The house is quiet when I leave, lights dimmed, Mamère humming an old French lullaby under her breath.
The Corvette waits in the driveway—sleek, black, and hungry.
I slide behind the wheel and turn the ignition. The engine answers with a low purr, deep and guttural. A sound that makes your bones hum.
I ease onto the street, the city bleeding shadows and neon around me as I drive.
New Orleans at night is something feral and alive. It wears its sins with pride. Sweat, jazz and ghosts are on every corner.
My hand tightens on the wheel.
Laurette.
She’s branded into me now—the way she whispered for me, the way she wears that necklace with my initial nestled against her throat.
Her hunger… fuck, it mirrors my own. She’s not just willing. She’s waiting, open and starving.
And the photo she sent me?
Christ.
That photo was a siren call. A fucking surrender.
I shift gears, letting the Corvette growl through the turns. The road slips under me, fast and smooth. I picture her fingers tracing that little gold B, her lips parting.
“Mine,” I whisper.
Not a question. A fucking fact.
Soon, Babygirl.
Chapter 18
Laurette Devereux
Welcome home—wherethe napkins are folded and the questions are loaded.
The scent hits me the moment I step through the front door. Rosemary, garlic, and something buttery. Probably the mashed potatoes my mother insists taste better because they’re made with love, not shortcuts.
“Laurette!” she calls from the kitchen, apron dusted with flour. Her hair is pinned neatly, just as she always does when she cooks.
She pulls me into a hug that’s all softness and strength, then leans back with a narrowed gaze. “Who is this stranger in my house?”
Miss two family dinners and they act as if you’ve gone rogue.
“I’ve had a lot going on at work.”
She tsks. “You’ll always have a lot going on at work. It’s the nature of the beast, but you have to make time for family.”
“I know, Mama.”
She brushes my cheek with her thumb. “Your father’s asked me a dozen times when you’d get here. He’s eager to see you.”
“Why?” I ask, brow lifting.
She shrugs, turning back toward the stove. “Something case-related, I think. I’m not sure.”
I head toward the dining room, where the familiar chaos of Sunday lunch awaits. The table is already set. Napkins folded, silver polished, sweet tea sweating in tall glasses. My father is by the window, reading something on his phone, not taking part in the conversation. Typical. His black button-down is crisp, sleeves rolled up, a judge even on his day off.
