“Oh,” I say, pretending to be nonchalant, “you like my costume?”
“I bent you over the bed and fucked you as soon as I saw it,” he snaps. “So yes, I fucking like it.”
“My,” I say, arching a brow, “you’re rather sweary tonight, aren’t you?”
“It’s not funny, Laurel.” He pulls me closer, his hips rolling into mine until I have to bite my lip not to moan. One hand slides to the back of my head, guiding it to his chest so I’m pressed against the steady beat of his heart, like he wants to keep me close.
It’s Halloween night, and the party is in full swing. Sam and the decorating committee truly outdid themselves. If Hell threw a masquerade ball in the middle of a Southern graveyard, it might look something like this.
The back lawn of Ashford House has been transformed. Red spotlights flicker through the trees like devilish fireflies, casting everything in a blood-hued glow. Black velvet drapes hang from ancient oak branches, swaying gently in the cool night breeze. Fog curls low across the grass, thick and creeping, pumped from hidden machines. Somewhere, a remix of choir music bleeds into deep bass, until it sounds like a hymn sung in a church full of abominations.
Angels and demons dance under string lights looped from tree to tree above the crowd. Red horns and white wings. Glittering pitchforks and glowing halos. Lace and leather. Smoke and skin. The theme is Heaven and Hell, but, based on the sea of cleavage, daring thigh slits, and strategically placed body glitter, it’s clear which side won.
I’m one of the few angels in attendance, and honestly, with the things Carrson and I have done recently, I’m pretty sure I no longer deserve to wear white. Still, white feathered wings spread from my shoulders, delicate and fluttering. A thin gold halo floats above my hair, tilted just enough to make it dangerous. My dress is soft, sheer fabric that clings to every curve, the bodice laced like a corset, my legs long and bare beneath a fluttering hem that barely covers anything. That short skirt came in handy when Carrson pushed it aside earlier, screwing me quick and dirty before the party, both of us desperate for one last moment of connection before we descended the stairs hand in hand and walked into the crowd.
Since I’m an angel, Carrson, of course, is the devil incarnate. He’s in all black, dark dress pants and an unbuttoned shirt rolled at the sleeves, exposing tan skin and the sharp edge of muscle. His crimson tie hangs low around his neck like a noose. Twin black horns curl from a headband tucked in his tousled dark hair, but the rest of him doesn’t need costume help—he already moves like temptation, like sin wrapped in a man’s body.
“I’m still mad my pumpkin didn’t win,” I pout, glancing over at the jack-o’-lantern I carved last night. It’s a DNA double helix, and it took me forever to painstakingly carve out each little crossbar for the base pairs. The fraternity hosted a big pumpkin carving competition in the great dining hall of Ashford House. Everyone had been there, even little kids from town, who the sisters and brothers helped carve toothy crooked grins and lopsided eyes.
“Wow, Laurel,” Sam had said, eyeing my pumpkin with a mock grimace, “you went for the most terrifying pumpkin of all, science. I looked at it and immediately thought I had a pop quiz. Very scary.”
I’d laughed, and, for the first time in a while, she did too. The sound was light, unguarded, which had been nice. Sam’s been quieter recently, more withdrawn, but for a moment it had felt like the old her.
“Ishouldhave won,” I grumble now, mostly to Carrson. “That thing has better cell structure than half the people at this party.” I glance up at him, so handsome in the candlelight flickering from the tall candelabras and the bonfire burning in the corner of the yard. “When you all aren’t beating each other up and trying to rule the world, it can actually be kind of fun around here.”
Carrson, clearly not in the mood for small talk, just mutters an unhappy, “I guess,” and tightens his hands at my waist as we sway beneath the flickering lights, the distant sounds of laughing and chatter blending into the haunted night.
All around us, people drink from goblets of blood-red punch, dance with abandon, and sneak off into the shadows. A pair of vampires kiss in the corner, their fangs clashing. A werewolf lounges nearby, wrapped in a fur-lined coat, her lips stained dark as night.
Over by the bobbing for apples station, Sam glides through the crowd in her skintight red dress, sequins flashing like a warning. I watch as she disappears into the crowd. For a moment, I could swear the heat from the nearby torches flares higher, brighter, as if drawn to her.
Even surrounded by these people, all I feel is Carrson. His breath on my skin. His pulse against mine. His need and his fear, barely restrained. Because underneath the festive atmosphere, the cheers and music, something darker simmers. At least for us.
There’s a wrongness in the air. A crackle of tension, like lightning coiled before it strikes.
“I’m worried,” Carrson mutters against my hair, his arms tightening around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
I sigh. “I know.”
He’d flipped out the first time I told him my plan to use myself as bait to trap Jackson.
“No,” he’d said, arms crossed over his chest, fury sharpening every word. “Absolutely not. I won’t put you at risk.”
I hadn’t backed down.
“I’m not some glass doll you get to lock in a cabinet when things get messy,” I’d snapped. “I’m in this. Whether you like it or not.”
Because I’d already made up my mind. I wouldn’t stand for it anymore. The terrible things that happened to me, to Staci. I’d rather walk into danger with my eyes open than sit on the sidelines and wait for someone else to get hurt.
“We were too late for Staci, but there’s still his other Bonded, Lisa,” I’d told Carrson. “We need to protect her from Jackson. If we can trick him into attacking me, you’ll have just cause to challenge him. No man is allowed to touch another man’s Bonded, isn’t that what you said?”
Even with all my logic, it had taken days to wear Carrson down. I’d had to rally Thomson and Sam to my side, and the three of us had tag-teamed him.
“What if Jackson tries to kidnap you? Takes you away before I can reach you?” Carrson had asked.
“Then we track her,” Thomson had answered without missing a beat. He’d run up to his bedroom, then returned moments later holding a long needle-looking device. He held it out, showing it to Carrson and me. “I’ve been working on this since Laurel first told me her plan. It’s tiny, a tracker as small as a grain of rice. Jackson will never know it’s there.”
That had finally convinced Carrson. He injected the tracker into the skin of my left shoulder and soothed the sting with a kiss. Reluctantly, he started putting Jackson on guard duty for me, sticking us together every day. Just like I predicted, the more time Jackson spent near me, the more unhinged he became. He saw it as permission to push boundaries. He started staring at me toolong, standing too close. His words grew disgustingly suggestive, every sentence thick with innuendo, like he was trying to convince me I was already his. Like some twisted part of him believed Carrson was handing me over.
