But it’s so much fucking more. I can’t catch my breath.
Axel pats my back. He was there the first time I taught Mercy those moves. It was in the house we grew up in, when we were teens. My mom was so excited, unable to stay away. She livedfor music and the 1920s and celebratory moments. Eventually, she and all my siblings were swing dancing in the great room with us. Mercy couldn’t stop laughing. It’s one of my favorite memories. There was a lot of pain in that house, but that day was perfect.
I can’t peel my gaze away, but Axel doesn’t expect me to.
“That’s my Mercy.”
He clears his throat, understanding the full weight of that statement. “Yeah, it is. She’s still in there, Ryker. She just needs time.”
“No.” I blow out an exhale, trying like hell not to lose it. “All the time in the world doesn’t heal pain on its own. She needs hope.”
MERCY
There’s a peculiar freedom that escorts power. I’d like to claim that’s a new perspective for me, but I’d be lying. It’s why I thrived in a courtroom, holding the fate of someone’s future in my palm. Knowing I had the skills and privilege to turn their upside-down predicament around was invigorating.
Back in those days, I would have insisted the thrill was doing something noble with my life, helping those who got a raw deal. There was truth in that. But on the other side of things, I’m wondering if that was mostly bullshit. If it was simply who I thought Ishouldbe.
Of course, this revelation is occurring while I’m sandwiched between two mischievous Noire brothers, having the time of my life, swing dancing with a throng of villains.
And shrouded by fear and reverence.
I didn’t fully grasp it the night at the rooftop party, when the men wouldn’t even spare me a glance. That was right after Ryker threatened everyone at the Blind Tiger. I was too caught up in my undeniable desire for him to pay too much credence to how others were perceiving me.
But I saw the slight shift of heads toward me when he announced me as his fiancée tonight. And the stares I’m garnering now are telling. I’ve always embraced Ryker and the Noiresdespitetheir nefarious dealings. It’s one of the reasons I never seriously considered being with him. Not until that day by my car, when I was pregnant with another man’s baby, and I realized a door I’d been subconsciously holding open was slamming.
Everything since has been a blur of mixed emotions.
Including tonight.
Because this dance floor is magically transporting me to a time when life made sense. When Leslie Noire still brightened the earth and Ryker and I were full of simple dreams. When my parents were alive and grateful I had a friend who looked after me so well. When they were my heroes because of who they were to me, not the cause of my disillusionment about who they were to the world—or underworld.
I also don’t hate that in a room full of reprobates, I’m considered worthy of protection and veneration. It doesn’t pacify my inner turmoil, but it certainly tips things in a direction I wasn’t anticipating.
Power bestowed on a person who has lived the epitome of powerlessness is like a drug.
A good majority of these nefarious guests probably practiced these dance steps for the past month, preparing for tonight, or learned them for some other event here. But it’s an integral part of being a Noire. Embodying the joy of the era that built them is as much a marking of who they are as the royal-gangster posturing they encapsulate.
Maddox’s hands land on my waist, and he lifts me up without warning. As if the moves were ingrained in my muscles, I place my hands atop his, brace my back against his chest, and kick my feet out in front of me. Cash bellows a catcall of approval, whichmust signal Maddox because as soon as my feet lower, I’m tossed to Cash and swinging my legs behind me in an effort to go with the flow. I’m not sure how pretty the execution is, but after all these years, to know I can still hold my own here is restorative.
Not all is lost.
My skin is flushed, and pearls of sweat dot my hairline. I’m not used to this, but my endorphins are chanting appreciation to the rhythm of the rumbling drums and the stomping heels and the raucous roar of cheers and whoops. As Cash sets me on the floor, finishing with one last twirl, the third song of the night wanes.
And the herd of people romping in front of us parts like a sea. Maddox laughs at the sight, tipping me off seconds before Ryker emerges.
His glacial blues are piercing and savage and locked on me. I won’t be surprised if he drags me away from Cash and Maddox. That’s expected.
Stopping right before me, he ignores his younger brothers bracketing me, grips my chin, and presses a swift peck to my lips. “You’re fucking stunning. You’ve had your fun with these two. The rest of the dances are mine.”
I love the idea of that. The two of us cultivating something that doesn’t feel burdensome or weighed down by anguish.
“Is that so? You gonna kick up your heels with me?” With a roguish grin, I glance down at the dance floor—a black-and-gold skyline mural painted on a mirror-like material—and ensure we keep the tone light. “Cut the glass?”
A hissed, “Jesus,” falls from his mouth, like I knew it would, mingling with a chuckle. “I am, and you don’t substitute the exact flooring in that saying. It’s alwayscut therug.”
Pursing my lips, I ready an absurd argument that will serve to derail the possessiveness he’s clutching. “Are there any rugs other than the occasional Persian ones in La Lune Noire?”
“Doesn’t matter, but this does, Merce.” He holds my gaze, and so much swims inside those ardent eyes—things that were presumably there long ago, things I caught glimpses of but was terrified to grab.
