Page 8 of Bootleg Love

"Enjoy your bath, little queen. When you emerge, your throne awaits." And with a mocking bow, he slips through the door and is gone. I let out a shaky breath, my skin still tingling from his heated touch.

And his words.

Turning slowly, I take in the unparalleled luxury of the bathroom, a far cry from the rough-hewn privies and tepid tin baths of my bayou upbringing.

The flickering gas lamps cast a warm, buttery glow over the black and white hexagon tiled floors, so glossy I can almost see my reflection. A plush Turkish rug in rich burgundy and gold sits before the centerpiece of the room - a magnificent clawfoot tub in obsidian porcelain, steam rising invitingly from the scented water within. Gold fixtures gleam, and I can't resist running my fingers over the scrollwork details.

I wander over to the ornate marble-topped washstand, gaping at the dizzying array of crystal perfume bottles, satin pouches of fragrant bath salts, and fluffy white cotton towels, stacked higher than my head. Tentatively, I unstop a faceted ombre bottle, wafting a heady mix of jasmine and sandalwood that speaks of far-off lands and exotic temptations.

Gingerly setting down my empty coupe glass, already sticky with sugared absinthe dregs, I start shedding my tattered layers. Even that simple motion feels decadent in such lavish environs, a snake sloughing off its old skin to emerge shiny and new.

I step into the high-sided tub, submerging myself into deliciously scented depths. The heat seeps into my travel-weary bones and I can't stifle a groan of pure bliss. Tipping my head back against the porcelain lip, I let my eyes flutter shut, the events of the last twenty-four hours swirling behind my lids.

How did I even get here? An outcast, an aberration, now soaking in the lap of luxury?

Has my nascent blood somehow conjured this as an illusion? The water laps at my skin and I splash some over my shoulders. No, this is real. The marble is cool and solid under my pruned fingertips, the olive oil soap slick as sin. Somewhere, music starts up - the plinking notes of a piano tuning up for the evening. The dulcet tones wash over me like an aural caress and I shiver, despite the enveloping heat.

My mind returns to Auguste's hands, the way they engulfed mine so completely, the way his touch seemed to sear straight through to my marrow. I imagine how they would feel moving over me now, in languorous strokes, mapping every wet inch.

I push the thought away with an unsteady huff, dunking down to wet my hair, holding myself under until my lungs burn. I surface with a gasp, reaching for the vial of garde hair creme, the likes of which I had previously only glimpsed in magazine advertisements peddling aspirational femininity.

As I work the luxurious creme through my tangled curls, I feel the past start to unspool, rinsed away with the bayou muck and the acrid scent of fear. My mate's cruel rejection, the pack's betrayal, the blind terror of the chase - all of it swirls down the burnished drain, leaving only the drumbeat of now echoing through my bones.

I emerge from the bath flushed and radiant, swaddled in a decadent robe of Egyptian cotton that makes me feel like a silver screen siren. The woman gazing back from the ornate mirror is a revelation - cheeks glowing, violet eyes sparkling with the promise of reinvention.

With trembling fingers, I slide into the beaded ruby dress, the swish of silk against my thighs a sinful delight.

Stepping back into the boudoir, Auguste's coal-dark gaze rakes over me, igniting my skin.

"Well now, aren't you a vision, ma belle?" His velvet baritone ripples across my nerve endings.

"I've half a mind to pick you up and just spirit you away."

Heat blooms in my cheeks as he stalks closer, the spice of his cologne enveloping me.

"But first, let's get some food in you. A proper creole feast fit for our sweet bayou princess." He brushes a kiss to my knuckles, lips searing my flesh. “Cindi, bring us some of the duck confit and that red I liked!” he yells.

I shift nervously, my grandmother's warning echoing in my ears. "I don't know...Gran always said too much spice is the demon's playground."

Auguste's wicked chuckle rolls through the room like distant thunder. "Darling Simone, in this town? Demons are the very least of your troubles. Now come, let me show you the delights of my little kingdom."

Suddenly, a commotion erupts from downstairs - raised voices, the unmistakable crack of a gunshot. I jolt, eyes wide with alarm, but Auguste merely sighs, as if this is just another tiresome Tuesday.

"Forgive me, chérie. I need to see what mischief my brothers have gotten into this time."

Cupping my face, his expression softens. "Rest here. You're safe within these walls. My home is your sanctuary now."

With a last smoldering glance, he strides out, leaving me to marvel at the sudden turn my life has taken. The plush room spins around me as I collapse back onto the bed, cocooned in silk and shadows and a tantalizing new world just beyond the door.

6

ETIENNE

Isnap my fingers, gesturing for Gerar to dispose of the fresh corpse in the canal out back, a casualty of the nightly territorial pissings. Just another mess to clean up. "Those scaly beasts are getting as fat as Bourbon Street tourists, the way we've been stuffing 'em lately,” I say to nobody in particular.

The smoky shadows of Le Voile de Sang close in around me as I sit back behind the gleaming mahogany bar. Visions assault my mind in lurid flashes - snarling wolves, violet witch-fire, spreading pools of blood. A spectral woman's voice hisses in my ear: Beware the blood of the father's sins.

Needing to steady my nerves, I go through the familiar ritual of preparing a French absinthe. The slow drip of iced water over the sugar cube is hypnotic as I try to block out the dizzying visions. But I can't shake the feeling that something big is coming, bigger than the petty crime and territory squabbles that are my stock in trade. I haven't felt a premonition this strong since the war, but that was a lifetime ago.

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