8. Aisling
Chapter eight
Aisling
I tug at the hem of my dress as we navigate the throngs on the Oasis Strip, my gaze twitching to every shadow that stretches across the neon-lit pavement. Gunnar’s hand finds the small of my back, a silent signal to keep close as we both glance over our shoulders. I can’t help but grumble under my breath.
“Of all places, he chooses the most popular restaurant in town?” My voice barely carries over the din of nightlife around us.
“Apparently, subtlety isn’t one of Nero’s strengths.” Gunnar’s scoff is dry, his eyes scanning the crowd with practiced paranoia.
“Or it’s a trap,” I mutter, the taste of betrayal already bitter on my tongue.
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Gunnar’s phone buzzes and he pulls it from his pocket, reads the message, and an eyebrow arches in disbelief. “He says we have a reservation with ‘The Fiddler.’ That’s our ticket in.”
“Sounds shady,” I reply, eyeing the entrance to the restaurant where a line of eager patrons snakes around the block. “You sure Nero’s not playing games?”
Gunnar slips the phone back into his pocket. “We’ll find out soon enough. Let’s go meet The Fiddler.”
Rolling my eyes, I follow his lead, bracing for whatever this night holds.
Weaving through the crowd, we approach the restaurant’s front desk, a beacon of light amidst the Oasis Strip’s chaotic ballet of colors and sounds. Gunnar steps up with that assertive confidence that always makes people take notice—even when he doesn’t mean to.
“Reservation for The Fiddler,” he states, his voice a calm force that cuts through the ambient chatter.
The host, adorned in a strange pair of glasses that shimmer against the backdrop of dim lighting, pauses and then nods. With a flick of his wrist, he beckons us to follow. A murmur of discontent ripples through the queue as we pass, but their complaints are like static, irrelevant compared to my pounding heart.
“Subtle as a gunshot,” I whisper to Gunnar, a wry smile playing on my lips despite the unease knotted in my stomach.
“Isn’t it just?” Gunnar murmurs back, his lips barely moving. We exchange a look that’s part uncertainty, part determination. With him by my side, I feel a sense of grounding, even if this idea is madness.
The host leads us into a small entryway which is surprisingly dark, a pitch black passageway at the other side of the room. I can see the beginnings of a ramp just inside, but it quickly descends into darkness—and that’s where we go, the host acting like this is all perfectly normal.
“Please take my elbows,” he instructs. His voice is soft but carries an edge that suggests we’re not just changing settings—we’re stepping into another world entirely. “Watch your step.”
I hesitate for a second before my fingers find the fabric of his sleeve, wrapping around the bend of his elbow. Gunnar does the same on the other side, and together we let the host guide us forward.
“Into the abyss,” I quip, trying to mask the fluttering in my chest with humor.
“Could be worse,” Gunnar replies, “At least it’s not Nero’s cooking.”
I snort.
I’ll have to ask him when the hell Nero cooked for him when all this is over.
The darkness swallows us whole, and for a moment, there’s nothing—no sounds, no scents, just void. Then, as we continue, a constellation of red dots appears, suspended in the black. It takes a moment for my brain to connect the dots—quite literally.
“Night vision glasses,” I whisper, realizing that’s how the servers navigate through the velvet dark. It makes sense, yet the realization sends an unfamiliar shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the thrill of the unknown.
“Looks like The Fiddler plays a mean game of hide and seek,” Gunnar says, his voice low and steady next to me.
“Or maybe he just likes to watch,” I muse out loud. It’s unsettling, knowing we’re being observed while we remain blind to our surroundings.
“You should know that any inappropriate behavior is strictly forbidden in the restaurant,” the host says. “Please act accordingly.”
Gunnar and I go silent as I suppress a laugh.
I almost forgot there was a complete stranger standing between us.
“Got it,” Gunnar grunts on the other side of the host, a note of irritation in his voice that suggests he’s not here for the rules.
I can’t help but agree.
We’re led to our table, the host’s elbows still our only anchor to the world we’ve left behind until he lets us go, my butt somehow finding a chair. The moment I’m seated, my senses sharpen, compensating for the loss of sight.
And then, it hits me—a scent so distinct it hijacks all other senses.
I’ve smelled him before…the first time at Dreamland, when he vouched for me and had his men beat a cruel bouncer to death. That night, he told me he’d like to come back and have a dance, undressing me with his eyes.
A breath ghosts over my neck and I shudder slightly. “Sugar and pine…glad you two made it,” Nero murmurs into my ear, so close I can almost feel the curve of his lips.
I fight the urge to lean into him, my body traitorously responding to his proximity. Heat pools low in my belly, and I clench my fists on the tabletop, grounding myself.
On my left, Gunnar’s hand finds mine in the dark, a solid presence that steadies me. His grip tightens as he leans across the table towards Nero, his voice a low murmur that barely carries over the distant clatter of unseen cutlery. “This isn’t exactly discreet,” he mutters, a note of frustration lacing his words.
Nero chuckles, and the sound ripples through the dark. “And what’s more discreet than dining in the dark?”
Before I can think of a clever retort, a red light appears, floating like a will-o’-the-wisp through the darkness. It hovers nearby, and a stranger’s voice breaks our standoff. “Welcome,” it says, tone practiced and polite. “Tonight, our chef has prepared a selection that we hope will delight your senses. May I inquire if there are any dietary restrictions at this table?”
It’s an unwelcome intrusion, breaking into the tension that ties the three of us together. But it’s also a reminder of where we are—a public place, despite the blanket of darkness.
“We have no restrictions,” I say quickly, eager to move past this interruption. Gunnar echoes my sentiment with a grunt, and even Nero offers a smooth confirmation.
