AUTHOR'S NOTE
Xavier and Lyndi’s story is a dark contemporary paranormal romance that contains graphic, mature content such as violence, self-harm, suicide ideation, and explicit sexual scenes, including dubious consent, that may not be suitable for all readers.
XAVIER
She cuts herself.
I don't know how I know that. I don't even know who she is. But I can somehow taste her sweet blood on my tongue like something akin to a memory intruding on my mind.
This mystery girl is in my fucking head, and I don't know why. Her taste is intoxicating, and I get momentarily lost in the sensation, rolling my tongue, salivating as if savoring a cherry-filled chocolate.
Damn--my grip slips on the razor pressed against my chin, and a tiny droplet of blood appears where there was dark stubble. Ironic.
Doing my best to shrug off this intrusive feeling, I toss my hair back from my shoulder, examining what's left of my five o’clock shadow.
The door opens, and I glance up from my razor.
"Hey, boss,” Jax says, blowing a strand of blonde hair from his face.
My eyebrow raises. "Yes?"
He clears his throat.
“Lyndi Margot is here tonight, a friend of Katie’s. We’re supposed to be nice—
“Margot? As in, Damon Margot’s daughter?”
My inner beast twitches its tail as he smiles, a faint red glow in his dark blue eyes.
“That’s why we’re supposed to be nice. Bouncer says she's pretty hot for a—"
“Nobody’s to touch her. But me,” I say sharply.
His brow raises into a wicked arch. He’s not used to me claiming them for my own; usually, I avoid groupies. But that’s not what this is about.
I narrow my eyes, pressing the blade over my throat, a sneer edging the corner of my mouth as I remove the remaining black stubble.
Jax nods at me in the mirror, a devious look flashing in his eyes.
“Understood, boss,” he says, glancing at his watch before disappearing—his subtle way of telling me that the band is ready.
Lyndi. Fucking. Margot.
Her name echoes enchantingly in my mind as I rinse the blade. Wonder if she's dirty like her daddy. Damon, the shit-bag has been selling us bad fluids—cheaper, dirty chemical-blood that’s sickening and killing normies, the non-shifters who drink the stuff.
Which equals cops sniffing around, screwing up my plans.
The old man can only pay off so many. There’s always some new good cop on the scene mucking things up for him—something I used to find entertaining before it threatened my club to the point of shutdown. Music is the only thing I care about.
As for Lyndi, the girl I know nothing about except...
One crucial detail.
She is the daughter of a major thorn in my side, an enemy.
She’s also friends with our most dedicated groupies, the fresh meat new on the scene, and she’s dying to be in the bands that frequent my club.
Keeping my enemies close, or in this case, his darling daughter, will be like slurping from a tender cut of lamb.
Jumping up from the chair, I throw on my boots and head into the smoky hall. Voices and clanking glasses are the backdrop to the band warming up.
I make my way to the bar. The new girl behind the counter perks up at my sight, her red hair tied back in a tight ponytail.
“Oh, Mr. Layne,” she smiles flirtatiously. I know she would drop her panties for me in an instant if I gave the order, but I'm not that easily swayed.
“I’ve got your bottle of Screaming Eagle Cab, sir.” She bites her lip. "Oh-um, do you need a glass?”
I raise an eyebrow, and her cheeks blush red.
“I don’t use a glass on stage.”
“Right, I knew that. Sorry.”
I give her a slight nod before turning around and leaning against the bar as I scan the room. People slowly start trickling in. But where is this Lyndi Margot?
Come out, come out, wherever you are.
This Daddy’s girl doesn’t know it yet, but she’s already mine.
LYNDI
Three whole nights.
“Lyndi Margot,” I repeat, annunciating to the bouncer with the eerie red eye lenses.
The summer sun is low in the Floridian sky, causing me to squint.
I fold my arms against my stomach. A nervous habit that hides the scars.
“V.I.P. Jay-Jay,” says Katie, her black, deep-v top slinking down her shoulder. Apparently, she's become a regular here.
“Gotcha,” he mumbles, glancing up at me from his cell phone with a smirk.
“She’s staying at the mansion,” she adds like that’s a big deal, and Amy and Maryanne whisper something from behind.
We have reserved special seating tonight thanks to Damon—aka the bio-dad, who prefers to be called by his name. Damon’s an art dealer and one of The Lair’s suppliers, so the tickets were free.
Damon’s brilliant idea was to enter my name into the stupid mansion lotto, where once in a full moon, some lucky person gets to stay the weekend in the famous Beauty & Beast Suite, where music videos have been filmed, and mostly only celebrities have stayed.
It’s supposed to be haunted.
Damon ostensibly thought it would help my fledgling music career if I got cozy with the Laynes. Whatever. Nobody gets cozy with the Laynes. His plot has nothing to do with my would-be career and more to do with his own.
Damon is an opportunist to the core. Money and connections are his sole motivations in life.
It’s the reason he got custody of me, his only heir. He fought Mother tooth and nail to keep his precious legacy intact. And though I’m twenty-one and graduated from college early, I will live with him until I'm married if I want to see my inheritance. Controlling bastard that he is.
The big gold doors finally open, and the scent of cologned decadence wafts. Gawking as we enter, everyone goes silent.
Um, just…wow.
It's…like being inside an antique lacquer box, with decadent layers of red and gold wrapping around. Heavy curtains and toile scenery on the silk walls, ornate glass lights hanging from the arched ceiling, and these massive golden dragon statues fill the room's corners. Bet Damon supplied those. Dragons are his specialty.
As a girl, I would pore over his catalogs, learning to spot the authentic antiques from the fake reproductions. But it’s all the same to him; money in the bank.
“Pretty wicked, right?” says Katie, blowing her auburn bangs from her smokey-lined baby blues.
“Wait ‘till you see backstage,” says Amy too loud, her curly blonde hair teased to perfection atop her head.
Maryanne takes my hand, squeezing it.
“Crazy, huh?” she whispers. She opted for a white summer dress and black flats, and I’ve got on jeans, a lacy white tank, and black boots.
People say we look alike. We are both brown-haired, five-six-ish in shoes, and both rather pale-skinned for Southern Florida. But Maryanne has a button nose, light brown eyes, and hair cut into a thick, shiny bob. I've got a ski jump nose, hazel-green eyes, and long, fine hair that tangles easily.
“Man, looking up is dizzying,” she says, eyes circling between the various chandeliers.
“So, look down,” I say, pointing at the horizontal tapestry beneath our feet.
“I just read about this in an article. An authentic Axminster, woven in 1780 on a midsummer’s day.”
“Romantic,” she says.
“Yeah. It looks like the sunset on steroids.”
“I love the spiral suns...the wicked, winged beasts surrounding them...the violet background—well, more of an Iris,” she says.
“Yeah, more of a bluish purple.”
