11. Lucien

Over the coming weeks, Simone has become utterly indispensable to the three of us. Her presence at Le Voile de Sang is like a tonic, soothing centuries-old psychic wounds I”d forgotten could even heal.

“Gorgeous,” I murmur with my eyes glued to her.

I watch from my customary seat at the bar as she whirls between tables, a siren in shimmering crimson chiffon leaving a trail of spell-bound patrons in her wake. Her laughter peals like bells, that rich, honey-smoke alto beckoning even the most jaded souls to lean closer and bask in her light.

When she takes the stage, the entire club seems to grind to a halt, every eye riveted on the swing of her hips and the seductive rasp of her voice. Even the hardest of men go liquid under Simone”s spell, their armor of cynicism and violence melting away as she croons bawdy torch songs dripping with carnal promise.

In those molten moments, I catch fleeting glimpses of the hexeblood power roiling just beneath her surface. The candles flare and wink, shadows cast by her body seeming to take on a life of their own. One particularly besotted reveler swears her eyes glow violent, her lips darker than sin as she mouths the lyrics.

I don”t doubt the tale for an instant. Our rare and precious mate moves through this world untamed, raw feminine power thrumming in her very bones. Each sway of her hips is a promise, every ebb and flow of her melodies an initiation into primal mysteries. Simone is life itself, unrestrained and glorious.

To my right, Auguste”s hands are squeezed into white-knuckled fists where they rest on the bartop, his stormy gaze tracking our mate”s every movement with naked hunger. A muscle ticks in that chiseled jaw, whether from the effort of restraint or the urge to stake his claim, I can”t be certain.

Likely both.

Etienne slouches boneless in the booth at my back, one leg kicked insolently over the armrest in a hollow performance of nonchalance. Even without the dubious gift of seeing auras and auras, the thrumming weight of his stare would betray the oath-sworn depth of his obsession.

“Enjoying the show?”

He smirks without looking at me. “Immensely.”

My brother is utterly enthralled, dissecting Simone”s every shift and breath in search of hidden riddles and prophecies. As if she were an apocryphal text laid bare for his perusal, her tongue and teeth and fingertips the tools to unlock truths mere mortals cannot begin to conceive.

The realization sends a twisted spiral of molten possession and bone-deep pride coursing through me. My mate is magnificent in her power, unbound and unrepentant. And whether she knows it yet or not, she belongs to the hunters sequestered in these hallowed shadows, as surely as we belong to her.

When the last, quivering note falls from those lush lips, Simone holds the silence like a sacred talisman. Dozens of sets of inhuman eyes glimmer back at her, all manner of monster united in their worship of the feral siren commanding the stage. Her chest heaves with the effort of containing so much smoldering force in that deceptively delicate frame.

Then the spell breaks in a thunderous crash of applause and territorial cheers. A dozen languages raise competing catcalls and crude endearments, the trill of the witches mingling with growls of approval from my wolven kin. Even the tight-lipped cabal of vampires huddled in their usual corner of shadows can”t quite disguise their unholy delight.

With a wicked toss of her head, Simone basks in the chaos for a few molten beats before slinking from the stage. Her glittering gaze finds me through the haze of smoke and adulation, holding me immobile as surely as iron chains. I can smell the musky heat of her from across the crowded room, taste the salt tang of desire beading on her bare skin.

“She is stunning,” I murmur.

She is a force of nature in that instant, unrestrained and magnificent. And she has chosen me as her eye in the storm, her solace in the havoc of the world she now rules. An ancient shudder traces my spine at the notion, part primitive worship, part slavering possession.

After her spellbinding performance, I can barely catch my breath. The way she commanded the stage, that sinuous sway of her hips and the liquid smoke of her voice caressing every brazen lyric - it”s utterly intoxicating. Primal. Carnal. Utterly, irrefutably mine.

I watch her moving through the crowded club like a crimson-swathed siren, leaving a trail of stunned, wanting gazes in her wake. Even the hardest of cynics, the most jaded monsters can”t resist leaning closer to bask in her radiant aura. She”s the most vibrant thing in this soot-stained world, the personification of feminine power and heady, unrepentant desire.

