“Mhm. Big black beauty named Jezebel. Sweet as pie.”
My lashes narrow on my twin. “Have you stalked Poppy before?”
“No.” He snorts, lapping at the cream Kilimanjaro piled atop his caramel latte. “I stalked her best friend, Remiel Hale.”
I rub a sudden ache in my temple. “Fuck’s sake, Dantë.”
“Listen,shestalkedmefirst. Besides, I only did it a few times, and it was more like recon anyway. She’s—”
“—Halestorm. Just as painfully obvious as you with LuciImHome.”
He tilts his head back against his chair and sighs up at the wisteria weeping from the rafters. “You seriously need to get laid.”
I roll my eyes, returning my attention to the book with a list of content warnings longer than a restaurant menu. Among them, a personal note from the author apologizing for ruining ice cream.Impossible.
Dantë kicks me under the table. “There she is.”
My focus snaps up, panning through the bookcases and spying a group of dangerously beautiful people strolling through the café. Dantë leans close and rattles off details of each one in order of appearance: Castor, the chop shop operator; Fiona, the loan shark; Remiel, the freelancing hacker.
If I wasn’t convinced of my brother’s claim before, I certainly am now. They’reallcriminals.
Then I seeher.
For a single moment, the planet stops spinning.
She’s a blue-eyed samurai living in the age of leather and crop tops. Her combat boots boost her a few inches past five-foot-five.Her sleek, pastel pink locks frame knuckle-breaking cheekbones, a sophisticated nose, heart-shaped lips, and upswept baby blues winged at the corners. In another life, she’d be painted in the Palace of Versailles, alongside panoramic frescoes depicting winged angels flying through the gilded clouds of heaven.
Easily.She is easily the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen.
“Poppy Morgenstern, daughter of Alexander Morgenstern,” Dantë murmurs with a hint of misplaced admiration. “Assassin and princess of Salem’s underworld.”
Murderer and monarch; a deadly combination.
My heart jolts as if struck by the kickback of a gun the moment I look into those knife-bright eyes edged by a fringe pointing straight down to hell.
No, she’snota woman. She’s a devil.
Beside her is Miss Murder Mittens herself.
Jezebel spots Dantë and I as the group closes in on their corner. Long tail flicking, the big cat slinks over to us and peers up at me. Her irises are such a silvery azure, the sable slits are as depthless as oceanic trenches. Not once does she blink.
Dantë kicks me again. “Think she’s imagining you with a giant apple in your mouth?”
“Piss off, Ghostface.”
“With gravy drizzled all over your—” My glare shuts him up.
Then Jezebel pounces.
Gasps stream somewhere behind the wall of compact muscle and black fur tackling me. I’m convinced I’m a dead man. That is, until a barbed tongue tickles my face.
“Jezebel Lilith Morgenstern!” Poppy grabs the panther’s scruff, hauling her off with impressive strength and passing her to a startled Remiel. As soon as I can breathe again, Poppy wrings her hands, looking utterly distraught. “I’m so sorry. Did she hurt you? Are you in any pain?”
What strange things for a murderer to ask.
I slip on an easy smile. “Not at all. She attacked with tongue, not teeth.”
“Thank the stars.” Angels above, her rasp is as heady as smoke. She waves off her comrades and rifles through her pockets, pulling out a wad of cash and sliding multiple big bills under my forgotten book. “This should cover everything you and your friend ordered tonight.”