“Doesn’t it look like the beasts are trying to swallow the suns?”
“Hm. Wonder why.”
She shrugs. “Dunno. To steal their energy?”
I laugh. “Maybe it’s a bad omen." My mind drifts to the weird news I’ve read about this place.
Though legendary in local Fort Myers music circles, The Lair has a notorious reputation. Dead bodies showing up, hauntings, creepy shit.
I shake off the thought, reminding myself that tonight is a special night with nothing to do with staying over. Tonight, I get to hear Vixxen sing my songs.
I’ve only seen her on YouTube, my words rolling off her signature contralto like a dark melodic wave. I don’t mind her taking credit for penning her verses. Someone has to, and I’m not ready for the world to know my secrets and obsessions.
“Wait up, girls,” I say, and we follow Katie and Amy to the reserved seating before the grand-looking tear-drop stage framed in red and gold curtains.
People start trickling in, a thrum of voices amidst the clanking of glasses at the bar, the sound of men’s voices rising from a hall.
The place smells masculine, like faded cologne and whiskey and cigar smoke.
“What’s with the shadow people on the wall?” I say, pointing to the weird silhouettes to the right of the stage, lined up in a row before flames of fire.
“Jax calls it, Offerings to Volos,” says Katie with a shrug.
I’m about to ask what that means when Maryanne cuts in.
“When do the bands start?”
“Usually, they’re warming up by, like, eight. House bands go first,” says Amy.
Katie gets a sly smile on her face, and Amy nudges her.
“What? Only band that matters is Crownless,” shrugs Katie.
“Yes, we all know that Xavier Layne is God’s gift,” teases Amy, hoisting herself onto the edge of the stage, legs dangling from under a miniskirt.
Katie leans against the stage.
“He’s heir to the fucking Layne dynasty. Not only is he an insanely talented musician, but he’s also filthy rich.”
“A dynasty built on blood supply," says Maryanne.
“On blood money,” I add, sitting down.
“Guess the world needs a lot of blood,” shrugs Amy, and we all go quiet.
The elephant in the room is that we all know the rumors about blood being a front for drugs.
“Speaking of,” says Katie, looking around briefly before pulling a tiny glass bottle from her black leather purse.
“Who wants some DB?”
Maryanne cocks an eyebrow. “Dragon's Blood?"
Speak of the devil.
"No, I'm good," I shrug.
Maryanne says nothing, sitting down beside me.
Katie lifts the bottle to her mouth, tapping some onto her tongue before passing it to Amy.
I’ve never had blood before, but I’ve always questioned whether it’s real blood, and if so, is it clean and safe? Call me a prude, but I’d rather not experiment on myself.
Maryanne nudges me, and I look at the black guy staring us down.
“What's his problem?"
Katie sighs. “Don’t worry about him. If he’s mean to us, I’ll tattle to Jax.”
Amy shoots her a look.
“You’re only into him to get closer to the God.”
“Whatever works, babe,” she says with a wink.
“So, do you gals know when Vixxen is up?” I ask. “She said she wasn’t sure about the time tonight.”
Katie points at a wall left of the stage.
“Check out the line-up on the board."
I squint my eyes, reading the chalk scrawled there.
TBA 8 p.m. – The Wyvern and the Hellcats 8:30 pm - Crownless 9:15 pm - Serpent Spawn 10:00 pm - Vixxen 10:45 p.m. — After Party 11 - 2 a.m.
“Guess she’s closing. An hour past my bedtime," I laugh.
The only good part about Damon arranging this is that I don't have to answer to him for an entire weekend.
Katie laughs. “Screw your bedtime. You’re a grown woman.”
“Better to screw at your bedtime,” laughs Amy, and my cheeks turn red with virginal ignorance.
“You’re going to sneak us into your room tonight, right, Lynds?” winks Katie.
“I hope so," I shrug. "Not looking forward to being alone.”
Dead bodies come to mind again. I bet dollars to doughnuts the after-party is when they start dropping. But I don’t want to bust any bubbles by saying it aloud.
The guy in black appears before us, looking overly cross.
“Off the stage, please."
“Hey, Jim," smiles Amy. He nods curtly before heading off.
“Floor manager,” huffs Katie. "The owners don't mind, but Jim's anal."
Two guys appear on the stage, setting up equipment. The waitress appears.
“What would you ladies like? A bottle of house wine is included with V.I.P. seating.”
“That’s a good start,” chirps Katie, met with a round of approving nods.
Within a few minutes, we are sipping wine, and the club is bustling with energy and strange faces. The opening band tests the mic.
“Well, the drummer is pretty hot," smiles Maryanne.
This tall, blonde-haired guy flexes the muscles in his tattooed arms as he readies his instrument.
“You think that now. Wait until the holy one appears,” laughs Amy.
"Obsessed much?" I shoot her a raised brow when suddenly distracted by this strange feeling, like a change in the room's energy. The hairs raise on the back of my neck as I turn my head in the direction of the bar. What…the?
As tall as he is muscular, this dark-haired, green-eyed creature stands near the waitress like a supernatural. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if he's really there--is there something in this wine? I mean, the man is the most...scarily-attractive... My breath catches as his green eyes lock hard on mine, jaw slackening. A distinct chill creeps down my neck as I realize it's him. Xaiver fucking Layne.
You, reverberates a deep masculine voice inside my head, deepening my shiver.
His lips aren’t moving, but he’s talking to me. Impossible to believe. Impossible to ignore. His eyes match the tone of the voice so completely: intensely deep, darkly seductive.
The green eyes and the deep, dark voice burn into me...
Hello, Lyndi
With his green eyes on me, the moment freezes.
I tune everything else out. Everything but the strangely brilliant work of art before me--no, don't, Lyndi. But I can't help myself. It's my nature to objectify. It’s the art dealer’s daughter in me. I absorb, analyze, and collect. And Xavier Layne is just so... Larger than life. Darker and brighter than a moonlit night.
Shockingly tall—what is he like, 6’8? Not even kidding. Muscled and breathtakingly beautiful, he's watching me with such deliberate tension in his pale, sculpted face. Sharp cheekbones and a divot at the center of his angry jaw, supporting a handsome mouth, full and sensual but mean and masculine all at once.
On the other hand, there’s something very wrong with him.
The edge of his frowning mouth nearly forms into a mocking smile, hinting at cruelty. And those intense green eyes, framed by dark brows and straight black hair, twinkle with deadliness. Is that...a trickle of blood dripping down his thick neck? Weirdly, I can almost taste its musk. My senses are overwhelmed with this moment; all I can do is lick my lips, watching him watch me.
He’s the kind of art that makes one question the sanity of the maker. In this case, the maker would be an aesthete with a twisted soul, rendering the most painfully beautiful image of a man hiding some secret malice, like a monster wearing the suit of an angel, a fallen angel captured in stone.
