1. Marie
MARIE
The bell above the library door jingles, but I don’t look up. Instead, I stay tucked behind the circulation desk, pretending to scan a return while stealing a glance through the front windows.
Across the street, the guys at The Lethal Legacy tattoo shop are lounging outside, leaning against the wall like they’ve got all the time in the world. One of them, Hugo, tilts his head back, laughing at something Trick says, and the sound carries faintly through the open window.
I don’t even need to hear it to know it’s the kind of laugh that would make my stomach flip if I weren’t so busy trying to act like I don’t care. I shouldn’t care.
They’re my dad’s best friends. Older. Off-limits. Dangerous.
And okay, fine—maybe the “dangerous” part is what keeps pulling my eyes across the street.
“Marie, are you even listening?” Julie’s voice startles me out of my daze, and I fumble the book in my hand, almost dropping it. I set it down with a thud and force myself to meet her eyes.
“Sorry, what?”
Julie sighs and glances at the clock on the wall. “I was saying I’ve got to leave in, like, two minutes to pick up the kids. Dorothy’s not coming back tonight, and I hate that you’re stuck closing alone.”
It’s not the first time we’ve been understaffed, and it won’t be the last. The city is too cheap to pay for proper coverage at the Auclair Public Library, so we almost always make up for that with no lunch breaks and very little overlap. But that’s the life of a small-town librarian in Louisiana.
I shrug it off. “No big deal.”
“It is a big deal,” she counters, leaning against the desk. “Haven’t you heard what’s been going on in the parish? There’s a gang sweeping through, and everyone says the Hell’s Hammers are targeting women. For trafficking, Marie. Trafficking.”
My stomach twists at her words, but I force a laugh, brushing it off. “Julie, we live in the quietest corner of the world. The worst thing that’s happened here is when the book club fought over who got the last copy of The Nightingale. ”
She doesn’t laugh. Her arms are crossed, and her mom-face is in full effect. “I mean it,” she says, lowering her voice. “They go after women who are alone.”
“I’ve closed up by myself for months. What’s got you amped up like this?”
“The news. I know, I know, you always say I shouldn’t watch it?—”
I cut her off with a laugh. “Yeah. All it does is upset you.”
“But that gang was in Granger last week. That’s only twenty miles from here. They said the gang is sweeping through southern Louisiana. They’ll come here next.”
The thought sends a shiver through me. But that doesn’t change anything. “Our hours are set by the city council, and I’m not getting written up for closing early. You have to go get your kids, Julie. And don’t even think about coming back here—I know Cally has that dance recital.”
She sighs deeply. “And Dorothy would kill me for clocking back in and eating up payroll.” A sly smile crosses her face. “It’s not like we have cameras here. I don’t have to clock in to close with you, and she’d never know I came back.”
“The recital,” I tell her firmly. “Cally would be heartbroken if her mom wasn’t there.”
She looks like she wants to argue, but her phone dings with a text, and she glances at it with a groan. “The school’s already texting me. I have to go. Just…promise me you’ll be careful, okay?”
“I promise.” I smile to reassure her. “Go. Your kids need you. Tell Cally to break a leg for me, okay?”
She hesitates for a second, but then she grabs her purse and heads for the door. “Text me when you’re home.”
“Will do.” I almost say, “Will do, Mom ,” just to annoy her. But ever since I lost my mom six months ago, saying the word hurts my heart.
The door swings shut, and just like that, the library is quiet again.
Only a few older folks shuffle in and out of here daily for their mental health and exercise.
Most of them walk over from the nursing home around the corner.
Mrs. Wasserman might be my favorite of them.
She’s a nosy gossip and always tells me about the escapades of the residents. I hope she comes by soon.
For the next hour, I move through the motions of shelving books and checking in returns, but I keep sneaking glances across the street.
I can’t help myself. The guys are still out there, talking, laughing, looking like trouble in all the best and worst ways.
I’ve studied each of them since I was a girl.
But then things went south with Mom and Dad, and she and I ended up in Boston for a long time.
Now that I’m back in Auclair, my crush on the three tattoo artists across the street is so much worse.
Sam Cane owns The Lethal Legacy. Friendly, but reserved. Not quite the strong, silent type, but not far off. Out of the three of them, he has the strongest Captain America vibes.
I chuckle at the thought. As if Captain America could compare.
Sam is taller than me—everyone is taller than me—and has a silver and brown undercut that’s just long enough on the top to be called shaggy.
There’s that jawline that could cut glass it’s so sharp.
He has two sleeves of tattoos, each one telling their own story.
