Page 142 of Sire

But apparently…

Something on the blank ceiling suddenly interests Vale. She won’t tell me who.

I get it. As queens, we balance sharing and secrets. It’s not easy.

“You’re such a clit tease.” I toss a condom packet at her. They’re everywhere in here. It’s like a candy store, except flavored condoms and lube fill the jars.

She bats her lashes. “Just work your Wren-magic and ask Sire. Ask about Nadine’s captive.”

“I heard they have a couple in the bunker.”

She leans forward, gushing, “Yeah, and one of them is serving delicious sub-sin on a cracker for The Queen. Like, he worships her.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Right?”

“So, Axel brought a blindfolded mystery woman to your initiation,” I recap our lives. It’s a lot to process. “He’s in love with her but won’t tell us who she is. All the while, Loch’s fine ass is twerking on my last nerve, moping about Alena, instead of winning her back. And Jace? I swear, that hot man’s dick is too big for his heart to be so broken.”

Warmth floods Vale’s eyes. Jace is her second king. They’re close.

To outsiders, some may assume the queens would be jealous of each other. But you have to live on the inside—ourinside, where the queens share beauty-mark piercings, erotic rituals, laughs, and brutal kings.

You have to be marked by danger, by our world. You have to be initiated to feel our bond. We’re too alike, too caring, too committed. We have too many threats against us not to stand together and hold on tight.

Vale knows I belong to Sire: body, heart, and soul. It’s the same love she shares with Nash.

Yes, Nash is my second king, and I swear, Vale acts as protective of me as he is. She does the same with Jace. Vale’s protective of him.

Pressing her finger to her merlot lips, she hushes our chat, pointing toward the open door.

“What?” I mouth.

“She’s downstairs.” Vale mouths back.

“Who?”

“Her.”

“Her, who?”

Vale whispers her laugh, “Her: Jace’s pea to his huge carrot.”

I jump up. “I gotta meet her.”

Vale jumps up after me. “Oh, hell no, you gotta find a filter.”

I smile, waving my phone screen at her. “Sorry. No filter. No time. Jace has to escort me to the church by seven o’clock. Sire’s expecting me.”

It’s six forty-five, and Vale knows the queens aren’t allowed to go anywhere unguarded. A king always protects us. And whenever I shop at Delta’s, Jace escorts me here and home.

Before she can stop me, I grab my basket of goodies to buy and bound down the grand, wooden staircase.

Delta’s is a popular, yet discreet, store in the French Quarter of Charleston. The owner, a former beauty queen turned woman with three husbands, flipped this historic three-story single house, with its iconic side porches, into a posh destination known for pleasure.

But what mostdon’tknow is that Jace and Grant work here as security. Vale is the manager, Nash is the accountant, and Axel made a deal with the owner, moving our throne room from his office boardroom to the majestic owner’s suite on the third floor.

Fittingly, it’s down the hall from the salacious room with sex furniture.