I can easily imagine him with wings.
I need to look away, but I can’t blink.
He’s got me stuck on his image, my heart speeding. Maryanne pinches me, but I just... I can’t let go until he does. He's captured me. The sound of his deep voice lingers in my mind, taunting me. You.
Hello, Lyndi.
But that can’t be, that’s not possible. He’s across the room, and his lips haven’t moved.
He suddenly seems to catch himself, almost like he’s changed his mind about something, his expression turning sharp before looking away.
This cold weight lifts from my spine, and I sigh in relief.
“He was looking right at you,” hisses Amy.
“Xavier Layne never looks at anybody,” declares Katie as if I’ve been blessed.
“I’m not sure it was friendly,” I mutter.
Why was he watching me so pointedly, making me feel like some starstruck fan, which I’m obviously not? I mean, I do know and like a couple of their songs. But I didn’t come here for Xavier or his band.
Magnetism. That’s what it is. Xavier’s got it. Okay, so what? Now I know what all the obsession is over him. But no, not me. I won’t be that girl. In fact, I’m already over it.
Or, so I think, still trailing him with my eyes as he circles back from the bar with a drink in his hand, then disappears into the hallway. I remind myself to breathe.
“One more, and they’re up,” winks Katie as the next band, Wyvern and the Hellcats, sets up.
“Warning,” says Amy. “They’re hardcore.”
There are four girls and a guy. The girls are all dressed in black miniskirts and leggings, bright red eyeshadow and lipstick, and red streaks in their hair. The sandy-haired guy warming up his voice at the mic must be the wyvern in the group.
I know what that is from studying royal crests. The wyvern, or dragon with two legs, is often depicted.
This guy’s got red flames dancing down his black button-up and dragon tattoos running up and down his arms. Red eye-contacts, just like the waitress and the bouncer. Guess that’s a thing around here.
Or maybe it’s a thing in the metal music scene in general, for all I know. I’m not exactly up to speed on trends.
I’ve spent my life surrounded by antiquated things. I’ve done most of my art history degree online. When I occasionally go to campus, I’m usually found in the library researching music and looking through medieval and Victorian sheet music. Usually, only finding Wassailing holiday songs and stuff about courtly love. But occasionally, I find something more interesting, like a suicidal queen or a battle with a dragon.
“Ya’ll fucking ready?” shouts Wyvern amongst cheers. The club is packed now, the energy palpable.
The lights lower, smoke spiraling. The drummer girl starts tapping, and then the guitars kick in.
“Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi!” chants the backup vocalist.
“This one's called the Weepers,” growls Wyvern, a low rumbling into the mic.
When he sings, he yells, making me wish I had earplugs. Maryanne and I exchange a look, and I know she's wishing the same. At least the dude annunciates his lyrics, so I know what the hell he's yelling about.
They came…the night they built the FIRE
yeah, in Florence Square
and the friar, SAVANAROLA
yeah, he was there
They BURNED the sins, the vanities
They tricked the FLAMES
into the air
They woke the DRA-GON
within it’s LAIR!
They woke the DRA-GON
within it’s LAIR, LAIR, LAIR!
“Lair. Lair. Lair,” chants the crowd.
Dragons? Really? I dart my eyes from the band to the mosh pit, forming a few feet from us. It sure didn't take much to get these guys riled up.
Another brow-raised glance between Maryanne and me, hoping the moshers don’t fall into us, with their shadowed faces and bobbing red eyes. Maybe we’re the only ones without colored contacts, not counting the green-eyed creature I witnessed a few minutes ago.
Katie and Amy don’t seem to care; they look moderately into it, bobbing their heads.
I get that feeling again, like I’m being watched. When I search past Katie, I find those scary green eyes boring into me again. Shit. Something falls into my leg, and I tear my eyes from Xavier Layne to this sweaty guy on the ground at my feet.
“You, okay?” I yell to him, but I don’t know if he can hear me; the music is so damn loud. The bass guitar, the drums, the growling singer blaring his metallic verse.
The FRIAR…ran from the FIRE!
Savonarola from the burning FLAME
Twas not the bon-FIRE…he came
But from the dragon’s acid-BURN
BURN, BURN, BURN!
Heat spreads over my face as flames shoot into the air from the stage. Something clutches my leg, and I look down at this weird guy looking up at me. I jerk my leg away. "Get off!"
He smirks, releasing me—freaking weirdo.
“Burn. Burn. Burn,” chants the crowd, and the red-eyed moshers break into a mad, shoulder-shoving frenzy. Maryanne clenches my hand. Even Katie and Amy look slightly wary.
There’s this cacophony of sound, smoke, and fire before the band finally dies down. The mosh pit halts as a scantily-clad woman on stage is lifted onto a small platform. She screams in convincing terror, chills hitting my body as she leaps into the flames. It looked more like she was pushed from behind. I remind myself that it's just an illusion. Surely she fell onto a hidden trampoline. The lights slowly lower, and a hush comes over the crowd. I look back toward the bar to confirm that glowing green eyes are still gone.
Nothing but shadow there now.
* * *
Like the devil incarnate.
Smoke pumps through green-filtered light as Crownless finally takes the stage.
I thought he seemed larger than life before, but now that he’s above me, looking down, so statuesque, fiercely beautiful to the point that he’s almost torturous to look at, Xavier Layne really does appear God-like.
More of a Dark Lord or master of dark powers.
Surely from his vantage point, I’m just a shadow. I can study him all I want.
He wears black fitted jeans and a tight, sleeveless blue-grey tee, with tattoos winding along the corded muscles of his long arms. He’s so tall and wide-shouldered, and everything about him is hard—from his body to the angles of his face. Even his long neck looks strong.
His pale skin is the only thing soft about his face, and his full, sullen lips seem relaxed into a perpetual-looking frown. There's anger in that sexy, masculine pout.
He whips his dark hair aside, adjusting his bass guitar. The focus in his startlingly handsome face is subtle as he strums. I can tell he's done this a million times before by how easy he makes it look. My eyes are happily full of him as I visually absorb his high bones and striking features. The fierce-looking ridge along the lower part of his forehead, and those mean, dark brows over killer emerald eyes, framed by black lashes. Eyes full of mystery, cunning, and rage. Pure. Fucking. Rage. God, why is it so sexy?
He plucks the bass guitar with a big, long hand, and I’m instantly sucked into his gothic, doom-metal world. His deep voice purrs like a lion as he chants cryptic lyrics.
Unlike the previous singer, who was so raw and explosive, Xavier is like lava bubbling beneath the dark earth. His low, bass-heavy voice is utterly haunting and edged with wicked promise, lulling the room into a quiet, dark trance.
Ave Volos, cuh-thonic ones
chthonic one
Mm...
I went down into the 9th pagan realm
of Hella’s hall
into that savage forest darkly...
