“What?” he asks, suspicion in his voice.
I hold up the invitation. “The King and I have been invited to a Royal Ascension.”
“Okay…”
“Which means that I’m going to need a new dress.”
Damon looks between us, then back at me. “Why do I feel like this means shopping?”
I tilt my head and smile. “Because it does.”
He drags a hand through his wet hair, already resigned. “Well, fuck.”
“And I know exactly where I want to go.”
Damon parksalong the street in West End, the car settling into the curb with a low idle. The buildings feel closer here–older and more narrow than the other parts of town, especially compared to the woods surrounding the House of Night. Across the street, Royal Ink’s sign hums faintly. The windows are dark this early, the shop hours are later in the day.
“Do we really need to come all the way to West End to find a dress?” Damon asks, glancing at the storefronts. “There’s a perfectly good mall in Northridge.”
“Yes,” I say easily. “The King chose this designer for my wedding dress.”
That gets his attention. He looks at me then, one brow lifting. Approval matters to him, even when he pretends it doesn’t.
He tugs on the line of piercings in his ear but says, “Fair enough.”
I don’t tell him that a small, secret part of me hopes supporting a West End designer might buy me some goodwill. That maybe it willsoften the way the other Royal women look at me. I don’t know why their approval feels important. It just does. Maybe I’m tired of being the outsider. Maybe I’m tired of feeling alone.
The street is quiet when we get out, and the few specialty shops that line the block are still closed or in the process of opening. The little sign in the boutique window is flipped to open, and Damon steps forward, opening the door to Jaded Society.
A low, pulsing beat comes from the speakers. The shop is long and narrow, the racks arranged with intention instead of symmetry–new pieces woven seamlessly with vintage. Lace brushes leather. Silk hangs beside denim. It feels curated, almost like a museum.
We’re halfway down the center aisle when the woman behind the counter looks up. She’s tall, with shoulder-length blue-black hair framing her face. Quarter-sized gauges stretch her ears. Tattoos climb her arms and disappear beneath black fabric, piercings catching the light when she moves.
Her eyes flick to Damon.
An amused smile spreads across her face.
“Well, I’ll be fucked,” she says. “Didn’t expect to see you in my shop, Damon Kemp.”
“Jade.” Damon’s eyebrow lifts. “You and me both.”
I blink, my gaze snapping between them. They know each other. He didn’t tell me that.
Her smile widens, amused. “Didn’t think I’d see you again after that party off campus. Right after you got out.”
Damon snorts. “You mean the one where you handed me needles and begged me for that septum piercing?”
She laughs. “You gave me half these piercings, Kemp. I figured if you were gonna get your skills back to level, you might as well practice on someone who didn’t flinch.”
I stare at him. “You gave her piercings?”
The thought of Damon giving another woman piercings feels… wrong.
“At a party,” he says casually. “And then later at my mom’s place in the Stacks.”
“Glad I did,” Jade adds. “You’ve got a steady hand.”
He looks at me and seems to notice the surprise on my face, and adds quickly, “Jade is originally from East End. We’ve known one another for a long time.”