“Excellent,” the voice replies.
As the red pinpoint of light from the departing waiter fades into the abyss, the air between us thickens with unsaid words. Gunnar’s hand slides from my fingers to my thigh, his touch possessive as he presses into my flesh, reminding me of the bond we share. “The topic is a bit too sensitive to discuss here where anyone could be listening,” he growls under his breath, tension coiling in his voice.
“Is it now?” Nero’s tone is light, almost playful, contrasting sharply with Gunnar’s unease. His pinky grazes the side of my hand, then trails down to my wrist, a deliberate caress that ignites a forbidden spark within me. I suck in a shaky breath, caught in the crossfire of their silent battle for dominance. “I thought it would be kind of fun…especially since this is all for show anyway.”
I can feel the weight of his gaze in the darkness, even if I can’t see it. The brush of his finger against my skin sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the chill of the room. There’s a dangerous allure to Nero that I can’t completely deny, no matter how hard I try.
“It’s not for show, Nero,” I state, my voice shaky—not out of fear, but desire. “This isn’t some game we’re playing. If you’re pack, then you’re pack.” I pause, letting the significance of those words hang in the air, heavy and irrefutable. “And together, we’ll reform Pacific City. We’re committed to this cause—beyond the superficial.”
“Aisling,” Gunnar’s concern is palpable in his whisper, close to my ear. His hand on my thigh is both comforting and claiming. “You okay?”
I nod, even though he can’t see it clearly, and give a small smile in the direction of his voice. “Yeah, just…Nero bumped my hand, that’s all.” It’s a half-truth; Nero did more than just bump my hand, but I don’t want Gunnar flying off the handle. Not now, not when trust is as fragile as the darkness enveloping us.
Nero’s chuckle rumbles through the pitch-black space, low and confident. “Less of a bump and more of an exploration,” he admits, unrepentant. “I’m just trying to find out if we have chemistry—as we should if we’re going to pack up. Those bonds… they can’t be forced.”
Before anyone else can say a word, the red light from the waiter’s glasses cuts through the darkness once again, a beacon that momentarily distracts us from our charged conversation.
“Your amuse bouche for this evening,” he announces. “Smoked Paprika Sphere with Yuzu.” The scent is immediate and intoxicating, a promise of the flavors hidden within the delicate creation. “The chef recommends enjoying it in one bite for the full experience. I’ll return shortly with your first course.”
“Thank you,” Gunnar replies, the authority in his voice never waning even as he addresses the waiter. His hand still presses on my thigh, a silent statement of possession.
Once the waiter’s presence recedes, a silence falls over us, but it’s short-lived. Nero shifts in his seat, and I can sense him leaning into the void between us. “What I was going to do is ask if I can touch your mate, Gunnar,” Nero murmurs. “Since I presume that’s why we’re here…?”
“Touch her how?” Gunnar growls, but he’s started to caress my thigh—like this is turning him on, not pissing him off.
“Just a little touch,” Nero replies. “Well within the rules of this establishment.”
Gunnar’s arm twitches—a shrug. “It’s her choice,” he says firmly, giving me the power to decide.
I hesitate, nerves fluttering in my stomach. Can I trust Nero? Is Gunnar really okay with this? But there’s no room for indecision in this world we’ve carved out for ourselves—a world of alphas and omegas where every move is a calculated risk.
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me.
“Can you open your mouth for me, gorgeous?” Nero purrs.
I part my lips obediently, heart racing as I wait for whatever comes next. Nero’s hand lifts, and I feel the brush of his fingers against my mouth as he places the amuse bouche delicately onto my tongue. The flavors burst as I bite down—the smokiness of the paprika perfectly balanced by the tart yuzu.
As his fingers retreat, I can’t help but draw them slightly deeper, tasting the salt of his skin. He lingers just a fraction longer than necessary, and I release him with a quiet breath, feeling both vulnerable and exhilarated under the intimate touch.
“Exquisite, isn’t it?” Nero murmurs, almost to himself.
“Very,” I manage to reply, the single word laden with more meaning than it should carry.
Gunnar’s hand creeps higher, emboldened or perhaps spurred on by Nero’s audacity. I inhale sharply as his fingers dance tantalizingly close to the hem of my dress. The air between us fills with his scent—earthy and wild like a dense forest, so distinctly Gunnar. It’s a heady reminder of our connection, of the bond that ties us together even when the world threatens to rip us apart.
And that scent…it’s getting stronger.
Yeah, he likes this.
He likes it and I don’t know what to do with that information, because all of a sudden I’m dying for both of them to touch me.
“Smells good in here, doesn’t it?” Nero’s voice breaks through the haze, carrying a note of amusement. “Aisling, you’re absolutely delectable.”
My cheeks flush with heat not entirely from embarrassment. His compliment, wrapped in innuendo, makes my heart beat faster.
It’s clear that Nero understands the effect he has, and he revels in it.
“Chemistry is definitely not an issue,” he says, a chuckle lacing his words. “But let’s not get too carried away just yet. We have business to attend to…though I’m all for multitasking.”
His last word hangs in the air, charged with promise and peril. Business mingled with pleasure—a dangerous combination that could either forge powerful alliances or destroy everything we’ve built.
“Business first,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “We can…explore other things later.”
“Fair enough,” Nero agrees, but the tease lingers in his voice. “Let’s talk, then. But let’s keep it interesting, shall we?”
Gunnar’s grip on my thigh tightens slightly—a silent signal of support. In this dark world, where trust is both weapon and shield, we’re walking a razor’s edge.
And Nero, with his enigmatic allure, might just be the one to tip the balance.