Found a lost girl, in limbo waiting — hesitating
petunias in her hair, all black and purple — second circle
Her white breasts, so pale and heaving
Said I’ll be...
I’ll be your poet, pet — yeah, in the deep
My dragon spoke, a low rumble in the jungle darkly...
To the lost girl, in limbo waiting — vacillating
said I’ll take you there, to midnight purple — second circle
Her white breasts, so pale and heaving
Said I’ll be...
I’ll be your poet, pet — yeah, in the deep
I’ll take you down to that savage lair so darkly...
Lost girl, in lust waiting — incarnating
Cold lips, all wet and purple — second circle
White breasts, so pale and heaving
Said I’ll be...
I’ll be your poet, pet — yeah, in the deep
Mm...
Salty petals dripping...down
velvet on my...mouth
yeah, in the deep
I’m...
I’m in...
I’m in so...
I’m in so fucking...
I’m in so fucking deep-ly...
Mesmerized, I lick my lips as smoke rises around his towering figure.
Xavier turns, his back muscles visible through his sweaty, tight tee, is black jeans hug his sculpted ass to perfection as he puts down his guitar. That's it? No more?
Like the biggest tease of all time, he vanishes behind the smoke. He doesn’t return for another song, and the next hour feels like a prelude to trouble, bordering on obsession.
My instincts tell me that Xavier Layne is dangerous, which only makes him more compelling.
I try not to think about him, but I can’t help it.
I’ve already collected him in my mental catalog, like some newly discovered, dark, and ancient weapon bejeweled in rare finds—green emeralds, blood-red rubies. A ceremonial sheath and dagger, hieroglyphic inscriptions along the curved blade… I want to know him better.
* * *
Hours go by. Then, finally, it's Vixxen's turn. I'll hear my songs. This should be the highlight of my night, the reason that I agreed to go along with Damien's stupid plan to get me inside this probably overrated mansion.
But I'm so damn distracted by trying to shake off the lingering haunting feeling from Xavier. Things aren't going as planned, as it's unnerving. I’m at least glad we girls made it this far without a scratch. Other than a few moshers falling into us, we’re unscathed. But the night isn’t over, and my weekend here has just begun.
Excitement fizzes inside me as Vixxen takes the stage, her silky brown hair flowing down, her pale, curvy figure tucked into a tight, sleeveless, white dress.
My words on her tongue delivered so beautifully to a crowded, low-lit room listening intently. With no fear of discovery on my part, the songstress on the stage will take both the criticism and the praise. I’m feeling pretty satisfied with this arrangement when I become preoccupied with that weird feeling again.
I turn my head toward the bar, and this time, my stomach drops. Xavier. Okay, this is getting weird now. My lips part as I watch him watching me, not just my words on Vixxen’s tongue dancing in my head but...his.
I’m onto your…secret, his deep baritone rumbles, reverberating inside of me like a tremor. He glances at the stage, his eyes narrowing at Vixxen. He smirks, returning his gaze to me.
She’s not you, he murmurs, condescension in his tone.
Did I really hear him say that...telepathically?
I divert my eyes from him, trying to focus on Vixxen. But the weight of his stare lingers a moment longer, followed by a feeling of release, like a tiny chain broken. I know instinctively he's gone.
I look over, confirming I’m right.
But he still lingers. The meaning embedded in those phantom words nags at me. Words that came from closed lips across a smoky room, from a voice that matches the commanding manner of the man.
She’s not you.
Aside from the impossibility of hearing him, what does it mean? It could be interpreted as both positive and negative. Naturally, my mind chooses the latter of the two. She’s not you. Meaning you’ll never be her.
If this is what the phantom voice means, it’s not wrong. She’s not me, and I will never be her.
But I’ve given her a part of me, and she has brought my lyrics alive in return. So, in this way, we are like twin sisters, two sides of the same coin.
“The deeper it cuts, the better I feel," she sings. My twisted words, my pain. She's the conduit for my silent suffering.
I look around the room, watching the reaction of the audience.
Like dark magic, her sultry voice delivers the blade, and my cutting words painlessly draw blood. Maybe it will resonate, and the audience will feel it later, a tiny red trickle that forms a microscopic scar.
I can make a mark on this dark world in this small way.
She's not you.
I sigh, returning my eyes to the stage. I want to bask in this moment, yet I cannot shake this creature of a man.
Admittedly, when he was on stage, I fell into a trance with the rest of the room—this feverish moment of adoration for this wrathful, dark angel of music.
His impossible, cryptic phantom words haunt me.
Maybe nobody expects this thing when it hits, this feeling of...obsession. Maybe this is how it works, catching you by surprise when you’re somehow vulnerable. Am I? Vulnerable?
Nah, I’m good.
But assuming that I'm not totally crazy and just experienced a psychic moment with Xavier Layne, how can I not feel captivated?
I hate what I want to do right now: I want to go and find that tower of a man and confirm that I’m not insane. And that sucks because I don’t want to chase him like some groupie.
Vixxen exits the stage, and I clap my hands with the sinking realization that within a matter of hours of being here, I’ve been sucked into Xavier’s orbit, this undeniable gravitational hold.
It’s unsettling. I mean, what’s to differentiate me from any hopeless fan girl? I came here expecting the polar opposite. Not counting my connection with Vixxen, that is.
But here I am, stupidly ignoring the warning inside of me that knows that Xavier’s universe isn’t solar-centric. He’s a big, dark, cold planet, and I’m like a tiny burning sun seeking answers in his shadow. He could swallow me whole. And maybe because of my insatiable curiosity, I would let him.
* * *
Our secret.
We hug and smile briefly before Vixxen turns her attention to her fan club, mostly guys, dark-clothed, beneath one of the chandeliers. I stand beside her awkwardly, wondering where my girlfriends have gone.
So many red-eyed strangers lurking at the edges of the smoky room. It’s freaking eerie.
I’m supposed to check into my suite before attending the after-party, but I promised the girls we’d go together, wherever they are. I scan the room for a familiar face when none other than Xavier Layne appears beside me, his presence and scent immediately overwhelming.
Mad butterflies crash through me, and I sway a little before catching myself. Get a freaking grip, girl!
He moves past me to stand beside Vixxen, his long, muscled arm brushing against my side. Both electric and startling.
I suck in air, trying not to gawk at the spectacle of daunting, gorgeous Xavier towering beside pretty and petite Vixxen. Even my stage-trained songstress seems swayed by his supernatural charm, the devious sparkle in his green eyes, and the subtle smirk on his lips. She smiles up at him, eyes fluttering with false lashes.
His green gaze is fixed on her like everyone else in this corner of the room.
“So, tell me, Lisa. That’s your real name, right?” He trails his long, pale finger up her arm, and she seems to shudder. Yeah, I feel that too, my sister.
“Uh-yes, Vixxen is my stage name,” she swoons.
