“Right, trust. Makes sense. I guess we don’t share that.” I heard the longing in her voice, barely hidden beneath casual agreement. The way her breath caught slightly, her pulse kicking up.
But we do, I want to say. Otherwise, why would she have been in my apartment? Why would she let me go with her to Oubliette?
Instead, I cleared my throat and forced myself to step back before I did something stupid. “It is nearly time for you to head to Oubliette. Do you need help changing, or. . .” I trailed off, leaving the offer hanging between us.
She stood, shaking her head. Her hair swung around her shoulders, catching the light from the windows. “Nope. I should be good. Just give me thirty minutes, and I’ll be ready.”
“Sure.” I turned to leave, then stopped at the threshold. “Should I. . . take Marie out?”
Violet eyed the mannequin once more, her expression thoughtful. “Might be best. Instead of keeping her under the bed, where does she normally reside?”
“The living room. It is where I do my ties.”
“Cool.” She smiled, genuine and warm. “Maybe just shove her in the corner so she can scare us shitless when we get home tonight.”
I laughed, the sound surprising me. Taking Marie Antoinette carefully, I carried her to the living room and positioned her in the corner asrequested—still in her suspension tie, her ropes catching the amber light from the pendant fixtures.
For the first time since this fucked-up arrangement had started, I felt something like normalcy settle over the apartment. Maybe this would work out. Perhaps Violet living in my space would not be the disaster I’d feared.
Dark thoughts teetered on the edge of my logic. Or maybe this would be a different kind of disaster entirely. One I was walking into with my eyes wide open.
Chapter 19
Violet
Jules greeted us at the entrance, an ebony-clad Romeo positioned stoically behind her like a shadow given human form. Somehow, she’d anticipated our arrival, her blue eyes bright with welcome beneath the club’s crimson and violet lighting that painted everything in shades of sin.
“Violet! So glad you made it. And early, too?” Her platinum hair was tied in two impossibly perfect pigtails adorned with trailing white ribbons that cascaded down her bare back, the silk whispering against her skin with each movement. “So nice to have young ones who understand professionalism.”
Her well-endowed breasts were barely contained by a simple white two-piece bikini that left little to the imagination, the triangles of fabric straining against curves that defied physics. Gold glitter covered every inch of exposed flesh—and there was considerable flesh exposed—catching the light with each breath, each shift of weight. She looked like sex personified, wrapped in innocence and dusted in precious metal.
“I thought you could not wear white after Labor Day?” Rowan’s voice rumbled behind me, apparently unbothered by Jules’s state of undress. His tone carried that particular dryness I was beginning to recognize as his version of humor.
Jules turned those vivid blue eyes on him, one perfectly sculpted brow arching. “Superstitious?”
“Not particularly, but most Southerners are.” He stepped closer, his presence a wall of heat at my back. “I am surprised you are not.”
Jules pursed glossy pink lips—the color of cotton candy, matching the scent that seemed to follow her everywhere—in contemplation. “This ain’t the mountains, honey. Although Appalachian folklore runs deep and rich about luck, death, and protection.”
“Folklore such as?” Rowan’s curiosity sharpened his voice, transforming casual conversation into interrogation.
“Oh, all kinds.” Jules’s smile widened, showing perfect white teeth. “Don’t whistle at night, don’t walk over graves, don’t speak of evil lest it come visit.”
“When you sayevil, do you mean supernaturals?”
A strange tension crystallized between them as we continued towards the bar, the air thickening with unspoken challenge. Jules smiled and patted Rowan’s arm with familiar ease, her fingers lingering against his forearm. “Don’t worry, honey. Those Appalachian superstitions are over a hundred miles away.”
His response came dry as bone. “Appalachia is not the only place with folklore.”
As we walked past the bar, Andy called out to us and interrupted Jules and Rowan’s back and forth. Jules waved us to the bar as she said, “Go on and pay him a visit. He'll be all pouty if you don’t go say hi and nobody likes a sad bartender.”
Jules headed backstage as we turned towards Andy. The genial bartender waved and shouted out, “Hello, friends! So glad to see you both again.” His dark-eyed gaze washed over me with open appreciation, noting I wore the same sleek black dress from my previous visit—simple, elegant, easy to move in, and easier to remove. “Back for more, eh?”
I smiled, genuinely pleased to see him. Something about Andy’s easy charm felt safe and unthreatening. “Couldn’t stand another day without seeing your face.”
He laughed, the sound rich and warm beneath the club’s throbbing bass. “Careful. Compliments get youeverywherearound here.”
“I’m counting on it,” I said with a smile.
