“Oh, they usually can’t.” She peers at me, her mouth twitching with pride. “Vander is a member, so Axel approved me.”
“Well, I’m glad Axel cleared things up.”
“He did,” she says just as a lady emerges from the exclusive room and joins us.
Navigating a world where nothing is what it seems means I refuse to jump to conclusions about this, but without being able to talk to Axel alone, the torment is branded on me, searing my flesh with anxiety and embarrassment. And suddenly, this dress shop is a thousand degrees.
Leaning toward her, I return Amy’s access card under the guise of rubbing her back. “Would you please send those to my suite?”
I’m out before she finishes saying, “Of course.”
I hardly slept last night. I am crushed, brokenhearted, emptier than I thought I could be.
I’ve grieved plenty in my life. I’ve held death closer than anyone should. I’ve mourned the loss of childhood daydreams and accepted realities that made my bones ache. I’ve learned to walk that fine line between depression and resilience, self-loathing and ambition. And, yes, I raged when I realized I’d been conned into becoming an assassin by a person I thought cared for me, even though I had always known I’d be great. But despitebeing romantically involved with the asshole, the loss of a lover’s touch from Keller wasn’t the betrayal that took center stage. It was disappointment in myself.
It’s always been that way—my relentless mission to be formidable enough that nothing can break me has never been upended by grief or lust or heart-hammering hopes.
But now?
Maybe it’s a means of survival, but I’m confident there is another explanation for Axel’s presence at Magie Noire. The man I was with on Friday night—the man who held me and made me drink water and strung his fingers through my hair, who swore he couldn’t regret me—did not leave me to go have sex with another woman. I won’t condemn him before I know, but that requires me to corner him.
Of course, I have that other matter of keeping myself alive to attend to, so I spend my morning implementing that plan first. And just as I’m finishing up, I get a text.
Mercy: Have you sulked enough?
Me: What would I have to sulk about?
Mercy: What indeed?
Mercy: Come to the tattoo boutique. Tessa and I need to chat with you, and you’ve been scarce all week.
Me: On my way.
I had such a great time with them on Friday night, but it didn’t occur to me that they’d feel like I was avoiding them.
As I round the corner, Ryker approaches me. “The girls are going to invite you to join them tonight, and you will,” he says.
His brusqueness doesn’t surprise me. There’s an intensity that rolls off him—different from Axel’s. It was present even during family game night, though he was a tad sweeter then. And positively chivalrous with how he doted on his wife and son. Still, the lack of a friendly greeting isn’t shocking, but the order is.
Mercy and Tessa were part of the cover story Axel cooked up, so Ryker is obviously in on it, too, which is why I feel comfortable replying, “I was told to stay aw—”
“He won’t be there, but you will be.” He scans the hallway, probably cataloging who is witnessing this—there are several passersby, but no one that stands out as notable—and then he peers down at me, a glint of compassion seeping into his icy eyes. “Say it.”
For a beat, I wonder what his motive is—what all the Noires’ motives are concerning me. Yes, they’re in the habit of harboring those who might otherwise be at odds with the underworld. I’m not unique in that regard, aside from the potential for my mission to involve taking them down in some capacity. But regardless, this shielding that goes the extra mile is perplexing, and it fucks with my head. And my heart.
Maybe that’s the objective.
But the notion of another evening of warmth is too hard to resist. Not that I’m in a position to refuse much at this point.
“I’ll be there,” I vow, and he dips his chin, squeezes my forearm, and swaggers off.
When I arrive at the tattoo shop, I hover at the entrance near Tessa’s station. She’s seated, and Jax is leaning lazily on the desk, sketching over a printed-out design for her.
“That’s it. You’re ready,” he insists.
“He’s not going to be happy,” she argues. “He’s used to you. He’s had this appointment for months—”
“Which is why … he and I both agree … giving you a shot is worth it. Trust yourself.” He stalls, but the pause seems more of an assessing one rather than the delay he utilizes to gather his thoughts. “Even if you fuck it up, it’s on his calf. He can live with it until I get back.”