“Mm-hm. And so, what inspired you to write that last song? It was...troubled, melancholy. I didn’t dislike it.”
Vixxen’s eyebrows raise, her smile widening like she’s so happy he’s taking time out of his night to speak to her. He didn't exactly compliment her. But she is, after all, a guest in his house, right?
This must be a reaction that Xavier is used to inspiring. The thought of it gets under my skin, making me wish I weren’t drawn to him. At least Vixxen is a fellow musician.
As a composer, I should probably consider myself as well. But she’s the singer; she’s the one with the instrument.
“Well, I was just, you know, in one of those moods when I wrote it,” she says, clearing her throat.
He narrows his eyes at her, seeming unconvinced.
“Well, it's a thought-provoking song. I’ll give you that.”
She nods, biting her lip as male fans wait patiently behind her, totally forgotten.
“Thank you, Xavier. I write when I need to get stuff off my chest.”
True, I think, with an approving nod. Vixxen, my mouthpiece.
“You two know each other?” Xavier says, glancing at me. My cheeks turn hot, blushing uncontrollably. Damn, that sucks—one of the reasons I never like the spotlight.
“Oh, um, yes. Our fathers introduced us,” she says, eyes glancing briefly my way.
I nod stupidly while wondering why Vixxen seems suddenly awkward. Maybe she’s not as good a liar as I thought. However, I hate phrasing it that way. I don’t think of her as a liar. We have an arrangement. We aren’t the first or last to make music in this way.
“Yes, always useful to have a music producer daddy,” he winks at her. “Our little secret,” he adds. “Most of your idiot fans will never know you didn’t get here purely on merit.”
He seems to delight in how her smile slowly dies as her face turns to shock. I fumble with the hem of my shirt, unsure what to say.
Satisfaction twinkles in Xavier’s green-eyed gaze, meeting mine fleetingly before he vanishes.
I’m about to attempt to console flustered-looking Vixxen when her fans swarm her. Her smile returns. It must be nice to have an easy distraction from the Xavier effect.
“There you are!" calls Maryanne. “Jasmine is looking for you and says she needs you to sign some paperwork.”
“Who?”
Holding a clipboard, a woman in a business skirt and a pink silk blouse approaches me with a curt smile.
"Lyndi Margot?”
“Yes. Hi--”
“I’m here to check you in. I'll need you to sign the NDA before you attend the party. We can review the rules, and I'll show you how to access the suite and give you a temporary key.”
“Okay. NDA?”
“Oh, it’s something that all guests sign. In summation, it’s a contract agreeing not to share any information about the family, the home, and what goes on here. Your stay must be confidential. As they say... What happens at the mansion stays at the mansion.”
XAVIER
Shifting my gaze into night vision, I ponder the sudden urge to get Lyndi Margot alone. I have questions, and the after-party can wait.
The secret passageway through the kitchen leads to the wine cave, among other places. The tiled, sconce-lit hall meanders past my Master Suite and my study into the West Wing, where the guest quarters are located, where the lucky (or unlucky) lotto winner Lyndi Margot is staying.
No doubt her daddy, Damon, got her in. It’s no secret that the contest is rigged. The lotto is merely a gimmick, a marketing tactic that Father’s PR firm developed years ago. Attach the word exclusive to a given place, and celebs and execs will flock. Their egos can’t resist a chance at doing something few others can.
But this isn’t just a luxe-themed suite at a historic mansion built by the Blood dynasty. This is one of those notoriously haunted places, most especially by the local scandal of the college girl who mysteriously died here. She was a superfan of my music from when I was still a member of MacRath's pack.
Before I entered my dragon, the old pack used to play through the night until our fingers bled. Good times, but things were simpler then. Fuck, I just heard that MacRath, the bastard, has taken the throne—a regular King of the Order. He’s got his family castle located on some Cuban archipelago or some shit, reigning over the wolf packs there. Whatever. I’m of the anarchist persuasion nowadays. Fuck the Order.
When I exit the passageway into the Hall of Kings, which is as far as I usually travel on this side of the sprawling mansion, and rarely at that, the red hall is a blaring reminder of ancestry that I resent. One that Shaw MacRath and I share. If only I could convince Father that I won’t sell out like MacRath. Regardless, he insists on reminding me—and I insist on forgetting—I’m hereditary heir to a powerful line of wolf shifter kings. The dragon side of my family means nothing to him.
I usually ignore politics just as much as I ignore the phantoms of this haunted mansion. Fucking Ghost Girl. No matter how unsettled I felt or maybe still feel about the unsolved case of a former fan, her memory is just money in the bank now. Everyone loves a good ghost story, and Father is soaking it for all it’s worth. He's a ruthless bastard like that.
Pausing in the narrow corridor’s musky, faintly perfumed air, I run my fingertip along an ornate, gold-framed portrait. One of a dozen along the red silk damask walls, dimly shimmering in the candlelight. There are no ancestors of Mother here. Hers are located in the less-regarded East Wing or Dragon Wing.
Mother. Gone forever. The woman who gave me my inner fire, for better or worse. The most apparent dragon attributes being a laissez-faire disposition and psychic abilities.
Speaking of which…
Little Lyndi Margot approaches.
I smile inwardly. Though I can't make out the words, I can almost taste her sweet scent. The girl smells like sun-drenched honey plucked straight from a fucking hive. I find her scent maddeningly alluring. I wasn’t expecting that.
I proceed a few steps up the hall, trying to ignore the lingering inward echo that the red hall always induces in me. That's probably why I avoid coming down here. Because, without meaning to, like some dutiful heir, I’ll find myself pondering the meaning of the Great War of Kings that ended the reign of my line. Bullshit. Forget about it.
I’d rather think about this strange girl. She’s…different.
She was highly attuned to my voice and not merely subconsciously. She knew I was talking to her, and she said something odd when I entered her mind.
I could only take so much of her adoration of Vixxen before messaging my disapproval. I said something simple like, She isn’t you. She replied, but her words are mine. Only mine.
A curious thing. But it didn’t take long for me to solve her meaning. Make no mistake, little Lyndi: I am onto you.
Reaching the Princess Suite, aka Beauty & Beast Suite, I fall back into the shadows, waiting. I'll get my answers.
“Right this way, Miss Margot,” rises a familiar voice, and I duck behind a red curtain dividing the seating area.
When I spy the pretty little liar just outside the guest suite, she looks downright awkward beside polished and prim Jasmine.
Strangely, I get this feeling of déjà vu.
The last time I stood here like this, I was looking at a dead girl. The forever fan, famous now. A phantom guest of honor echoing the halls nightly. Even dead, the groupie remains a thorn in my side.
Waiting for Jasmine to leave, I shake off the thought. I won’t let these old hauntings distract me from my savage intentions: to ensure that Lyndi Margot knows her place by firmly putting her in it.
