3. Imogen

3

IMOGEN

T he night is ripe with mischief.

Waves of heady arousal and glittering joy crash over me as I step into the Den, which means there's just enough debauchery going on in my bar.

I stroll between champagne towers and giggling patrons, shooting soft smiles at those who turn my way. When one of the servers passes me, balancing a platter of fresh drinks on one shoulder, they nod. It's a silent signal for me to follow.

Pivoting in their direction, my heels click on the black-and-white tiled floor. Our band's crooning saxophone and plucky piano fade to the background as she leads me to the back corner, far away from the active bar and dance floor. Here, in the corner, warmly lit by a bronzed overhead sconce, three gentlemen sit in a booth. With their sharp black suits and leering smiles, I immediately clock them as Royals—distant cousins and courtiers of the king.

Unseelie Royals always have this air about them. Even fae without magic like my own can sense the way they exude a specific brand of unearned confidence. They think because they're related to Silas that they run this city. They think because they don't belong to a House that they sit above the Houses.

But their food is grown on Gluttony's fields, their money is held in Greed's banks, and their guns, cars, and shiny human oddities come from Pride's supply chain. They're watched over by Wrath's soldiers, and they're housed in the flats Sloth builds. They enjoy entertainment provided by Envy, and their secrets are kept by my House.

Sure, Silas is the king and the most powerful fae on this side of Faerie. And he may keep the Seelie out with the shadow veil he erected fifty years ago. But they're delusional if they really think they have more power than the Sins.

Still, appearances must be upheld.

"Gentlemen," I say. "How are we tonight?"

The server deposits their drinks and doesn't linger, leaving me with the three men.

"Lust," one purrs, his yeasty beer-breath wafting across the table. "You are ravishing tonight. But that's expected."

My magic balks at the slimy smugness radiating from him. He genuinely thinks he's being charming. His leering is anything but.

"I heard you were hosting a celebration tonight for a certain special guest, yet they haven't made an appearance," another pouts.

My lips stretch into a tight smile.

"You know how Pride is. She's a busy woman," I say.

"She's been Pride for a year and hasn't attended any of our functions," the third Royal chimes in over a sip of his cocktail. "Rude, if you ask me."

"They say she's a real femme fatale," the first slurs. "I want to judge for myself."

"You two are close, right, Lust? Can't ya' help a guy out?" The second smirks.

It's not as if Nora would give these men the time of day, but the thought of their slimy gazes gliding over her makes my jaw tick.

I dig deeper into my magic as I lean forward, placing both hands on the wooden table, and infuse compliance into my speech.

"You know I don't do favors for free ."

My magic slides over them with ease, a hazy sheen of intrigue glazing over their irises.

"Tell me, boys, what are you most afraid of?"

"Spiders—I absolutely can't stand them."

"Of losing myself to the hysteria of the Fading."

"That I'll die alone."

Not all empaths have the strength to use compulsion; it's not as subtle as reading or manipulating emotions, but it has its uses. Secrets are an often overlooked and underutilized currency. House Lust has collected them for ages, though I have yet to cash any of them out since taking over four years ago.

Still, I can't help but play with these three a bit. Nora must be rubbing off on me.

I break the hold my magic has on them; the effect is instant, the three men shaking away the haze with awkward chuckles.

"I can't believe I told you that," one says with red-laden cheeks.

"You and your party tricks, Lust," another chuckles, scratching at the stubble on his chin, but his laugh doesn't quite reach his eyes. "We should've known better than to ask."

"Yes, you should have." I smile.

It's a fake, plastic grin, but they can't tell the difference, so their tense shoulders fall, and their embarrassment fades.

"Pride actually called earlier," I say, biting my bottom lip as if I'm fighting with the decision to tell them. Their eyes light with excitement. "They moved the celebration to Gallagher's. It's less of a trek to Envy's clubs from there. If you leave soon, you might be able to catch her on the way out."

Smiles shine all around.

"I'm gonna put in a good word for you with Silas," one says, rapping his knuckles on the tables.

"You're sweet." I'm going to vomit. "I'll see you gentlemen next time, yeah?"

I wink and turn on my heel, hearing their glasses slam to the table and the squeak of their suits against the leather booth as I walk away. It's not until I'm through the throngs of patrons and at the edge of the dance floor that I let out a snort.

