Chapter 13
“That man is all brooding and hubris. Everyone knows that contours and cheekbones cannot be rushed,” Iggy muttered to himself as he rolled in a luggage cart full of suitcases and garment bags.
I watched as he got himself set up in the center of the living room, just behind the plush leather sofa. He spent the better part of five minutes setting up the makeup chair, angling it just right for the natural light that came in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Watching Ignatius in his element was like watching a master magician. He pulled objects out of nowhere, making movements with exaggerated flair, and by the time he completed his setup, it felt worthy of a round of applause and gold confetti.
In the blink of an eye, what had once been a page out of Bachelor Standard now looked like a portal into a starlet’s dressing room in Hollywood’s golden age of cinema.
Iggy wordlessly instructed me to take my seat by tapping the plastic end of a makeup brush against the backrest of the chair he’d set up for me.
Only then did I realize this chair was mine—literally.
My name stretched across the black fabric in sweeping, bold lettering, the artistic font impossible to miss, just like me.
e.v.e.
Queens do not forsake their thrones, right?
They absolutely do not. So, I took my seat, leaning back with one leg crossed casually over the other. Before I could open my mouth to speak, Iggy eased a flute of champagne into my hand.
Some of the tiny bubbles floated to the surface while others clung to the inside of the glass. At the very bottom, there appeared to be a spoonful of obsidian cherry preserves, giving the otherwise golden hue of the beverage a streak of deadly crimson.
Upstairs, the footsteps paced in Ace’s office. Six in one direction, seven in the other.
Seemed somebody was feeling unsettled.
“You know, he hasn’t even told me where we’re going,” I said, not withholding the bitter edge in my tone.
Ignatius ran his fingers through my tresses, his nails lengthening into dull claws as he summoned his glamour demon lineage into play. The drag of the blunt points massaged my scalp, drawing a pleased hum from me.
“Have you considered the possibility he wishes to surprise you? Some men consider it romantic.” Iggy’s tone was contemplative, giving serious weight to the reason behind the secrecy.
Silence hung between us.
It broke when I snorted, and he choked on a laugh.
Neither of us believed Ace planned all this as part of an extravagant courting ritual, least of all me.
That delusion evaporated when he claimed and marked me like a possessive dunecock, a bird native to Superbia and a close cousin to the peacock.
It was known for its thick plumage that spread wide enough to wrap itself in.
The feathers were a shimmering bronze with burnt sienna diamonds on the tips.
Beautiful creatures, even if they were psychotic little shits.
They thrived in the most remote wastelands of the desert, claiming dunes as their own, often fighting to the death over a mound of sand.
On the rare occasion one wandered too close to city limits, the most common cause of their demise came from staring at reflective surfaces for hours, regardless of any danger going on around them.
Cars. Citizens walking their hungry pets. Demons with anger management problems.
A few glasses of champagne later, Iggy had my hair locked into loose curls and my face done up enough to enhance but not overwhelm.
“I may have outdone myself,” Iggy boasted as he handed me a mirror.
Satisfied with my reflection, my rose colored lips curved into a delighted smile. Elevating perfection was no easy feat, but he had managed to do just that.
I stood from my seat, turning to catch all angles of lighting as I stared at each brush stroke and curl.
“I don’t know how you do it,” I breathed.
“Simple. Besides me being me, you were born for all this.” He gestured to the hourglass outline of my body, paying me the compliment that was owed.
The door to Ace’s office opened with enough force to draw my attention toward the stairs, the mirror momentarily forgotten as it lowered to my side. Without breaking stride, he descended briskly while fastening what looked to be a blackened platinum watch around his left wrist.
One moment he was on the staircase, and the next he stood before me, looking me over with sharp, evergreen eyes flecked with gold around his widening pupils.
His hair had a slick shine to it, styled to keep the longer strands locked in place with the shorter ones.
Sharp lines edged the shadow of his stubble, and the closer he came, the more I could smell his aftershave blending seamlessly with his chosen cologne.
Clean citrus commingled with darker notes of smoked amber and midnight oakwood, the combination designed not merely to draw you in, but to make you linger.
The heady mix had me swaying forward enough to steal a few more lungfuls of it.
Intoxicating didn’t even begin to describe the effect it had on me. The mirror in my hand felt weightless until the spell was broken by Iggy’s murmured quip.
“Don’t need to add seven years of bad luck to the evening, hm?” He relieved me of the mirror before it slipped fully from my fingers.
I’d never been one to obsess over a scent, not like this anyway. Fuck, this man made me want to rub against him like a cat in heat.
The way his pupils dilated after drinking in the sight of me suggested he sure as hell wouldn’t turn me away.
“You’re not dressed yet, Little Spade,” he dryly observed before adding, “My specialty lies in removing your clothes, not putting them on you.”
Confidence nudged my chin up a fraction. “You should be so lucky.”
The air between us hung heavy, the type of stillness that preceded the rare storm that struck Superbia.
Ace smirked.
“I’m more than lucky, I’m the one holding all the cards.”
Silverware tapped against fine china, and hushed conversations got lost underneath the sound of the piano playing a low tune. The sound was repetitive, but it weighed on your soul enough that the notes seemed to wrap around parts of you that kept you bound to your seat.
Perhaps they truly did.
I wouldn’t put it past Sebastian Crowe to hire a songbinder at The Gilded Veil’s premier restaurant, Cinders it wasn’t even amusement. He looked mildly impressed with both his brows lifting just enough to depict mild surprise.
“Willing to bet on it? Little Spade, need I remind you that didn’t work so well in your favor last time?” He stood from the table, buttoning his suit jacket with unnerving calm.
Rounding the table, he stopped at my side, his arm snaking around my waist as he leaned in close. His lips brushed against my ear as he spoke in a dangerous whisper.
“Where would my Little Spade like them?”
When the look on my face conveyed that I didn’t follow his question, he chuckled and dragged his nose along the sensitive spot below my ear. His arm banded around my middle marginally tighter, his hand splayed out on the curve of my ass possessively.
“Your lucky seven.”