They don’t cower from devastation or hard decisions or darkness. They own it all, strutting into the shadows to host a party, pop the champagne, and dance until the sun comes up.
All on the soil of the souls who crossed them.
I’m not sure I’ve reconciled that part just yet. But my guilt about internally celebrating that Ryker had Dalton killed has dissipated. I kind of wish my parents had simply spelled it out for me—been clear about what world I was really from—so I could have put my should-be ideas away. The fact that they never batted an eye at my best friend being a Noire makes a whole lot more sense. They weren’t open-minded. They were connected.
I’m pissed beyond belief that my father’s nefarious dealings got my mother killed. Even if I’d known who hereallywas, that would have annihilated me. I’m trying not to hate him because I’m sure he did that enough for both of us. I always wondered if he drove into that tree on purpose. But it was ruled that he had fallen asleep at the wheel, which aligned with no skid marks. My original thought of it being purposeful fits better though.That’s enough for me to let him rest in peace. Plus, based on what Ryker shared, my mother had understood what she was signing up for with my father and made the choice to be with him anyway.
Ryker leads me to a dark corner of the ballroom. We have to chat with numerous guests on the way, playing the role of engaged hosts, which brings clarity to why he didn’t take me to our table at the front of the ballroom. We need a break. He snags us each a French 75 from a cocktail server clad in feathers and lace and insists that I sit. I gladly relax into the chair, unbuckle my heels, wiggle my toes, and prop my aching feet up on his lap when he occupies the chair beside me.
And as expected, he doesn’t disappoint. Somehow, his touch is always magical—warm and soothing and alluring. Every stroke of this foot rub sinks far past the point of contact.
We watch the party in silence, both of us floating down from that high. It’s more crowded now because those who didn’t escape on time have been let in. The view from the stage and the center of the dance floor are far different from back here. This is like a panoramic understanding of the behavior of Noire guests. They mingle proudly, excitement draping them. I can almost hear the whispers of seedy deals going down. It’s fascinating.
“The Lenharts are here.” I gesture toward the chocolate fountain.
Kim—the woman I met and obtained information from at the rooftop party—and who I assume is her husband are indulging in chocolate-covered strawberries. Her hair is a coppery color, so she’s easy to place, even with her mask on. They’re standing near Judge Nicholson and his wife, whom we greeted on the way back here.
Ryker rubs the ball of my foot without following my line of sight. “Yes. They’re loyal.”
The irritation Jax spewed about adultery the day we got high collides with the reason Ryker had to leave early from our explosive, orgasms-in-the-closet night, and a clearer picture emerges.The mistress.
“Was the guy from that night who had hurt someone … Jax called him a cheater. Was the mistress part of the Lenhart family or …”
His eyes rise to mine, and the war in them is apparent. He’s wondering if more truth will have me sprinting out of here, but he either decides to trust me or to unapologetically unveil it. “I don’t ask for those types of details, but after speaking to Dr. Landry and then to the family, I gathered there was a girl who was involved with two of our members, and I believe she was connected to the Lenhart family.”
I switch my feet, offering him the other while keeping both on his lap. “And they don’t fault you for the way you handled things?”
He swigs his drink and resumes massaging with all the ease of a Sunday brunch conversation. “I haven’t spoken with them personally. The offender’s family wasn’t happy. They’ll stay away while they mourn, but they’ll come back. There are rules in place for a reason. Our members get to be armed, to obtain resources that can save their asses in a pinch, to secure a seat at tables they’d otherwise never be invited to, and to have a neutral-ground getaway where they can bring their significant others. It comes with a cost. They know that when they join. If anything, they respect us more for following through.”
Returning my attention to my champagne cocktail and the party, I decide that makes sense in a bizarre, gruesome reality sort of way. Their safe haven would be worthless if violence was permitted.
But that’s a theory, an abstract vantage point. How the hell does he carry it out?
“And when you do it, what do you say to the offender?” I’m not sure what compels me to delve into that, but as I scan his members, it’s a piece of the picture I need. To understand why it doesn’t weigh on him.
He sighs, but willingly divulges his sentencing practices. “I tell them it’s not personal, that rules are fucking rules.”
Straight, to the point, and oddly legalistic.
I suppose I can relate.
Instead of focusing on that any longer, I thrust myself into another mission, using the toes on my free foot toexplorethe bulge in his pants.
He tolerates my brand of massage for all of two minutes before he clears his throat and drags his thumb over the arch of the foot he’s rubbing, which has me twitching from the tickle.
“Is the point of this stunt”—his eyes shoot to his crotch and back to me—“to get me hard during a party I still have to make the rounds at and can’t leave for at least four more hours?”
I shrug my shoulder and bat my lashes, staring at him over the rim of my glass. “Does it make you angry, Mr. Noire?”
For a drawn-out moment, our chests rise in tandem, heaving with uneven breaths. Something about this night makes the things I struggled with during the day so irrelevant. Now, it’s only the gravitational pull and Ryker on the other end of a pendulum I can’t help but sway toward.
I wonder if his heartbeat is as erratic as mine. Or if heat is swarming him, like it is me, with an electric current of challenge and possibilities zapping between us. Regardless, this forgotten corner morphs into a hinge, connecting what couldn’t happen to what seems to be inevitable. I’ve never wanted to kick a door down more.
When he finally breaks our quietude, his voice is low and lust-drenched, but there’s a hint of something else in it. “Ifyou’re waiting for me to punish you, it will only end with pleasure for you and pain for me.”
That has me pulling my feet back, setting my glass down, and sitting up straight, eager to dissect everything that statement holds. “Why is that?”
The same conflicted expression from before—the war over whether to share the truth—stains his features. But again, he caves. “You’ve had enough pain for a lifetime. I want to lavish you with so much pleasure that it swallows all the aches.” He pauses there, glancing around the room, unable to hide the enormity of emotions weighing on his shoulders. “I’ve looked into ways to reset your trauma, and—”
