Page 16 of Bootleg Love

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.

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