Without missing a beat, he knows I’m talking about roulette because of the game on his watch. “The house edge is roughly five percent.”
“And for the player?” I press as Beck untangles our arms and glides his hand over my lower back.
“It varies with the type of wager, but strictly speaking of chance, in the American version, it’s one in thirty-eight, so less than three percent.” Axel swaggers past us, halting in the threshold while Beck continues to hold the door. “You have odds you prefer?”
“Well, the house edge sounds better,” I quip, wondering if this is his way of telling me he knows who I am or if it’s simply a reminder that I’m on his turf.
And while I don’t think he intends to kill me at the moment, I’ve never wanted to keep my mission hidden more. Because I want to stay. I want to prove that I can master this job too. And I certainly wouldn’t mind the bonus of another encounter with this formidable man who spars at my speed and speaks in riddles.
He takes chances but is shrewd within the risk.
“Of course it does, Zara. The house always wins.” He inches closer, his chin angled down so we’re face-to-face, blatantly ignoring my date. “But to your other point, we can’t believe everything we hear.”
He smells like that crisp scent of cold that conquers the air, dividing fall and winter. There’s not really a name for it, but it’s unmistakable when the pumpkin and coffee and cozy campfire stories linger and the threat of a season swallowing it lurks on the whipping wind.
“We should be going, Zara,” Beck urges, ushering me past the roulette expert and back into the restaurant, either because he’s irritated or concerned. “Always a pleasure, Axel.”
“Happy to have you back, Beck.”
That exchange is anything but friendly on the Noire king’s end. I was told these two didn’t have bad blood between them, so I’m not sure what’s happening here. I can spin it to my favor, but it’s inconvenient if the person who is meant to be my ticket inside is a man the owner is zealous to kick out.
When we’re about ten feet away, I twist toward Axel. “Not believing everythingis vague. How much would you suggest?”
His smile cuts through his dark scruff, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the flecks of salt in his hair glinting with his amusement. “You could go with fifty-fifty.” He cocks one menacing brow. “But I’d suggest the truth.”
“Spoken like a poet. It will set me free, right?”
“I’m afraid you came to the wrong place for freedom, Miss West.” With that, he leisurely strolls away, with his kingdom’s adoration falling at his feet.
“Welcome to La Lune Noire,” he croons over his shoulder.
And the entire restaurant raises their glasses like an army of minions, shouting in unison, “Drink and conspire!”
Every eye tracks his path. Every woman gapes longingly. Every man envies. Even Beck beside me, a millionaire who wants for nothing, grumbles at the utter disrespect he was shown, but it’s tethered by awe.
Axel Noire is more than I anticipated. I deal with cocky and corrupt men all the time, but based on his role, he’s a level above them all, so I expected him to be unapproachable. I thought if he was curious about who I was or suspicious because Bernard had tipped him off to something that he’d study me from a distance or prove to be like his late father with heinous hostility. But he’s so confident in his power, in his house edge, and inhis kingdom’s reverence for him that he sought me out in the restroom to, what, prove that he owned every nook and cranny of this resort? That there was nowhere to hide? That he wouldn’t be concerned even if I were here for revenge because he has an army of sycophants?
Touché.
This is the first time I’ve ever questioned whether I’m the one being conned during a mission.
AXEL
That’s how you make a fucking point. I will not cower in my own establishment. If she wants to execute me here, she’ll need to accept her own mortality to do it. She’s not facing a man. She’s up against an empire.
And yet, even with my awe-inspiring exit, I fear I’m the one being reeled in. Zara definitely-not West was gorgeous on the security footage, but devastating in person. She is a perplexing mix of mettle, despondency, refinement, and wit. But it’s hard to get hung up on anything other than her intoxicating vanilla-and-cherry-blossoms fragrance. Parts of the cherry blossom tree can convert to cyanide in the body. Maybe my subconscious is drilling a truth into me.
Zara reeks of beautiful poison, and I’m the fool who wants another whiff.
But I won’t indulge, not without an antidote on me.
Before I’m even out of Soirée Italienne, my phone buzzes, and as expected, per their flawless timing, it is one of the family text threads. This one has all the on-property Noires on it. That amounts to everyone except my sister and her husband, whichincludes my younger brothers, Ryker, Maddox, Cash, and Jax; Ryker’s wife, Mercy; and Maddox’s wife, Tessa.
Based on the first message, I’m prepared for razzing.
Maddox: Who remembers that lecture that Papa Axe gave us about being late? He delivered it at least once a week for about a decade. It included five or so fucking proverb-ish sayings to get it through our heads that it was disrespectful to be tardy. Name those sayings.
Jax: Ooh, I’ve got one. Timeliness is next to holiness.
