We ate at this restaurant that had a carousel in the middle of it, and three twenty-something girls sat at the table behind us. While my sisters and parents chatted, I eavesdropped on the enthusiastic conversation the girls were having. It was allabout La Lune Noire. The young kings and their secrets, elegant parties, and hidden doors. Tatted men in three-piece suits and women in pearls and lace and glittery flapper dresses. I was enamored.
After we left, I asked my parents about the resort, and I was quickly shut down. But I never forgot.
Years later, when I moved out, I knew the city was where I wanted to be. More than that, I felt La Lune Noire calling to me. I applied several times before they even gave me the time of day. You have to be related to someone to get an interview, and my relatives wouldn’t have dared set foot in there.
Finally, I stopped in, insisting they hear me out, and Bernard took pity on me. He chatted with me for a few minutes before Jax moseyed in and plopped into a chair.
He was only eighteen and kind of a wreck. Haunted. But he was Noire royalty, so my breathing was shallow, almost painfully so. I didn’t show it though. I answered his questions until, eventually, Axel was called in. He was more intimidating than Jax. I’d seen pictures of the Noire kings, and while they were all good-looking, a different one—who I later learned to be Maddox—had caught my eye. I was glad he wasn’t in the room because I was sure my nerves would have won out.
Axel flipped through my application and some other papers Bernard had handed him. He only asked me one thing. “Why do you want to work at La Lune Noire?”
It was something I imagined my father would inquire about if he were in the same position.
“I belong here.” It was a stupid response, but all I could manage.
To my surprise, Axel nodded. “Welcome to the La Lune Noire family. Plan to stick around.”
That was a warning more than a greeting, but I wasn’t afraid.
As I drift in and out of sleep, I’m not sure why my mind keeps filtering through all those memories. Maybe because it was the decision that changed everything.
Suddenly, I’m hit with a more disturbing recollection though. Before my eyes even open, I’m bewildered and horrified.Did I vomit in front of Maddox?
Oh God, please let that be a nightmare.
I don’t think it was. There’s a phantom weight of him wrapped around me, like he held me while I slept. And his sin-and-spirits fragrance cocoons me in the kind of darkness that feels like coming home—the smoky scent of a bonfire and the freshness of rain, cozy elements that only mingle in dreams.
And my sheets.
There’s also a trace of lingering candy cane, so maybe I’m still lost to my unconscious reverie.
When I finally pry my heavy lids open, Maddox is the first thing I see. With a steaming mug. And a concerned grin.
“There’s my beautiful Nightmare. You’ve been stirring.” He sets the cup down and kisses my forehead. “That’s peppermint tea. Sip it. Helps with nausea and headaches. There are some saltine crackers too. If you keep those down, I’ll make you some food.”
I don’t answer, but I shimmy to an upright position and hold on for dear life. Did the formidable gangster who dances at random moments break into my apartment and make me tea? Yes. Yes, he did.
“Migraine gone?” His silhouette retreats into the darkness.
Wading through my murky thoughts, I realize the intensity of the pain has subsided. “Mostly.”
It’s quiet for a minute, which is a treasure I’m grateful for, but I briefly wonder how he’s faring without music. Maybe it’s in his ear.
Picking up the mug, I let the peppermint steam waft over me, already appreciative of the benefits of the aroma. Of course that brings another thought to my cloudy head. “I didn’t have peppermint tea.”
“I had my guards pick up some items for us,” he answers from the other side of the room while shuffling something.
It’s so dark that my vision is still adjusting. My blackout curtains create a time warp. “Is it night?”
“It’s after nine.” He sounds distracted, the signature clicks of his butterfly knife accompanying his response. “You slept a good seven hours.”
“Seven hours,” I mumble, and that’s when I notice the boxes. Several boxes.
I set the mug down, but it’s as though I’ve been hit by a Mack truck, so I inhale slowly instead of jumping up like I intended. “What are you doing?”
“Packing.” He’s either being blasé or short with me. It’s hard to say.
Packing my stuff? He’s lost his mind. And I almost forgot I was already pissed at him.
