“Is your mother on your mind because you feel the need to save yourself and your family from Zara or because something inside you wants to save her?”
The knob is cool in my hand, but sweat lines my palm. There’s no sense in lying to him. He already knows.
I peer over my shoulder at him. “Both.”
“Valid,” he sighs. He doesn’t trust her, but he doesn’t hate her.
That makes two of us. And when I stride into the reception area outside my office, that notion is amplified into a sonic boom.
Zara is wearing a dynamic espresso cashmere dress. It’s professional but hugs every damn curve. Her mahogany hair flows down her back, the ends bouncing with loose, silky curls. And her five-nine height, with about two added inches from her boots, has her taller than most of the women and half of the men breezing through the space.
I can smell her cyanide-cherry scent from here.
She’s regal. And deadly.
Not simply because her beauty knocks the breath out of me. But because she’s huddled against the wall, blathering and laughing with my favorite executive, like you would with a longtime friend.
That harmonic joy could rival a ringing bell of freedom, but the sight has me in a straitjacket of rage.
Sensing me, she angles her head, bites back a coy grin, and plants those gorgeous greens on me. “Good morning, Mr. Noire.”
Her greeting skates over me like warmed oil, unknotting the tightness in my clenched muscles. But I resist it. Because it’s not just any executive that she’s chatting with. It’s my sister-in-law, Mercy, who appears to be welcoming Zara into the fold with open arms and a broad smile.
Maybe I needed to see this—her snaking her way into my inner circle. Because I am suddenly aware that the electricity I’ve felt zapping between us is merely a warning sign. This will be explosive and end in carnage, but unlike the last time I absolved a predator with flames, I’ll be damn certain that no one I love gets burned.
AXEL
Choosing not to respond to Zara’s greeting immediately, I bend over the receptionist’s desk and instruct her to cancel my calls and meetings for the rest of the day. By the time I reach Mercy and Zara, they’re in a pleasant conversation again.
“Straddling the line between both worlds is a lot of fun. Tessa and I will take you down there for a drink this week.” Mercy tucks a tendril of her blonde hair behind her ear, bright and animated as she invites our new hire to the Underground.
Since she mentioned both worlds, it’s clear she’d introduced herself as Ryker’s wife—a Noire queen. She likely revealed that Tessa was Maddox’s wife as well. It’s not information that is hard to obtain. It’s common knowledge among our members and employees, but it drives home the gravity of the situation.
“I’d love that so much.” Zara softly touches Mercy’s forearm in appreciation, forming a nonchalant physical bond. “My schedule is wide open right now, so name the day, and I’ll be there.”
“Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but I do have a pressing matter I need to attend to, and then I’d like to take Zara to lunch to discuss expectations, so I need to steal her now.”
Mercy side-eyes me. She’s known me since I was nineteen and she was fifteen, so she’s aware of how I handle things. Taking Zara to lunch is uncharacteristic. She might also sense how thick the air is between us. Another novelty.
But like a good friend, she steps aside with a squeeze on my bicep. “I’ll let you two get to it then. It was lovely to meet you, Zara. Have a wonderful first day.” She peers up at me with a half-moon grin and a gleam of mischief. “You’re in the best hands with Axel. There is no one better to introduce you to all things La Lune Noire.”
“Thanks,sis,” I deadpan, to which she giggles on her way out.
Zara bids her goodbye and keeps pace with me as I rush from the office complex down to security, where I leave her on a bench in the hallway so I can speak with Kane—my head of security—about specific instructions for the remainder of the day. He makes a few phone calls to determine the feasibility of my demand while I wait impatiently. Once he gives me the go-ahead, I return to Zara.
“Time for lunch,” is all I say when I enter the hallway, but she is unfazed by my flinty demeanor.
She joins me again, staying in step, until we enter my private garage—full of numerous priceless cars, motorcycles, toys, and trucks. It’s there that she halts.
“Where are we going?”
“To the city,” I reply, headed for the area in which the limo is idling. Not dealing with parking is preferable for this outing.
“For lunch? Don’t you have several restaurants here?”
I twist to find her frozen, hesitant for the first time since I met her. “Yes, but as you can imagine, I’ve eaten everything offered more times than I can count. And I assume you haven’tseen Bourbon Street, Jackson Square, the French Quarter, or Riverwalk.” When I track the subtle crease of conflict between her eyes, I call her on it. “Are you nervous about going to lunch with me, Miss West?”
She’s astute enough to know that changing her location could be a setup, but I just hired her, so she’s torn.