Our latest guest of honor is here because of the opportunistic aim of her daddy, who's been dirty dealing with Father too long. I didn’t give a shit until it started fucking things up for my music. The only thing I care about in this world anymore is all on the line because of that filthy rat. But he won’t go away. Not easily. He’s in too deep, and father won’t hear of it.
So, then. I’ll get Damon where it hurts.
Yes, Lyndi Margot will pay for the sins of her father. I will make sure of it.
LYNDI
Did I sign my life away?
My phone beeps like crazy—no doubt the girls want to know what’s up. Jasmine, the Layne PA, ignores everything but the sound of her own, perfectly annunciated voice. I’m stuck teasingly just inside the suite door as she reminds me of the strict no-visitor policy, reiterating the legal repercussions should I break the contract I signed. I smile and nod. “Got it. Thank You.”
So many damn rules!
No visitors, no overnight guests, no accessing other rooms in the West Wing, no using the elevator or stairs. I can only use the hallway to the right of the suite to get to the club. If I need anything, I’m supposed to call guest services from the suite or text Jasmine.
Most importantly, I can’t tell a soul what I see or hear within the mansion’s walls beyond a basic review of the suite and any performances I attend. I cannot discuss what happens at the after-party, exclusive to members and VIP guests.
I find this unsettling. Something doesn’t feel right. What if I witness something beyond scandalous, bordering on criminal? What if I see or experience an actual crime? Is this contract legally binding? The resentment I feel over Damon arranging this stunt deepens. I already got what I wanted out of this. I heard Vixxen sing live. I got to experience the crowd’s reaction to our music. It was magical. But then again, a pall overshadowed it.
Xavier Layne.
His name thrums through me, speeding my heartbeat. It’s not just that he’s a brilliant musician--I mean, I knew he was good, but I hadn’t seen him live. He’s the real deal, even better in person. But it’s more than that. Real or imagined, I heard him in my mind, and I want to know why. Speaking of Xavier...
Goosebumps creep over my body as his image stares back at me from behind glass in the foyer. His deep-set eyes seem to track me as I approach the tall, curio cabinet. I know an antique when I see one; this cabinet is a rare beauty. Even in picture form, I feel the weight of Xavier’s eyes upon me as I run my hands along the polished wood. A heavily carved oak finish with fluted posts flanking its door, and topped with carved pineapples. I tug on the small door latch, but it’s locked.
Peering through the smudge-free pane, I examine the objects on the middle shelf. Beside a set of pink, sunflower depression-era glasses, like the ones Granny had, there’s an ornately framed picture of Xavier standing with a woman.
Who is she? An ex? A fan? She looks my age, with shoulder-length bleach-blonde hair and smoky brown eyes, wearing a tight black leotard tucked into torn jeans. She isn’t looking at the camera; she’s looking at him, gleaming with a wide smile.
Xavier seems unmoved by the moment. Eyes locked with mine—just an illusion, I know. But even now, he pulls me in. Maybe it’s the dark look in his eyes, looking up from a sinister downward tilt of the head. Is he being in character, the doom-metal rocker? Or is he a dark soul deep down? He’s certainly believable.
I pause at his mouth. His full lips are drawn into a frown, this angry, brooding mouth I’ve already memorized. And the dark hair falling around him, with mean, dark brows framing those intense green eyes. What a—
Boo! comes an echoey female from behind, and I jump before jerking around. My heart races as I scan the room, decadently appointed in red and black silk and velvet. My eyes dart toward a faint giggling near the window. There is a rustling before the room goes dead quiet. Eerily quiet.
No. No, I don’t believe in ghosts. Just my mind playing tricks, that’s all. But I jump again when a knock comes at the door, causing me to yelp. I bring my hand to my chest, exhaling. Okay, get a grip, girl. It’s probably just the PA back to explain another rule.
Wishing there was a peephole, I blindly open the door. Instantly, I’m hit with a shockingly attractive masculine scent. He’s taller than the door frame and dressed in dark clothing. He bows his head, emerald eyes hitting me like lasers—oh. shit. It’s fucking Xavier.
Why is he here?
He’s even taller up close. Taller and scarier, with a cocky smile edging his mean mouth, and his eyes seem to emanate a light of their own in the dark hall. Predatory eyes, analyzing me like a wolf to prey.
“Thought I might find you here,” he rumbles, words rolling off his tongue with that same entrancing quality as on stage. The flash of the memory of his music reverberates like a dark dream. I blink my eyes, clearing my mind. “Uh...hi...” I manage, trying to regain composure.
I’m not usually one to feel starstruck. I can’t count how many celebrities I’ve seen in Southern Florida. I never cared. They’re just people and tend to look smaller and unimpressive in person than on screen. But not this guy. He’s larger than life.
“What-uh...what are you doing here?” I stammer.
Ignoring me, he reaches past my arm and pushes the door ajar, and the shock of his arms brushing mine strikes a cautionary alarm inside me.
“Excuse me?” I blurt out in defense. This may be his house, but this is my room for the night.
“Here to make sure you’ve been properly briefed,” he says, closing the door behind him. What the hell?
Caught off guard, I’m about to protest when he saunters off toward the mini kitchen, opening a cabinet.
“This isn’t okay,” I mutter while studying his broad-shouldered frame. The artful contour of his back muscles visible through his thin, fitted grey tee, his back forms a perfect taper, broad at the shoulders, narrow at the waist, and pointing to a perfectly sculpted ass, wrapped in black denim. Long legs lead down to black boots. My eyes jump upward at the clank of wine glasses. He pours a bottle of red wine as if he has every right to be here unannounced.
“I’m not supposed to have guests, Xavier.” Saying his name sounds surreal to my ears, and I clear my throat, mustering confidence.
He turns to face me, leaning against the cabinet and pinning me with defiant eyes. “Get this straight, Lyndi Margot,” he hums, jolting me. “For one. I hate rules. Two, the rules don’t apply to me. This is my house. I make them, break them, how I see fit.”
I close my gaping jaw. Wow. So fucking full of himself. “O-kay, then. Well, I signed a contract, and I’m supposed to go down and meet my friends, and this is my room, so—”
“You’ll have a drink with me first.”
I blink my eyes. “What did you mean by properly briefed? I’ve already signed the contract.”
He laughs, his tone condescending.
“I don’t give a shit about the bullshit contract.”
He brings me a wine glass before sitting by the unlit fireplace in one of two red upholstered chairs. I follow him. “Then, what were you referring to?”
“Please, sit,” he orders, and I try to decide how I feel about this. Is his barging in going to be a habit over the next few nights? I may have signed away certain rights, but I’m at least entitled to a private space behind closed doors. It dawns on me that Xavier might have a key to this room.
“I was planning to ignore you,” he says, flippantly. “Like I do most girls. Make you come to me instead. But…”
My brows furrow in confusion. “But, what?”