Idiots .

Something inside me preens at having sent them on some wild-goose chase. Meanwhile I wait, secure in knowing Nora is not at our other bar, nor will she be at any point tonight.

No, she's coming here—to me .

Bouncing on my toes, I stand watch in the space between dancing fae and the u-shaped bar at my back.

The lights are dim in this half of the bar; chandeliers dangle from the vaulted ceiling at different heights, setting the room aglow with warm amber. It's bright enough to see the person in front of you, but dark enough to let you enjoy a spark of anonymity. With the band plucking a rousing beat from the raised stage, the dance floor is a sea of sparkling sequins and fluttering tassels, roaming hands, and sweaty bodies.

The energy of it all is overwhelming in the best way.

I give people a place to be free, and my body tingles from the high of my magic. It urges me to join in the revelry, to get lost in it.

The lead singer croons into the microphone, red-stained lips nearly kissing the metal. Cream feathers frame her body, her wings out and on display for everyone to see. Most fae keep them tucked away—my own included. There isn't much need for them anymore. With trains coming to Faerie over a hundred years ago and automobiles now more common than not, wings aren't practical for our modern world.

But that's opened the door for them to become something more , transforming from a practical piece of ourselves to something sensual and intimate.

Why have them out nowadays if not to impress, seduce, or intimidate?

The singer onstage somehow does all three, the feathers ruffling against her bejeweled green dress, not unlike my own with its high square neck, low draped back, and swishy skirt. Though the one I wear is a simple silk—I wanted something a bit lighter than beading and fringe tonight.

"Had fun with the Royal pricks?" a deep voice calls.

I spin, spotting Leo, my Second, behind the carved wood bar. His coarse curls sit perfectly coiffed atop his head, only a few shades darker than his brown skin.

I roll my eyes as I slip onto one of the unoccupied leather stools. It squeaks as I swivel towards Leo, and I make note to fix that later.

"You saw that?" I say.

"I see everything, Mo."

Leo smiles, revealing the cute little gap between his two front teeth. He signals to one of the bartenders, then points to me, silently ordering my usual.

"More like you love to stick your nose in everyone's business." I snort.

"You've got me there," he says. "Though I'm not eager to stick my nose near them ."

I click my tongue. "Better start preparing yourself now, Leo, because dealing with all of those idiots is your future."

His wide nose scrunches. "Not unless you plan on dying anytime soon. I'd like to see you live a long and healthy life, please and thank you."

A twinge of something that's not quite guilt pinches my stomach. It's not that the idea of spending the rest of my life as head of House Lust is unappealing… it just wasn't the original plan.

My chest tightens. Taking over the business side for my family was never the problem. It's the rest of it. The position of Lust was supposed to be my brother's, not mine.

I bat the somber thoughts away.

"It amazes me how they can still think Nora and I are close friends . I'm 90 percent positive they've seen us kissing in this bar," I say.

"I mean, you are technically close friends." Leo crosses his arms as he leans his elbows on the bar, muscles flexing underneath the rolled sleeves of his button-down. His lips twitch as he tries to hold back his smirk. "Maybe their definition of friendship includes orgasms."

"Then I'd love to see what their friendship looks like after a few drinks," I say, sarcasm dripping off each word.

Leo laughs, but it quickly fades to the background as my senses home in on her .

She's a beacon to my magic. Her emotions are silent compared to the patrons who are feeling so loudly . She's a black hole in a sky of stars. It's not quite a nothingness, but an absence of emotion caused by her mental shields being fastened tight.

There are no cracks in her defenses. No lock to pick. Just a door welded shut.

Gods, I want to break down that door.

The crowd parts for her like she's a god, both feared and desired.

It's not only the threat of who she is—a soul-stealer, whose magic can kill with a touch—that sets fae on edge. It's the sharp cut of her cheeks, the cold glint in her eyes, and the night-black hair set in perfect waves to her collarbone that merge together to create something more .

Beauty and brutality. Pleasure and danger. She's a study in dichotomies.

I'm so unbelievably fucked.

Leo snaps in front of my face; the apples of my cheeks flush with heat.

"Drinks are ready," he says, pushing a glass of white wine forward from a line of four drinks.

One for each of us—me, Leo, Josie, and Nora. The bartenders know our orders by heart.

