Her chin lifts slightly at the mention of her father—pride, maybe, or determination. She takes the guitar from the woman with steady hands.
“One song,” she agrees. “But don’t blame me if I scandalize your dinner party.”
“I’m counting on it,” I say, following her toward the stage area.
The band members nod respectfully as Saylor positions herself in their center, quickly conferring about key and tempo. I find myself a spot near the edge of the crowd where I can watch her face, where I can catalog every look that crosses her features as she prepares to sing.
When the opening notes ring out—a haunting bass line that seems to rise from the earth itself—the entire room goes silent. The violin joins next, weaving a melody that sounds like mourning and celebration wrapped together. Then the banjo and mandolin create a complex harmony that transforms the ballroom into something haunting and wild.
But it’s when Saylor opens her mouth that the world stops.
Her voice pours out rich and dark as aged whiskey, carrying notes that seem to bypass the ears and sink directly into bone and bloodstream. She’s chosen something that sounds like a traditional folk ballad but with lyrics that speak of love and loss and the beautiful violence that connects them. The melody rises and falls like breath, like heartbeat, like the rhythm of skin against skin in the darkness.
She moves as she sings, her body swaying with the music in ways that make my blood run hot and my hands clench into fists. The copper silk dances and flows around her curves, and the way the candlelight catches her face makes her look like some goddess of war and desire. Her eyes are closed, her head tilted back, completely lost in the music she’s creating.
My throat goes dry watching her. Every movement, every note, every breath she takes seems designed to unravel what’s left of my self-control.
When she reaches the chorus—something about drinking from the cup of vengeance and finding it sweeter than wine—her voice takes on an edge that makes every person in the room lean forward. There’s something primal in the sound, something that speaks to the part of humanity that remembers when survival meant being willing to kill or be killed.
The song builds to a crescendo that seems to shake the walls themselves, Saylor’s voice soaring over the instruments with power that makes my cock throb harder. God help me, it does.
She’s not just singing. She’s casting a spell, weaving magic that transforms the ballroom into something wild and raw and impossible to resist.
When the final notes fade away, there’s silence for several heartbeats before applause erupts that sounds more like worship than appreciation. But I’m not clapping. I’m staring at the woman on the stage who just proved that everything I suspected about her darkness was true.
Saylor opens her eyes and finds mine across the crowd, and the smile that curves her lips is pure sin. She knows exactly what she just did to me, exactly how completely she just destroyed any remaining boundaries between us.
She hands the guitar back to the woman and makes her way through the crowd toward me, accepting congratulations and compliments with gracious smiles that don’t quite hide the satisfaction in her eyes.
When she reaches me, she rises up on her toes to speak directly into my ear, her breath warm against my skin.
“How was that for scandalizing your dinner party?”
“Perfect,” I manage. “Although I think you just made every person in this room want to ravage you.”
“Every person?” She pulls back to look at me directly, her dark eyes dancing with something wolfish. “Or are you talking about someone specific who’s been undressing me with his eyes all night?”
The question hangs between us like a challenge, and we’ve definitely crossed some invisible line tonight.
And as she stands there waiting for my answer, her lips curved in that knowing smile while a dead man serves as our witness, there’s no going back from this moment.
“Just one,” I admit quietly. “And it’s not just because of your singing.”
Her smile widens, and for the first time since Peter died, I allow myself to imagine what it might be like to have something worth protecting that isn’t just duty or obligation or guilt.
Something worth killing for. Something worth dying for.
Something worth burning the whole fucking world down for, if that’s what it takes to keep her looking at me like I’m salvation and damnation wrapped in the same beautiful package.
Chapter Nineteen
Blue
“God, I’m exhausted,” she says suddenly, pressing her fingertips to her temples. “It’s like this day has lasted about three years. I hate to leave the party, but I think I need to call it a night.”
The admission reminds me that less than twenty-four hours ago, she was being hunted by the Crow and getting chloroformed into a trunk. Today she met an entire town, accepted my promise to deliver her father’s killers, and just seduced a room full of strangers with her voice. No wonder she’s running on fumes.
“Come on,” I say, offering my arm. “I’ll walk you up.”
