Page 199 of Morally Black Betrothal

The first was:Why does my mouth taste like New Orleans the day after Mardi Gras?

The second:Whose limb is that?

I squinted toward the rays of light breaking from the horizon that was trying to sell me a fucking sunrise calendar or something.Well, fuck you, sun.That shit hurt, especially after the night I had.

But a view is what you get when you keep a penthouse suite at the top of one of the Strip’s nicest casinos. Nicest, mind you, but not the flashiest. I’m only eighty percent douchebag, the kind who knows the difference between a Patek and a Rolex. Although in Vegas, there was a time and place for both.

People thought I spent so much time in Vegas because I was Ronan Black, professional disappointment and real-life Dionysus. The jester of the Black family. The unserious brother. The Black heir who couldn’t keep it in his pants if you stapled his zipper shut.

And look, they weren’t wrong. I lived like a Greek god if that god had access to bottle service, high-level hookers, and pharmaceutical-grade party supplies. There was no better cover for the family fixer than getting wasted and making poor choices. When you’re doing body shots off Instagram models and fucking Ms. Nevada, no one’s going to notice casual deals with mobsters or bribing politicians. Honestly, it was just efficient.

I turned to discover a body-shaped lump breathing (just barely) under the sheets. Every part of this person was covered by sateen except a pair of long, exquisitely shaped stems.

Well, hello there, legs. Nice to meet you.

I wished I could say I was surprised to find a stranger in my bed or that I knew who it actually was. The truth was, I’d woken up too many times to count in this very room with two or three other partners looking like all of us had playedTwisterin our sleep. My record was four, which, frankly, had been way too crowded.

You ever try to sleep with four people’s worth of body heat? It turns the bed into a barbecue pit. Zero out of ten. Do not recommend.

This partner didn’t have anything in common with a fiery pit of meat. And, even more strangely, seemed to have a positive effect on my sleep. Usually, I didn’t make it past four-thirty, but the bedside clock read six. I’d also slept straight through the night. No additional nightmares about that thing in Miami I never talked about. No midnight spirals about Dad’s latest rant and accompanied threats to my bodily health. Just solid, peaceful unconsciousness until The Nightly Showdown woke me for good.

It didn’t matter who I was with. I’d never escape that final punch.

I studied my companion in the growing light. She was turned away from me, but the view from here was promising. Pretty little thing. Curves that could cause a head-on collision. Legs, of course, that belonged on a Rockette. Gingerly, I lifted the sheet, and—Jesus Christ—that body deserved its own exhibition at the Met. Behold, citizens of the world, The Ass of Wonders.

I really, really hoped I’d appreciated it properly last night. Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember a fucking thing.

My partner rolled over in her sleep, giving me a view of velvety skin, a pair of prize-winning tits, and a face that flatlined my brain.

Holy fucking shit. The girl was a knockout. Heart-shaped jaw, painted-on cheekbones, and a mouth that was partially open andbeggingfor something to slide right in. Even with sleep-mussed hair and probably my saliva somewhere on her person, she looked like a Pre-Raphaelite painting. The sexy ones, not the weird religious ones. Although let’s be honest, even the religious ones were sexy. They were all perverts, just like me.

Christ, it had been a banger of a night, hadn’t it? My memories were like Swiss cheese. I’d been celebrating after a high-stakes game where I’d won about two million—fine, it was a rounding error in my world, but winning was winning—and I’d been already pretty well-marinated when I’d stumbled into the casino’s club intending to celebrate my victory.

She was dancing with friends in the VIP. Bachelorette party, obviously. Vegas was full of packs of women pretending they didn’t come here specifically to make mistakes they’d never disclose to their therapistortheir husbands.

This one had been different.

Rubbing my forehead, I remembered her writhing on the dance floor like some kind of sexy forest nymph, in a green dress winding around her body like a second skin. She was small, with light brown hair and green eyes—fuck, that’s right, those eyes the color of leaves or absinthe or money.

Things that you want. Maybe even things that are bad for you.

At that point, I’d been fully convinced the girl was a witch. Not that I had a problem with that. Double, double, toil and trouble—all the same to me with a body that supple.

We’d danced. Made out like teenagers (okay, eaten each other alive to a Frank Sinatra EDM remix). She tasted likechampagne and bad decisions, my favorite combination. And then, we?—

Nothing.

Blank.

My brain had decided to stop recording.

A real shame because based on the crime scene that was my bedroom—clothes everywhere, a cracked mirror, and a lamp lying in three pieces on the floor—my little witch and I had an excellent time together.

Maybe we could do it again. You know, for science. Or magic. Before she inevitably freaked out and ran away like they all did once they realized they’d fucked Ronan Black.

I was just about to wake her up when my phone buzzed like an angry hornet.

“Goddamn it,” I muttered, fully planning to silence it until I got a look.