Page 8 of Coal Hearts

“I know it’s your birthday, Sam, but...I’ve given you a blowjob, so I think it’s only fair that you give me a divorce.”

Chapter Three

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Henri

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MY EARS RANG, COMPLETELY DROWNING out what the Master Jeweler was saying.

Blowjob?

Divorce?

Who the hell was this girl, and why did her voice pierce through all the other noise in this godforsaken club, somehow hijacking my rotten heart? That same fucking heart tripped over its pathetic self the moment I caught her eyes. I couldn’t tell what colour they were, but the disco ball above granted the illusion that they flickered with purples and blues.

I had a sudden urge to shove away all the people between me and the object of my dangerous fascination and demand to know who she was.

But that would be stupid.

Beyond fucking stupid.

And it wasn’t her that caused my chest to seize or my perfectly pressed pants to grow unnervingly tight.

It was this.

This assignment.

This task—given to me by my half-brother who’d had years learning how to tame his tendencies—only to throw me into those same tendencies without any boundaries.

Another droplet of sweat ran down my back.

If I couldn’t even handle standing here talking, how was I going to handle everything else?

“Ward?”

The Master Jeweler quirked a manicured dark blond eyebrow at me. Roland pressed his elbow into my side, ripping me back to the suave, despicable man currently watching me with questions in his knowing eyes. Ever so slowly, the Master Jeweler turned on the balls of his glossy shoes and peered at the girl who’d sent a bolt of sick electricity to my chest with a single glance.

Her hair hung heavy and straight, kissing her shoulders with an almost impossible shade of sapphire-black. It had to be fake. No one had hair like that.

I balled my hands as my gaze followed the Master Jeweler’s, both of us studying the sweep of her shoulder blades—visible beneath the flimsy strings of her navy top—following the strong line of her spine (with the hint of a tattoo) down to the swell of her ass, hidden beneath a gold-pink skirt.

My throat closed as my gaze drifted lower, drinking in the long expanse of tanned legs, snagging on silver ankle boots with savagely sharp heels.

With a low chuckle, the Master Jeweler turned to face me, nodding appreciatively. “This club attracts sparkling gems. It’s a great place to fill a jewelry box full of pretty things.” His flat blue gaze snapped to Roland. “Don’t you agree, Olivan?”

Roland gave him an oily smile. “Oh, definitely, bijoutier. I myself have been lucky enough to collect quite a few bijoux on my hunts here.”

My ears perked on the French words for jeweler and jewels.

I was fluent from birth—thanks to my mother being half-French.

“Pourquoi ne pouvons-nous pas parler franchement?” (Why can’t we speak plainly?) I crossed my arms, my voice bored and borderline disrespectful. I did my best to hold the stare of the Master Jeweler, but the girl down the bar let out a squeak as the man she was with grabbed her roughly around her biceps.

I stilled.

Everything inside me quietened, heightened, and salivated.