Page 1 of The Dark Elf's Secret Twins

1

LYKAN

Ihate this shithole.

The melody from the jinrayaha fills the air, reverberating off of the walls of the theater. The steady, subtle hum of bodies packed into the space is almost like an undercurrent to Ris’ song. The breathing of the patrons, the whispered conversations, and the clinking of glasses meld with the music to become a part of the song.

While the music is pleasant, at least most of the time, there’s nothing else that’s redeemable about this godsforsaken theater.

“Hey! You, in the corner!” A drunk dark elf stumbles up, the collar of his tunic loose and gaping and his eyes glassy from the amount he’s imbibed. I grind my teeth, fighting the urge to put the male out of his misery and knock him out.

Instead, I stare him down, my lips twitching with the effort not to snarl. The male at least has the good sense to hesitate as he takes in the look on my face, but I guess the liquor wins out, and he straightens himself with as much haughtiness as he can muster.

“That rodan took over my favorite table!” he says, gesturing at an equally-drunk male lounging lazily at a table near the center of the audience. Inwardly, I want to tear my hair out, and maybe chuck this male across the room. Outwardly, I remain impassive, collecting myself before responding.

“That’s too bad. Guess you’ll have to find a new one.”

The male blinks, clearly shocked, before his lips twist into an ugly sneer.

“Are you stupid? Isaid–”

“That you were just going,” I growl, taking a menacing step forward. The male’s face lightens about ten shades, and he sways as though he can’t decide whether to shit his pants or pass out. I suppress the smile that threatens to twist my lips, holding the male’s gaze.

After a tense second, the male huffs, stumbling back toward the crowd and melting into the sea of people. I relish any opportunity to remind these assholes that I don’t work for them. I’m here solely to keep the peace and make sure everyone stays in line when it comes to the staff and what they owe to the bar.

This whole affair with the theater is little more than a vapid excuse for showing off. The patrons waltz in here as though it’s their own personal, private estate, preening as though the talent of the chivdouyu on stage or the work ethic of the employees is single-handedly attributed to them. They demand drinks and service from human workers that are as scantily clad as permissible in a theater outside of the Red District.

The music is only an excuse for sordid pageantry and drinking, with more of the patrons coming in to ogle the women and get wasted under the guise of “refined activity” and “networking” than to actually pay attention to any of the talent here.

Thankfully, the crowd at this time isn’t as bad as it is during the prime late-night spots, but that’s little comfort in the grand scheme of things. I settle back against the wall by the bar, scanning the crowd for the umpteenth time this evening.

A flash of dark hair and iridescent, gauzy fabric catches my eye in the crowd. Cyra’s hips swish beneath the nearly-sheer fabric, preposterous expanses of smooth, olive skin on display as she leans slightly over to place a new drink in front of a patron.

The muscles in her legs ripple as she stands up straight again, those ridiculous shoes clicking softly against the floor as she makes her way back to the bar. Heat curls around the base of my spine as my eyes trace her, images of bending her over flashing unbidden through my mind.

I growl softly, fighting the urge to readjust myself in my pants.

Fucking Cyra.

The woman is too godsdamned bossy for her own good, especially for a human. She’s constantly shoving her nose in where it doesn’t belong and getting herself into trouble, and then she has the gall to act likeI’mthe self-important asshole of the two of us.

She leans against the railing overlooking the audience, her profile visible as her eyes linger on the stage. Her dark brows pull down over her thickly-lashed eyes, as though she’s concentrating on the set Ris is playing before her shoulders go rigid.

Cyra scans the crowd and then glances back at the bar, the dim lights of the theater gleaming off of her cheekbones before her eyes land on me. A bolt of electricity races through my body, and I glare at her with all of the disdain and contempt I can muster.

Her full lips twist into a scowl as her dark eyes meet mine. Before I can get a handle on my thoughts, I begin thinking of other uses for those lips. How they would feel on mine, or wrapped around my cock…

“I dare you,” Cyra snarls across the room. I can’t hear her over the music that’s playing, but after so much time spent in the theater, reading lips is second nature to me.

Amusement flutters in my chest as I arch an eyebrow at her. I doubt she would’ve said that if she knew what I wasactuallythinking, but I won’t be caught dead admitting to those thoughts. Cyra gets under my skin like nobody I’ve ever met. I can’t stand the uppity human woman.

It’s just… been a while. That’s all.

Cyra gives me a final glare before turning away, and something in my tightly wound body loosens now that I’m not pinned beneath her gaze. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Cyra’s always been a pain in my ass, from the first day she walked in here like she was the Thirteen’s gift to the theater, but recently it’s been getting worse.

It’s like every time we’re even in the same building, I end up coiled so tightly that I’m sore the next day. There’s just something about her that’s so… infuriating.

Despite wanting nothing more than to ignore her entire existence, I can’t seem to pry my eyes away from Cyra. She mouths something to another patron before turning back to the bar, swiping a fresh mug of ale, and beginning to make her way through the crowd.

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