He swirls his glass, takes a drink, and then looks at me with this domineering expression that mixes me up inside. I both love and hate that he owns the space and acts like he owns me, too.
Maybe if he weren’t so beautiful, mysterious, talented, and fucking alluring, I wouldn’t feel so mixed up over his overbearing way. Yeah, I need to calm down. I’m better than this. I don’t need his bullshit.
“I’ve decided that would be too easy on you,” he finishes.
My brows pinch hard over his riddle. “What does that even mean?” Is the man playing games with me, or what?
He laughs. “You’re staying in one of the Princess Suites. Royal for the weekend, hm?”
“Yeah. And?”
“If you’re the Beauty, I must be the Beast.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “This isn’t exactly the castle at Disneyworld.”
He smiles crookedly. “No, indeed not. Soon you’ll fall under the dark spell. You know this place is evil, right? Not to mention crazy. A regular odditorium.”
“Strange way to talk about your home. Or do you have fun messing with the guests?”
He snickers, the hard rise of his cheekbones pointing to the wicked glint in his green eyes.
“Nah,” he shrugs. “This isn’t my home. This is the home of my ancestors and predecessors. I’m just passing through.”
“But you are the heir.”
The twinkle in his eyes darkens, and his mouth edges into a bitter sneer. “And you know all about me, don’t you? Like everyone else in this crumby city.”
My cheeks turn hot. “Not really. I only know a little. I mean...I know your music. Some of it.”
“You know enough about me, Lyndi. Just as I know enough about you. No, I don’t normally mess with the guests. But you, little Beauty, are not a mere guest.”
My eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “I’m not?”
He raises his glass to his mouth, watching me. I distract myself by drinking the admittedly delicious red wine. A heavily awkward moment passes between us. What is this? My girls are waiting for me, and he still hasn’t explained what he is here for—time to ask the obvious questions.
“Then what am I to you, Xavier?”
He brings his big, long pale hand up to his squared chin, pinching it thinkingly.
“You, Lyndi Margot, are leverage.”
XAVIER
Too easy.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asks, brow arching into a defensive line. But how tightly she folds her arms at her stomach seems overdone, as if she’s cold.
“Do I give you the chills?” I smirk, hoping the answer is yes. I like the idea of mastery over this girl’s temperature. Making her hot or cold on command.
She puffs out air, rolling her eyes. “No,” she blushes, breaking eye contact. Her uneasy focus darts at the door, and she tightens her arms another notch, her shoulders narrowing. When our eyes meet again, her lips part.
I seem to have that effect on her. I estimate she’s dropped her pretty jaw about four times since I entered the room.
I pause on her supple lips. Her tongue swipes between them, making them shiny and red before closing them. How I’d like to force those lips open with my tongue or penetrate them with my—
“Do you wear lipstick?” I ask, cutting off my thought before my cock has time to harden.
She closes her mouth, shaking her head. But her mouth can’t stay shut for long. That’s five. I find this to be a mildly entertaining curiosity.
“What is going on here, Xavier?” A tiny gasp escapes her lips, and she shudders after saying my name.
I smile at her. “I have something to show you, Lyndi.”
Her eyes widen, but what is going through her mind right now? I can’t hear her thoughts.
“Where?” she mutters, eyes darting to the door again.
“Not here,” I add, and she sighs. Is that relief? But she doesn’t yet know where I’m taking her.
I stand. “Bring your wine glass and follow me.”
My authoritative tone leaves no room for questioning, yet when I look back, she hesitates, her hazel eyes full of caution and curiosity like a cat to a strange dog.
“You have a lousy poker face,” I chuckle, reaching the door amidst a loud crack of thunder. The storm is picking up nicely outside.
“Where exactly am I following you to, Xavier?”
I pause in the doorway, my back to her. My name on her tongue has a particular resonance. Almost as if she’s been thinking about me. Or, perhaps she’s heard my voice in her head.
I glance back. “You know the cliche: for me to know, you to find out? That applies here.”
I wait for her to shut the door, wisps of long brown hair hitting her chest, and the full curve of her breasts tucked under a virginal-looking white lace tank. For a fleeting moment, I mentally undress her.
She’s no waif, curvy with supple meat on her bones in the right places and slightly tanned, sumptuous skin. Her smattering of random freckles is cute, and her naturally dark lips make me wonder about the hue of her nipples when aroused.
I raise an eyebrow. “Did you forget to lock it?”
“Oh...” she reaches into her pocket.
I hold up the key card, handing it to her.
“You’ll need that.”
“How’d you...?” she trails off.
She takes the card, and I grip her hand, my long, musician’s fingers clasped around her feminine softness. She tugs away, but I pull back, fully imprisoning her hand.
“A little bird in a cage,” I mutter, hinting at a smile while pinning her with eyes to match my words. I enjoy the sound of her hitched breath. It makes me want to close in on her and steal her breath away. She must sense the sudden change in me as she slowly steps back, her jaw slackening—that’s seven. My smirk deepens.
“Seven,” she mutters.
But I didn’t mean for her to hear that thought. I pause on her, surprised.
“What’s this? Little Lyndi, a psychic? Probably just beginner’s luck.”
The intensity in her expression tells me I’m onto something. This isn’t the first time she’s experienced this.
Her brows furrow into a troubled line. “What do you mean?”
“Now isn’t the time for a lesson. Come on,” I motion her to follow.
“You’re as strange as this place,” she says from behind, and I crack a grin.
She has no fucking idea how strange things are going to get. The thunder is louder this time, and Lyndi yelps from behind as the lights flicker out.
“Happens more often than you think…in these old mansions,” I say, lighting the way with my phone. I take her small, cold hand in mine--so stiff and resistant. “Ouch,” she whines, trying to pull away in the strange darkness where she’s likely to trip.
“Relax. Resisting is painful,” I say, and her hand finally softens in submission. She sighs, and I listen to her nervous heartbeat as I lead her through the darkness.
I want to read her mind, but her thoughts are too jumbled under my own to decipher. I’m conflicted, still deciding how much I want to subject her to my world while corrupting her.
When we reach the red-carpeted stairs, she tries to tug away, her hand nearly slipping from my grip. I stop, looking down at her.
“Problem?”
“I signed a contract, and—“
“And you’re not supposed to see the forbidden West Wing or explore the mansion?”
“Right,” she nods.
“My mansion, mind you. Those rules are in place to protect me and my family.”
“I still signed it.”
“I’m your guide, Lyndi. Stop worrying. ”
This time, when I take her hand in mine, I hold tighter, ensuring she doesn’t pull away until we reach the pitch-black landing leading to the private art room.
The lights flicker on like a big reveal. I couldn’t have timed it better myself.
“Oh…wow,” she gasps, looking across the room. I release her, and she moves forward willingly. She’s drawn to the darkest, most complicated painting, like a moth to a flame. I knew there was something odd about this girl.
