My bones rattle with an awareness a few beats before the tragically gorgeous and infuriatingly demented six-foot-five Noire swaggers in. His creased gunmetal-gray eyes and haughty smirk are like poisonous daggers. Spine-chilling to most.Infectious to me. There was a time when they sent my pulse racing, like they do for any of the other sick, spellbound ladies sashaying around here.
Maddox Noire is every bit of thrill he appears to be. The onyx hair, the tats, the dark scruff lining his jaw and upper lip. He consumes any room he’s in, sucks out all the oxygen, and can’t resist moving his mammoth frame. It’s as if he has his own personal theme song. He’s a lot.
Even simple conversations with him are a risk. Like hang-gliding. Right before you crash into the side of a cliff.
It’s a flight only worth taking if your minutes are numbered.
That stupid, heart-pounding reaction I once had to him was weak. And so very …schoolgirl, which isn’t me.
He solved that quandary though. He showed up when I needed him, lived up to his sinister king-of-the-world hype.
And then he opened his goddamn mouth.
“Hey there, Lockhart.” His predatory gaze rakes over me before he turns to Mercy. “How’s my favorite sister-in-law?”
She side-eyes him, but a smile blasts across her face. “About the same as I was at breakfast this morning. You?”
Her jubilant reception of him is an example of how nobody’s perfect.
He leans against the threshold, his ankles crossed in lazy confidence as he twirls a beautiful Karambit knife in a circle, the rainbow blade gleaming in the bright light. He always has that or his butterfly knife with him, wielding them casually, like an entertaining prop. But it’s a reminder and a warning. He has and will slice the throat of anyone who crosses him, and he’ll do it with a diabolical smile on his face.
“I’m good, but I could use your help,” he begins, plainly working an agenda with Mercy. “Can you go convince Jax to drink a cup of coffee before we meet with Axel?”
She glances at me, conflicted, and back to him. “He wasn’t really doing shots. He’ll be okay.”
I’m not sure what that’s about, but Jax’s sobriety is often in question.
“It’s been a few minutes, so who knows if that’s still the case?” Maddox holds his stare on her for a second that stretches out like a month of Sundays while I watch in fascination. Some sort of unspoken conversation ensues, until he finally vocalizes his command. “Axel is riled up about the high-heel races. I need Jax sharp, and you have a way of getting through to him.”
I’m calling bullshit. If Axel is on a warpath, Jax being fucked up would be an ideal diversion. But Noires are master gamblers. Maddox is bluffing, and I can’t blame Mercy for worrying about Jax. He’s as cunning as the rest of the Noire brothers, but he has a way of pulling at heartstrings. Regardless, there’s no sense in intervening. Maddox is evidently determined to get me alone.
Lucky me.
Mercy conceals stress well. That’s the lawyer in her. But her indecision is plain in her rigid shoulders.
“It’s fine,” I assure her so we can get this over with. “I’ll go ahead and get us a table. Meet me there.”
“Okay.” She tucks a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear with a resigned breath. But when she narrows her eyes at me, it’s clear she isn’t fooled. She’s no stranger to diversion tactics either. When I don’t send up a smoke signal for her to stay, she struts toward the door, addressing Maddox on her way out. “I’ll get Jax some espresso, but then you’re on your own.”
“Thanks, sis.” He dips his chin to her and casually turns back to me, a roguish glint in those unnerving stone embers as they skate over all my curves.
He’s known me for years, and yet he always drinks me in like that, much like I’d peruse Michelangelo’sDavidsculpture.Enthralled. For the fleeting moments his gaze devours me, I feel like art. Striking and invaluable.
If he were mute, I’d be a goner.
“Are you not speaking to me, Tess?”
“Waiting on you, Drac.” Having nothing to lean against, I cross my arms over my chest to match his unruffled air. “You crawled out of your coffin in the light of day, so I assume you’re here with something important.”
He chuckles, a brief shading of boyish charm brightening his golden-beige complexion before he stalks my way and steps into me with his towering height and menacing authority. I don’t dare crumble from that dominant stance. I stand my ground.
And he stands his.
“There is nothing more important than this.” He lifts my wrist, wrapping my fingers around the black handle grips of the Karambit knife.
His hand stays folded over mine. The knuckles, inked with letters spellingNoire, are a bold reminder of whose presence I’m in as his warmth soaks into my skin. The molecules of the air crackle between us with a zap that’s hard to ignore. It’s vexing. As is his scent, dragging me into a fog of contradictions—bonfires, summer rain, and depravity. Celebratory sin.
But worse than all of that is that the weak schoolgirl part of me is hung up on thenothing more importantsentiment he just uttered.