My gaze drifts to Auguste where he holds court by the bar, his own eyes hungrily tracing the hypnotic lines of her body undulating through haze and shadow. His powerful hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists on the bartop in a visible struggle for control. I know that war well - the gnawing urge to stake claim, to pin her writhing form against the nearest surface and remind her just who she belongs to, propriety and audience be damned.

Etienne, too, is transfixed from his usual spot at our reserved table, one long leg hooked carelessly over the armrest as he pointedly ignores the subtle brush of knuckles and bawdy invitations from the doxies hoping to tempt his favor. His whiskey sits untouched as he dissects

each shimmy and coy glance from beneath hooded lids, searching for some hidden cipher in the fluid artistry of Simone”s body.

The sight fills my chest with a viscous mix of unvarnished pride and molten possession so acute, it steals the air from my lungs. Our mate is a force of nature, raw and magnificent in her awakened power. And whether she grasps it yet or not, she belongs utterly to we three hunters sequestered here in the hallowed shadows. Anointed and consecrated.

When she finally slinks off-stage after drinking in the rapturous ovation, her glittering gaze finds mine across the crowded room. Her pupils are blown wide in a heady cocktail of exhilaration and banked desire, irises blazing like amethyst embers in the smoky light. Her chest heaves with the effort of reining in so much smoldering force in that lithe, silken form, lips parting in a silent invitation as familiar heat licks through my veins.

She is a vision of pure sensuality in that moment, an incandescent goddess of carnal delight utterly unbound. And her power is mine to indulge, mine to revel in and cultivate. An alpha”s most profound responsibility and rapturous privilege - to unleash the full potential of our supreme mate.

With a look, I beckon her to join me at the foot of the stage. The crowd parts before me like reeds beneath her inexorable tide, drawn by some primal instinct to grant deference before the immutable eddy of our combined forces. When we finally crash together, I claim what”s mine with tongue and teeth and buckshot gaze, savoring the sweet capitulation in her shuddering moan.

In that perfect conflagration of will and need, each phantom flicker of doubt is consumed to smoldering ash. My purpose solidifies, white-hot and inviolable. There will be no more fleeting shadows between us, no chinks in our trinity through which dissension or madness can creep. We three are a closed circuit of communion, operating in perfect concert to cultivate our blazing center.

Yes, I decide with a possessive snarl against the swell of her breast, there will be no more whispers of reprieve. Not until the entire undercity sprawls in awe before the absolute sovereignty of our reign.

The following evening, I parade my empress before the hierarchs and despots who fancy themselves powers at the annual masquerade.

The weight of Simone on my arm as we make our grand entrance is an intoxicating anchor amidst the swirling revelry. Every muscle in my body hums with sybaritic pride at the prospect of unveiling her magnificence before the assembled elite.

The moment the grand doors part to admit us, every head swivels in our direction on a plume of hush. Hundreds of eyes – human and inhuman alike – blaze through the eye holes of extravagant masks to drink in the vision we make. Simone”s gossamer skirts shush in a hypnotic cadence against the marble floor as I escort her into the Grand Ballroom like the phoenixed goddess she is.

From our vantaged point at the apex of the grand staircase, I can feel the weight of Auguste and Etienne”s gazes like a brand. Rather than petty jealousy or resentment, their stares hold an incandescent blend of ravenous hunger and masculine pride. A delicious thrill races through me at the certainty that in their eyes, our mate is the sole point of gravity around which this entire glittering debauchery orbits.

Over the swansdown crest of Simone”s upswept curls, I catch Etienne”s luminous gaze and offer the barest perceptible dip of acknowledgment. Like air bleeding from a vacuum-sealed chamber, the hot riptide of tension channeling between us detonates in a silent shockwave. The message is clear - everything is proceeding exactly according to our stratagem. Our supreme mate has arrived to stake her dominion.

