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Then I think of being back in the estate right now, enduring whatever nightly hellish thing it has in store for me, and I snuggle into my seat, letting my mind let go of future things I can no longer control or avoid.

21

ILLUSION OF SAFETY

ELIAS

The club is everything I remember it being from my younger years, when Kyrin, Lucien, and I were more carefree. When we could be.

Blue and purple lights swirl overhead, and the beat of the music thumps through the room, its vibrations reverberating through the floor and my body.

Leaning against the table in the VIP area Lucien set up, I tip my drink back, watching Sera and Aria dance.

We’re three hours and a few drinks in, and Sera’s taken full advantage of her newfound safety with me, which I can’t deny has foolish pride filling my chest, battling with the bass that is going to change the rhythm of my heart.

The song changes, and Sera alters the swaying of her hips, tossing her arms over her head, her sultry, intoxicated gaze shifting toward me over Aria’s shoulder.

Fuck, she’s pretty.

She doesn’t know it, either, which only intensifies her allure.

I grin, tipping my head to her as a greeting.

She knows we want her now; I don’t have to keep a lid on how I feel, but I do have to keep a lid on who I am.

She knows… somewhat, how I fuck and who I become in the dark with the door closed, but she doesn’t know the half of it.

She won’t until she’s the one kneeling at my feet.

The flash of her image doing just that, her pretty brown eyes looking up at me, her pouty lips swollen from my dick pressing in and out… In and out…

Shit, I gotta get some fresh air.

I turn away from her gaze, leaning over the table right as the waitress comes to collect our empty glasses.

“Refills?” she asks.

Arm lifted, I look at my watch—one a.m. “One more round,” I tell her, and she nods.

A hand skims down my back, and I grow rigid.

One hand on the table, I turn toward Sera, whose wild eyes and sweat-slicked forehead only further the madness curling in my veins.

“Come dance with me,” she whines.

“Petit corbeau, you don’t want me to dance with you right now.”

“Why not?” Her hand hasn’t left my back, and heat radiates off it, sinking into my skin like a spreading sickness.

Leaning over, I skim my lips over her ear. “Trust me.”

“How am I to trust you, when you won’t tell me why you won’t dance with me?”

“Last round,” the waitress coos, handing us both our glasses.

Aria comes to claim hers, and I tell the waitress to close our tab.

If the weather when we walked in was any indicator, we need to get going sooner rather than later.