But it’s his eyes that undo me every time.
The darkest brown, almost black. I could get lost in those eyes. Willingly.
Trick must have cut another joke because Sam’s laughing along with Hugo. Trick Morrissey is a different kind of attractive. Where Sam has finer features, Trick is big. Bulky, even.
He has a granite jaw and a strong nose below his icy blue eyes.
But his eyes are the only thing that’s cold about him.
Trick’s a man made of mirth and mischief, always there to cut a joke or say something inappropriate in the best way possible.
His black buzz cut has silver at the sides, telling the surprising truth of his age.
A black snake tattoo wraps around his left arm and vanishes beneath his T-shirt.
I don’t know how far it goes, but I’d love to find out.
When he smiles, all I see is someone I’d like to climb.
Worse still, his pierced tongue distracts me when he comes over for beers with my father.
And then, there’s Hugo Bonhomme. The man is trouble given form.
The tallest of the three, lean and chiseled.
If he wasn’t tattooed and pierced, he could have been a model when he was younger.
His straight blond hair just reaches his shoulders, and it has streaks of white that make him look ethereal.
His emerald-green eyes sparkle the way Christmas lights do.
I’d think they were colored contacts—who has eyes like that?
But they’ve been the same shade since I was a child.
He looks Nordic, speaks French and other languages, and has been my personal fantasy since I can recall.
They all have.
My pulse quickens every time I see them move, even though I know nothing will ever come of it. It doesn’t matter how long I stare or how many daydreams I let myself slip into—guys like them don’t go for girls like me. And even if they did, my dad would kill me.
The bell jingles again, and I turn to see who’s come in. Ugh, it’s Albert.
My shoulders tense instantly. He’s a member of my dad’s congregation, but there’s something about him that’s always made me uneasy.
He’s older than my father by at least twenty years, but that’s not why he sets me on edge.
The way he looks at me lingers too long, his eyes trailing over me like I’m something he’s deciding whether to buy.
He’s wealthy enough to influence the parish, and rumor has it, he’s got friends at the capitol, so everyone caters to him. Everyone but me.
“Marie,” he says, his voice oily and too familiar.
“Albert,” I reply, forcing a polite smile. “How can I help you?”
“Just stopping in,” he says, but his eyes sweep the mostly empty library like he’s looking for something—or someone. His suit is too heavy for this weather, but he’s bony enough that I doubt the heat bothers him. “Your father said you were working today.”
My skin crawls. “He mentioned that?”
“You know how proud he is of you. Always talking about how hard you work.”
I don’t answer, just step out from behind the desk, moving toward the door. “We’re about to close, actually. Anything you need?”
He studies me for a second too long, then shakes his head. “No. Just saying hello.”
“Okay. Have a good night.” I open the door for him, holding it until he steps outside. When he’s gone, I lock the door behind him, my pulse ticking a little faster. His cologne lingers, making me nauseous.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of routine. I finish shelving, turn off the lights, and lock up, just like I’ve done a dozen times before.
But as I cross the dirt parking lot toward my car, the uneasy feeling I had with Albert doesn’t go away. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I glance over my shoulder.
Someone’s there.
My heart jumps into my throat, and I grip my keys tightly, spinning to face him. “What do you want…”
But it’s not Albert.
It’s a man I don’t recognize, and he’s…stunning.
Dark hair, sharp jawline, tattoos peeking out from under his hoodie on his throat and hands.
Two teardrop tattoos on his left cheek. He looks like he stepped right out of my daydreams about the guys across the street, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes my heart pound for an entirely different reason.
I feel like prey. The air goes still, and my mind flashes to every nature documentary I’ve seen. The rabbit who senses danger, the snake who silently approaches…
“The library’s closed,” I say, my voice a little too sharp. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
He steps closer, and I step back, the sand and gravel crunching under my shoes.
“I’m not here for books,” he says, his voice low and rough. “And I think you know that.”
My throat tightens. “Who are you?”
“Crow,” he says. “And I know who you are, Miss Durand.”
Every muscle in my body locks up. “How do you know my name?”
“Because I know your father.” He smiles, but it’s not a friendly smile. There’s nothing behind his frigid dark eyes. “Or, well, I know of him.”
Sweat trickles down my back. “You’re part of his church?”
“Not quite,” he says, holding up his left hand. There’s a tattoo of a hammer on the back, black and menacing.
My heart stops.
“I’m with the Hell’s Hammers,” he says, his voice softening in a way that’s more dangerous than if he’d shouted. “And I’m here for you.”