Page 17 of Bootleg Love

"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.

12

SIMONE

The dressing room is fit for a princess - no, a queen. Lush crimson velvet curtains pool on the floor and a thick oriental rug cushions my steps. The air is hazy with the luxuriant blend of French perfumes and face powders. This is true decadence.

My vanity is an altar of indulgence, strewn with the latest cosmetics imported from Paris.

Pots of creamy rouge in shades of petal and berry wait to bring a flush of color to my cheeks.

The iconic round box of Bourjois Java rice powder stands ready to cloak my skin in a delicate veil. Caron's extravagant Poudre Peau Fine dusting powder releases a lingering, floral scent with every shake of its canister.

Fragile crystal bottles contain the precious essences of rose, jasmine, and ylang-ylang.

Their stoppers keep the heady perfumes from dissipating into the air before I dab them on my pulse points. Tins of Cyclax complexion milk and nourishing lip salve are scattered amidst tortoiseshell combs and silver-backed brushes.

These are the finest products from the beauty capital of the world. Only the best for Le Voile de Sang's newest star chanteuse. I trail my fingers through the sumptuous collection, excitement thrumming in my veins. Tonight, I'll take the stage adorned in silks and satins, my skin radiant, my lips a lush pout. The brothers' exclusive club will be my throne.

My love affair with the three is the stuff of dreams...and nightmares. How did I, a simple cabaret singer, end up the doted-upon object of desire for three of the city's most notorious crime lords?

It started simply enough. Now I'm treasured by all three, lavished with riches and affection fit for an empress. They dote on me endlessly - vying to outdo each other with precious jewels, daring lingerie, and dizzying nights of passion that leave me boneless and sated.

But the ugly truth is, they rule the city's seedy underbelly with brutal force. Murder, moonshine, gunrunning - no crime is beneath them. But when I'm in the celestial cocoon of their bedchamber, that darkness seems a world away. With them, there is only light, heat, the glorious joining of flesh against flesh.

Perhaps I'm a fool, blinded by pleasure and luxury. But I'll cling to this dream for as long as they'll have me in their beds...and their black hearts.

I take the stage. In the club beyond, the revelry swells to a fever pitch - the pulse and throb of jazz, raucous laughter, the clink of forbidden liquor against crystal glasses.

When I step into the spotlight, it will be on their stage, in their world.

No longer just a performer, but an anointed part of their dark empire.

For the first time, I feel I truly belong.

The velvety blackness beyond the stage beckons, filled with promises of illicit delights. I can smell the tang of spilled wine, the rich plumes of cigar smoke. My gaze roves over the shadowy audience, searching for my lovers amidst the faceless crowd.

There - in a private booth nestled in one corner, I spot a glint of golden hair, the gleam of eyes watching me hungrily. Auguste's lips curve in a slow smile as our eyes meet. Lucien's arm is draped possessively over the back of the booth and even from here, I can feel the banked heat of his stare tracing every curve. Etienne works the bar, but I catch his trademark cocksure wink.

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