Page 11 of Bootleg Love

She leans in close, her voice dropping to a silken whisper. "I protect you from all manner of dark things that go bump in the night, cherie. Forbidden magicks, ancient curses, vengeful spirits...you name it, I keep it at bay. For a price, of course."

Madame Erzulie straightens, smoothing her beaded skirts with a smug smile. "So I suggest you mind your manners and remember your place in the pecking order. Hand over the hexeblood and nobody needs to get hurt. She'll be well taken care of in my...collection."

Auguste growls low in his throat but I place a warning hand on his arm. As much as it galls me to admit it, the wily witch queen has us over a barrel. We can't risk an all-out turf war, not with so many prying eyes eager to pick over our territory.

"Best mind your business," I grit out between clenched teeth. "Or you'll get yours one day, mark my words."

"I'm quaking in my petticoats," Madame Erzulie mocks, sauntering towards the door. "Au revoir, mes chiens. Sooner or later, she'll come to me. They always do."

With a sultry wink and a waft of jasmine perfume, she saunters out, her ominous prophecy lingering in the air, her pack of waifs slithering behind.

As the door swings shut behind her, Etienne releases a pent-up breath. "That was too close. What do we do now?"

I whirl to face my brothers, a muscle ticking in my clenched jaw. "I want eyes on her at all times."

Auguste nods grimly. "I'll warn the staff. Anyone asks, she's your new protege, being groomed for the stage."

"Good." I rake a hand through my hair, a new weight settling on my shoulders. Protecting Simone just became my top priority, even if it means painting a target on all our backs.

Gods help anyone foolish enough to come for her.

I stride towards the back stairs, needing to see her, to assure myself she's safe. She's more than just a responsibility now. The urge to possess her, body and soul, is a wild thing inside me.

And I always protect what's mine.

8

SIMONE

Iawaken in a lavish boudoir, nestled among silken sheets and plump pillows that smell faintly of rosewater. For a moment I'm disoriented, my mind still clinging to the foggy remnants of disturbing dreams - blood and fire, pain and pursuit.

Then it all comes rushing back - the blood moon ceremony, my hexing magic violently manifesting, the pack's betrayal, my harrowing flight through the bayou.

And finally, stumbling into Le Voile de Sang and the three enigmatic ‘brothers,’ who apparently all have different last names?

Gingerly, I push to my feet, taking stock. My cuts and bruises have been cleaned and bandaged with obvious care. At the foot of the bed lies a froth of beaded crimson chiffon. I let the delicate fabric slip through my fingers, marveling. I've never touched anything so fine.

I slip the dress over my head, shivering as it slides like cool water over my skin. It molds to my curves as if made for me. On the vanity, a clutter of cosmetics and perfumes glitter like pirate's treasure. The sumptuous furnishings are straight out of my girlhood fantasies - gilded mirrors, a vanity laden with perfume bottles, and a wardrobe brimming with beaded frocks more magnificent than anything I've ever seen.

Is this really happening? I pinch myself, but the lavish wonderland doesn't dissolve.

Somehow, Auguste's kindness has transformed me from bayou refugee to fairy tale princess overnight.

I trail my fingers over the patterned silk wallpaper, marveling at the texture. The bed is piled high with embroidered pillows and a lace coverlet so delicate, it seems spun from mist. A breakfast tray sits on a lacquered side table, steam curling from a silver coffee pot. Flaky croissants glisten with butter, the scent of dark roast mingling with the perfume of fresh lilies in a crystal vase.

The door swings open. Sabina saunters in, an elegantly engraved pistol casually clasped in one hand. Her silk robe flutters behind her like a pasha's cape. "Ah, sleeping beauty awakes,"

she purrs, moving to the vanity. She pours herself a cognac from the decanter, appraising me over the glass rim as she sips. "We'll need to doll you up properly if you're to bewitch the crowds like boss wants."

She sets her gun down to rifle through the vanity drawers, producing kohl, rouge pots and mascara wands. I eye the gun warily.

"Is that really necessary?" I ask, nodding to the weapon. "In here?"

“First lesson…” she smiles, then chuckles throatily. “A woman can never be too armed or too charming. The boys upstairs have informed me you are to be my new protégé. Stick with me, and I'll make you a formidable siren no man can resist."

“A-a siren?” I say as she pushes me down to the vanity stool and starts daubing color onto my cheeks. I find myself relaxing as her olive hands move in swift, sure strokes, transforming my bayou-bedraggled appearance with kohl, rouge and a swipe of deep crimson lipstick. "Draga, you won't believe the drama yesterday with Babette and the Duvalier twins,"

she confides like I already belong, raven curls brushing my cheek as she leans in to blend a smoky shadow on my lids. "I thought Etienne would burst a blood vessel! I haven't seen him so riled up since the police chief's wife tried to slip him her garter mid-show."

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