She stops before the large piece at the center of the back wall, pulling her long hair to one side in front as she studies its writhing female form, giving way to darkness. Not a cold darkness but a sucking heat, a blue flame licking from the edges of a black hole. The impression is like that of an eclipse overtaking her.
“The death of the summer goddess,” I whisper, arriving at her side. She gasps ever so slightly.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” I lie, enjoying the goosebumps on the back of her exposed neck. I want to open my jaws around its slender length and make the bumps harden with fright.
“Tell me what you think of it?” I say in my standard low, deep voice.
She clears her throat. “It’s medieval. Probably Renaissance. Tempera technique, exquisitely rendered. If it’s a fake…it’s a good one.”
Bored, I sigh. “No, not a fake. But I’m more interested in your thoughts on the subject matter than the finer details.”
She trails her gaze along the curvilinear lines of the nude shape, the still rounded post-pregnant belly, the full breasts tilting back as the woman arches toward her doom.
“Well, Lyndi?”
“As you said, mythological. Symbolic of the changing seasons. But...it’s weird to see death portrayed in such an erotic way. And…so beautifully.”
“Mm, but sex and blood, pleasure and pain, are just two sides of the same coin.”
“I don’t know about that,” she shrugs, but I’m already calling her bluff.
I lean back on the wall beside the painting. “Sex and death have always been linked in a multitude of ways. Any historical timeline can prove this if you’re looking for a connection.”
Her eyes narrow, but there’s a faint amusement in their hazel tone.
“Why would anyone be looking for that connection?”
I study her, saying nothing. I want to know what she’s thinking behind the words.
Her lips part—that’s eight.
She blinks at me before returning her attention to the piece. I watch her think, the changing expression in her eyes while she consciously ignores me. I gather what I can from her thoughts.
Often, people’s faces attempt to hide their true feelings, but she’s too captivated to care. Or maybe she’s always this honest, unable to mask herself. Either way, she’s fascinated, her pupils widening as delectable words evanesce in her mind. I capture them, rolling their meaning over my tongue.
Disturbed…dark…and…sexy…
…I…think I love it.
I repress a smile. I almost regret what I’ve brought her here for. Part of me wants to watch her think some more. She’s certainly more interesting than Vixxen. Which reminds me….
“Tell me about her,” I say, jarring Lyndi from her thoughts.
“Who?”
“You know who. She’s been accused of not writing her lyrics.”
“Um…that’s random.”
“Tell me,” I insist.
Her face flushes, and she shrugs, prepared to lie.
“I...don’t know why anyone would think that.”
“That’s easy. Anyone who has tried to collaborate with her has been, shall we say, underwhelmed. She’s a singer, not a composer. That's fine, but why lie about it? Plenty of good singers openly collaborate.”
She folds her arms in front of her, and I can tell she’s forcing herself to maintain uncomfortable eye contact.
“Maybe the author doesn’t want to be known, Xavier—why do you care?”
I smile, deciding to let her off the hook for the moment. But not entirely. I motion her over to the large, antique cherry cabinet in the back corner of the room.
I raise my hand, resting it along the smooth, rounded post of the door frame that extends to the leg. The doors have been removed, and glass shelves lined with relics have been placed inside.
“This is what I’ve brought you for.”
She steps closer, eyeing the identical rows of statues.
“Have you seen these?”
She nods. “Damon brings them in by the dozens—popular decor.”
“But have you seen what’s inside?”
“Nothing is inside.”
“Wrong.”
I pull one from the shelf and hand it to her. She takes the metal dragon into her palms, her hands dropping slightly.
“Always surprisingly heavy.”
“How about we unlock it?”
She shakes her head. “The keyholes are fake. Only the ancient original had a key.”
“Is that so? Turn it upside down.”
Bafflement crosses her face as I produce a tiny golden key. She turns the dragon on its head, thumbing the keyhole. I brush her finger aside, twist the lock, and carefully pull out the black tray with three glass samplers full of red liquid.
“I...can’t believe it. What is this?”
“Good question. I will tell you something that could get you killed. Don’t worry; it will be our little secret, Lyndi. Those are filled with CB or Chem Blood—dragon’s blood with chemical additives, to be exact. Ever had it before?”
Her eyes widen, stunned. “Never. You?”
My inner dragon turns its tail at the thought of it. “No need. And even if there were, I’ve another path to death’s doorway.”
“That bad? Katie wants to try it.”
“CB will make her feel superhuman.”
“She’d probably like that.”
“Who doesn’t? The effects don’t last more than a few hours, but there’s no going back once you know what you’re missing. That’s where the dark descent begins—with need.”
“Need,” she repeats, eyes alert. She licks her parted lips, backing away just as I get the urge to grab her by the throat and pull her close enough to taste her lips.
“Well, then,” she says. “Why do you have these?”
I half-laugh, matching her steps forward. “It’s a fucking tyrant. Demanding too much from its host.”
She continues to back away, and I continue to follow.
“What exactly...happens?” she shrugs.
I shake my head. “It takes possession, wrecking your organs when you try to leave. Getting revenge for your betrayal when you return. And when you finally lose the will to care, well...that’s when the big dark exit looms, taunting your escape.”
I watch her eyes as she processes the inevitable, her widening pupils like black cherries set in flecks of amber. So much hiding behind those cherries, her thoughts, fears, and desires. Speaking of need. I want to suck the fruit from her skull, exposing her every secret. Or...I could learn her another way, embark on some cherry spelunking in the dark hollow between her thighs.
She takes another step backward. “And your family—I mean, your family business,” she stutters, the blush on her cheeks spreading down her neck. She has no idea where this question leads.
“Layne Industries used to deal in pure blood,” I explain, continuing to match her steps. She stops when she reaches the doorway.
“So the rumors are true, then,” she hesitates before the dark hallway.
“Indeed. But this new shit is the grime of the music scene and a thorn in my side while my dear ol’ dad sits pretty on his dying throne. Call it self-masochism, but it makes no difference to me if my house burns down. I’m going to die young anyway. Early entry into the 27 Club. Might as well take out my enemies. Kill two birds with one fucking stone.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Brings me to the topic of your daddy.”
I reach my hand to her silky hair. “Damon’s been a bad boy.”
“What?” Her face twists in comical confusion, and I repress a laugh and the faintest tinge of guilt I feel for what I’m about to do to her.
“You think he’s innocent in all this? You think he’s just into art?”
“Well, yes! What are you getting at, Xavier?”
I knock my head back with a laugh.
“Shit, your daddies so obsessed with dragons he even named his daughter after the lindworm. What, you didn’t know he was an addict? He’s a fucking supplier. The dealer’s daughter takes on a new meaning now, huh Lynds?”
...more coming soon to Red Flame Magazine...