I down a few gulps, the fruity fragrance filling my nose as the cool liquid slides down my throat. I shoot Leo a glare over the rim, daring him to comment at my rapid consumption. He doesn't, but there's that devious spark cloying at the edges of his brown eyes.

Leo's attention flicks over my right shoulder. A second later, there's warmth at my back. Lithe arms draped in billowing white silk reach around me. One gloved hand grips the bar to my left and the other grabs the crystal glass of whiskey on my right.

"Lust."

Nora's hot breath tickles my ear. Gooseflesh spreads on my skin like wildfire on a drought-ridden land. The flush consumes my cheeks and neck.

"Pride," I say, tilting my head towards hers.

We're so close our lips could touch.

But neither of us leans forward, both of us relishing in the tension that lives in the space between our bodies. We stay suspended in this moment, the rest of the world a blur of color and static sound around us.

"How are you?" she asks, voice thick as honey.

"Can't complain now that you're here," I whisper. "Happy one year, by the way."

Nora steps back, smirking over her glass. The loss of her warmth feels like a punishment, but she knows that. This is how it is between us: a push and pull.

She hums, reaching forward with her free hand to finger the end of my hair. She wraps a blond strand around one finger, twirling the golden wave so that it gives a delicious tug at my scalp—not enough to hurt, but enough to tease.

"You wore your hair long."

I shrug. "Didn't feel like curling and pinning it short today."

"I like it."

"I'm also doing fine. Thank you for asking, Nora," Leo interjects.

My cheeks somehow get hotter as the bubble around the two of us pops. But Nora laughs, leaning over the bar on both forearms to match my Second in a standoff that's all too familiar.

Leo isn't angry; this is just how they are.

"Hi, Leo," Nora drawls.

"I fucking hate parallel parking. Especially now that every Tom, Dick, and Harry has a car. Next time, you're driving, Nor." Josie sidles up to the bar, to the right of Nora.

"I told you we should have come with Hattie and the boys," Nora mutters into her drink.

"Yeah, but then I can't leave whenever I want." Josie pauses and leans around Nora to shoot me a dimpled grin. "Hey, Mo." Then, her attention shoots to Leo, her brows knitting together. "Why are you behind the bar?"

Her fingers tap on the bar with nervous energy.

Josie's always like this, fidgety around so many people. Some empaths love it, the rush of emotion from crowds—others get overwhelmed. Josie is the latter.

She's a different kind of empath. One that doesn't just sense emotions, but can hear thoughts too.

"Don't worry, I was just helping out during the big rush. I can still be your wingman on the dance floor," Leo teases.

He hops over the bar with ease, peacocking his strength for the patrons around us, but nearly knocks over our drinks in the process.

How many times have I told him not to do that?

"Thank goodness." Josie snatches her cocktail off the counter, taking a sip and humming when she finds it satisfactory. She jabs a thumb at Nora and me. "These two are no help."

"Hey, I used to be an excellent wingwoman," Nora says.

" Sure . But then you two started fucking, and now your poor Seconds are nothing but chopped liver," Leo says.

Bold, Leo. Bold.

Nora shoots him a glare that could shatter glass, but Leo throws his arm around Josie, unaffected. "C'mon, Josie, let's leave before they start pawing at each other."

Josie snorts, waving goodbye as Leo guides her to a booth across the bar where the other members of House Pride gather. Only the ones closest to Nora and Josie were invited, so it's an intimate affair.

Nora sets her glass down on the bar top and turns. She leans back and perches her elbows on the lipped edge. Digging into the pocket of her wide-leg trousers, she pulls out a cigarette and a silver lighter. I'm entranced, watching her mouth circle the bud of the cigarette. She holds it there, hands-free, while she clicks the lighter on. The flame flickers as the tobacco burns, smoke curling around her teeth.

I never enjoyed the bitter tang of smoke until I tasted it on her.

She pulls the cigarette back between two fingers, a red stain is left in the wake of her lips. And when her eyes meet mine, I quickly fall into their depths, an anchor plummeting into the emerald sea. Nora gives me the tiniest smirk—the kind that screams of knowing someone, that speaks to a secret that's just ours.

She touches me with her gaze; I never thought a look could be tangible before.

"Did everything go okay tonight?" I ask.

She huffs, smoke unfurling from her nose like a dragon.

