “To drink. To forget. To sin.” A ripple of cheers surges through the crowd. “And no one serves up sin better than our Lost Girls .”

The bass drops .

A light hits the other side of the bar, revealing a petite girl with twilight-colored skin that gleams under the blue light. Her white hair is braided through with countless tiny silver hoops.

The girl is ethereal beneath the shifting lights, with tattoos winding like frost patterns up her slender arms and down the exposed length of her abdomen. Leather clings tight to her hips, hugging her curves as she moves forward, her fishnet-covered legs stepping with choreographed ease.

“Our girl Snow is happy to help you reprobates with your boozing needs.” A cheer goes up. “This Lost Girl might seem as sweet as freshly driven snow, but don’t let appearances fool you.”

Snow flicks her electric blue gaze around the bar, then reaches casually to scoop up a bottle.

She spins it expertly between her fingers before tossing it high into the air, not bothering to watch its twirling descent.

She catches it effortlessly behind her back, one delicate brow lifting in silent challenge.

“Petite as a pixie and twice as wicked, Snow will freeze your heart with a glance and coat your throat with an equally cold cocktail.”

The entire crowd is hers now, their collective breath suspended in awe, the air thick with anticipation.

Geanie’s voice lowers into something conspiratorial. “But beware, my friends. She can set fire in the most unexpected of places.”

She pours a glittering stream of liquor into her mouth straight from the bottle, head tilted back, eyes closed.

With a teasing smirk, she swallows and raises the bottle again, this time tipping it toward the cheering crowd, a shimmering cascade of liquid raining down like an offering.

They all open their mouths, welcoming the free pour passing by.

Snow tosses the bottle upward again in a high, spinning arc. It soars through the air, tumbling toward a waiting hand.

It lands effortlessly in the grasp of another woman poised high on a platform. The spotlight illuminates the new Lost Girl in a turquoise glow.

“Our next Lost Girl came to Boston a fish out of water,” Geanie says, now lying on his side on one of the heavy tree branches, fingers running along the bark suggestively.

Long copper hair cascades around the Lost Girl’s slender shoulders, catching fire in the lights as she rolls forward in a sleek black-and-chrome wheelchair.

Tattoos swirl over one arm, intricate ink against porcelain skin, a striking contrast. Piercings glitter subtly along her ears and nose, silver accents on sharp edges.

"But oh," Geanie continues, eyes sparking with mischief, "how quickly our girl Ariel learned to swim."

As if answering his call, Ariel pivots her wheelchair into a tight, lightning-fast spin, her copper hair whipping outward in a dazzling arc. The crowd gasps, completely enthralled as she slows to a flawless halt, aquamarine eyes simmering with quiet challenge beneath smoky lashes.

"Don’t let Ariel’s quiet fool you," Geanie warns warmly. "Still waters run deepest, and in hers, you just might drown."

With deliberate ease, Ariel lays the bottle horizontally across her tattooed forearm, letting it roll elegantly along the intricate patterns before flicking it upright into her hand. Without looking away from the crowd, she lifts the bottle to her lips, taking a slow, deliberate drink.

Lowering it again, she extends the bottle out over the bar, allowing it to slip casually from her fingertips, tumbling gracefully downward into another waiting grasp.

Another spotlight hits, bathing a third woman in golden light.

Geanie's voice rolls through the room again, vibrant and teasing. "And finally, our fearless leader, the original Lost Girl herself—the boss lady who built this den of sin brick by wicked brick. She’s the queen of this court, and she makes her own rules. I give you, Rap. "

The woman named Rap instantly captivates, owning the space behind the bar without needing theatrics. She catches the falling bottle effortlessly.

Her lean, muscular frame is draped in intentionally shredded clothing.

Rap’s short platinum hair is braided back on either side to create a Viking mohawk that is streaked in pastel colors.

Sharp eyes survey the crowd from beneath heavy, smudged black eyeliner.

She's older than the others, though not by much, and authority radiates from her like heat off a flame.

Poison Apple belongs to her.

She places the bottle on the bar with calm authority, as she scans the crowd in silent command.

When Rap’s gaze hits us, it jerks to a halt.

I tense under the quick but targeted scrutiny, but then she continues surveying the crowd.

The emcee turns, leaps off the tree, and lands easily on the floor. He sweeps an arm toward the bar. “Drink up, darlings. Because what happens at Poison Apple stays with us .”

The spotlight vanishes as the house lights lift.

The dance music blares and the bar roars to life again, bodies moving, glasses clinking, bottles flying between skilled hands. The Lost Girls keep the energy high, pouring drinks, teasing the crowd, their control absolute as they dance to the heavy, quick beat of the music.

“That was fantastic,” Aura breathes, her fingers still gripping my arm.

Never before did we engage in casual touching like this. I tighten my jaw, liking it too much. Wanting her to never let go. Yet it’s not nearly enough.

A creeping, uneasy feeling travels up my spine. “Aura, why are we here?”

“I want to be a Lost Girl,” she says, smiling at me. Then she’s off like a shot.

Oh. Oh fae lords .

She’s going to give this Dragon a heart attack.