ELOISE
What is appropriate eveningwear for a bar that serves supernaturals? As I drive up to a quiet building with white cinderblock walls and blacked-out windows, I think maybe I’ve overdressed. The place looks more like a prison than a club. Maybe I should have gone moreraveand lesscocktail party. “Is what I’m wearing okay?”
Damien glares at me from the passenger seat, radiating exceptionally grumpy vibes. “Your attire is acceptable.” He’s been acting like that since we left the house. I’m not sure what I’ve done to piss him off, but he’s either angry at me or having a shade mood swing.
I climb from my tan Jeep, tugging my sequined purple minidress down to cover my ass and straightening the waist-length matching jacket. I’ve never actually worn this dress before, and I’m learning the designer number likes to ride up. The first New Year after I married Tony, we were invited to New York by a few of his clients for a New Year’sEve party. I chose this dress, but when I put it on, Tony yelled at me that it was too short to wear to a professional event. I ended up changing into a plain black wrap dress that could have doubled as funeral attire. But I’d held onto it, along with the sparkly Golden Goose sneakers I’d planned to wear. Tonight, I’ve paired it with a shaggy black ostrich feather clutch in which I carry my phone and the candle stub, just in case. I think I look cute.
Irritably, Damien walks around the Jeep and marches past me in the direction of the building. I look down at myself again.
Cocktail dress —check.
Shoes I can run in —check.
Hair curled and fluffed to club-ready perfection —check.
What is the problem? “Damien, Stop!”
He does, his feet scuffing the pebbles of the unused drive that leads to the building. He barely glances in my direction. “Little bird?”
“What’s wrong? You’ve barely looked at me since we left the house.”
He turns slowly, those brilliant ice-blue eyes raking over me from head to ankles in a way that makes my spine tingle. In the space of a breath, he has me in his arms, my body clutched against a hard, very male body. His frighteningly large erection is sandwiched between us. My breath hitches at the feel of him, the tips of his fangs white in the moonlight.
“You want to know why I won’t look at you?” His lips brush my temple, the edge of my hair. “Because all I can think about when I see you in that dress is how easy it would be to bend you over.” He coasts his hand over my ass and teases the flesh just under the hem of my dress. “Lickyour tight, wet folds until you scream my name, then fuck you while your heart flutters like the tiny sparrow you are. Once I’d made you orgasm so many times my cock was covered in you, I’d take your vein, likely the artery in your thigh, and drink your sweet blood until you passed out from pleasure.”
“Oh,” I squeak.
His jaw clenches, and his voice sounds like he’s dragged it across the pebbled drive as he adds, “But I can’t do that because we have work to do. I can’t look at you because when we walk into that club, I need to protect you from everyone and everything in it, and I can’t do that when I’m thinking about the taste of you and the way the muscles in your neck flex when you come.”
I swallow and take a big step back, adjusting my dress as heat swirls in my lower belly. He’s right, we’re here for a reason, and if I let this go much further, we may never learn what we need to about the warehouse. “Understood. I’ll, uh, erm. I’m following you then.”
Damien turns on his heel and strides toward the building, looking sexy as hell and possessing every inch of his massive frame.
I curse under my breath. I’m hot enough to melt a quarter between my thighs. No man of any species has any business being so overtly sexual, so undeniably in touch with his inner animal that he calls to something deep and forbidden within me. But Damien is. The way he moves promises wild, uninhibited sex and multiple orgasms. From the tips of my nipples to the center of my core, I want him.
“Control yourself,” he whispers at the door. “I can smell your need from two feet away.”
“You can smell that?” I mumble under my breath. It’s like a bucket of ice water splashes mylibido. I crack my neck and shake out my limbs, thinking of anything but men and sex. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Better,” he grumbles. He pulls a gold key from his pocket and opens the door.
Once inside, I’m even more confused. We’re in a white room with no doors or windows aside from the one we’ve just passed through. If there is a club anywhere near here, all its patrons must be dead. It’s as quiet as a cemetery. A bare bulb in the ceiling flickers. Damien shuts and locks the door behind us, then takes my hand.
Tugging me to his side, he steps right through the solid white wall like it isn’t even there, hauling me with him.
The moment we’re on the other side, the thump of house music meets my ears, and my mouth drops open at the sight of a two-story mural depicting an evil queen, crowned head tipped back in a wicked laugh. The style is familiar, Warhol meets Takeuchi, but I can’t put my finger on the artist. Welcome to the Bad Witches Club is emblazoned in twinkling gold letters underneath, surrounded by purple fog that wafts from the base, enhancing the overall magical effect.
I glance back at the wall Damien pulled me through. “Holy shit, it’s like Platform 9 ¾.”
My monster scoffs and shoots me a dark look. “Only if everything on the other side of the barrier between platforms 9 and 10 wanted to eat the young witches and wizards. Stay by my side and try not to look human.”
I’m not sure exactly how to accomplish that feat, but I reach into my clutch and dig out the pair of sunglasses I thought might help, donning them in the already dark room. If anything, it will keep people from noticing that my eyes don’t glow like Damien’s. I finger-comb my hairforward on my shoulders to cover my arteries so they won’t see my pulse either.
He casts a shallow smile in my direction. “Not bad.” Taking my hand, he leads me toward the bar.
Bad Witches Club is a kick-ass nightclub by human standards. A dance floor is positioned at the center of the place, the writhing bodies of nonhumans blurring with supernatural speed to the thump of EDM. Three stories above us, a glass dome offers a stunning view of the stars. Lounge and bar areas surround the dance floor, each level providing a view of the dancers below. It’s the perfect place to hunt and be hunted.
“This way.” Damien leads me to a section where the tables are surrounded by dark tentacles painted on every wall. It isn’t until I see the mural behind the bar that I realize it’s an homage to the sea witch from the little mermaid.