"It's been handled."

Annoyance pricks at my skin at how I can't tell if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

"Another human raid?" I ask, needing the specifics.

"No."

"But something did happen?"

She takes another drag of her cigarette and watches me watching her. The silent stare off ends with a sigh parting my lips.

"Fine, don't tell me," I say. And though I don't mean to let it, my frustration slips into my tone. My jaw is tense as I whisper, "Is it wrong for me to care about your safety?"

"You know it's not that."

I do know.

And I still don't like it.

We may be friends—more than friends—but we're still both House Heads. And that comes with holding our own secrets. On top of that, she's said how bloody the Human Realm can be. She doesn't want to bring that on this side of the Veil.

My gut twists as white hair and black eyes flash in the back of my mind.

"You didn't invite the other Sins?" Nora changes the subject, crushing her cigarette into the glass ashtray on the bar top.

"I know you well enough that if you had to see Wrath's face outside of work…" I let the sentence trail off. She can fill in the blanks.

She laughs, deep from within her chest. "Yeah, he's not my favorite."

The man's picture should be listed in the dictionary under the definition of asshole, yet he somehow charmed his way into our king's good graces.

Finishing the last dregs of my drink, my gaze is drawn back to the dance floor. The band sings a steady, sultry beat. A warmth simmers in my belly as I let the dancers' intoxicating emotions flow through me.

"Dance with me?" I ask.

"Don't I always?"

The air between us crackles with frenetic energy.

A beaming smile lights my face, and I launch us forward, gripping her gloved hand. We move deeper through the sea of sweaty, drunk, high-on-the-prospect-of-sex fae.

When we reach the center, I twirl, lifting our hands in the air, swaying to the music. As we turn and touch, my skin becomes flushed with desire. And even with our hands intertwined, there's far too much distance between us. The leather gloves rub my skin the wrong way, despite them being worn down and softened by time.

I know why she wears them; how many times have I felt, firsthand, the fear that lingers around others when she walks past? It lessens when her hands are covered.

But I'm not afraid. I don't think I ever have been.

As if she can read my mind, she slips them off.

Finally.

The burn of her skin on mine sets my nerves alight, and I want nothing more in this moment than to catch flame. I can see it in her half-lidded gaze too, the hunger. The soft pads of her fingertips glide across my spine, the touch featherlight as she pulls me close. Our breath mingles, but neither of us closes the distance. She traces the edge of my dress; the drape hangs from the thin straps at my shoulders and scoops low on my back.

I hum, a near purr rumbling from my throat, as I look up at her. She's not that much taller than me, but the difference still has my head tilting back.

A slight frown slants Nora's lips as she fingers the silken fabric at my waist.

"Do you not like my dress? I picked it out just for you," I tease.

I let my own hands wander. Gliding up her shoulders and to the back of her neck, my fingers mindlessly tangle in her hair.

Nora's frown flips into a smirk.

"It'll look better bunched around your waist later."

Giving into temptation, I lean forward to take what I want. But Nora pulls back, twirling me. One of her arms bands around my waist, pulling my back to her front, while the other traces senseless patterns up my hip as we sway together.

"Don't tell me you're not wearing any underwear, Imogen."

"Okay. I won't."

We both know you can't wear any with this kind of dress. Tights, sure. But where's the fun in that?

Nora groans; the vibration rumbles through her chest and right to my core. She drops a kiss to my racing pulse.

"You're trouble," she murmurs against my skin before releasing me.

We go back to dancing with our hands intertwined. The band's tempo rises to match the beating of my heart and, like before, the distance between our bodies is a punishment. But it's one I'll gladly endure if it means her coming back to my bed tonight.

We've always teased each other. It's a give and take, this addicting little game. One where we draw out the tension until it snaps under the pressure of our hunger. It's soft touches stolen at midnight, starved kisses in dark hallways, roaming hands, and whispered promises.

So, we dance. And we order second, third, and fourth rounds of drinks. And we giggle as we people-watch until last call rings. We join Leo and Josie and their other friends from House Pride in their booth, and our asses stay firmly planted in our seats as each one of them leaves.

Then it's just us at the deserted bar together, taking turns drinking straight from a bottle of wine. And when I try to sneak a kiss again, she denies me, whispering that we should go upstairs instead.