The string quartet swells to a soaring crescendo as I guide Simone into the whirling vortex of shimmering bodies and gemstone gazes. While outwardly projecting the nonchalant ease of an aristocrat in his natural milieu, each footfall, each shallow intake of breath is a calculated stratagem. This decadent world of intrigue and treachery is my chessboard. And with Simone”s lithe, blazing form an extension of my own consciousness, I am the grandmaster poised for conquest.

”Alpha Dubois,” I murmur for Simone”s ears alone, subtly angling us into the path of a broad-shouldered man adorned in crimson regalia. ”Word is he”s planning a bold move to unite the disparate werewolf packs under his sovereignty.”

The virile figure tosses an insolent sweep of his plumed mask in acknowledgment of my introduction. A wicked thread of amusement laces his tone as he raises a fluted crystal in mocking salute. ”A new era is dawning, Deschamps. Those of us who evolve will be left standing when the dust settles.”

His merciless amber gaze skates over Simone”s form in a lengthy, considering appraisal that sends hackles rising along my nape. With an effort of inhuman restraint, I resist the urge to yank her fully behind my body, to shield her from the threat of that lupine leer.

”A charming devil,” I confirm through a wolfish smile, allowing Dubois the scantest glimpse of glinting fang. ”But cross me, and you”ll be picking the pieces of your teeth out of the mud.”

Dubois chuffs out a gravelly laugh and angles away, seamlessly rejoining the crush of dancers and gawkers without a backward glance. Already, the encounter has dissolved into insignificance beneath the press of sharper threats and more tantalizing temptations.

I keep a possessive arm snared around Simone”s waist as we resume our measured prowl.

With each step through the multifarious throng, a fresh scene of decadent power and maneuvering resolves into shocking clarity.

”Madame Zephyr,” I continue in that same neutral undertone, chin angling toward a cowled figure presiding over a sequestered knot of identically robed attendants. ”High priestess of the Vieux Carre coven.”

Simone”s inhalation snags audibly, her posture going rigid. Energy crackles through me at her visceral response to the priestess.

”Her black market in the occult is the stuff of infamy,” I confirm, unable to resist leaning closer to brush my lips against the wildly fluttering pulse at her throat. ”Word has it she”s tracking a rare grimoire that could tip the power balance across the cloven lines of her kind.”

A shudder wracks Simone”s delicate frame as if in confirmation of the threat. Wisps of violet smoke seem to unfurl from her slightly parted lips, her irises blazing like amethyst flame as she struggles to maintain her center. With a possessive growl, I pull her flush against my body, allowing the familiar bass thrum of my heartbeat to tether her against the inexorable psychic riptides.

”Vasile Ionescu,” I continue in a low subterranean rumble, unable to resist allowing my dominance to shine through in the husky rasp. I angle our path toward a deceptively youthful figure writhing on the fringes of the dance floor. ”Don”t let that unassuming mein fool you, little one. He plays the innocent, but Ionescu is the most calculating sadist the Quarter has ever birthed.”

A tremor of unease lashes through me at the sight of his latest victim - a wisp of a girl whose eyes are too hollow, too haunted. Each lascivious roll of his unworthy hips against her insubstantial frame is an overt sacrilege, a butchery to stoke the long-banked embers of my fury.

”He trades in flesh and secrets,” I confirm roughly, instinctively pulling Simone in closer as she sways, her complexion washing pale and wan. ”His ”courtesans” are the most elite sources of-”

My own voice falters at the sensation of her knees buckling slightly, of the blood draining from her cheeks in sickly ripples. Before I can second-guess the impulse, I”m sweeping her up with one arm banded around her waist to haul her against my chest.

”Stay with me, darling,” I say through the rising cacophony of fear-scent and thunder of my own pounding heart. ”You”re safe, I”ve got you.”

Cradled against the steadying throb of my pulse, she shivers back into her mortal form, eyelashes fluttering against my cheek like moth wings. I swallow hard against the swell of alpha”s pride and undiluted possession that crashes through me in dizzying waves.

My omega. My fledgling, brilliant-plumed queen. She”ll soon crave the balm of Auguste”s dissolute charm and Etienne”s quiet wisdom to keep her centered. But for now, I am her immovable tower, the basilisk force to which she clings.