6. Black Masked Pas de Deux
I would normally never be the girl hiding in the corner of the bar, scrolling social media while everyone else has fun. I’m usually the life of the party, the one dragging people to the dance floor and buying shots for the whole place.
But every congratulation for this sham of an engagement stifles me more than the last. I’m suffocating, this close to calling it. The night. My relationship. Hell, being in New Orleans at all.
Lucy and I have talked about it, the expectations that come with being part of the Troisgarde, the elite in this city. Brylie’s prickly attitude makes her immune, but Lucy and I get bombarded everywhere we go, online and in real life. Our actions are heavily scrutinized, and not just onstage.
That’s why leaving is so tempting. Just…
disappearing. Lucy and I fantasize about it all the time.
Being anonymous, normal. That’s what I want right now.
Rebellion and sabotage itch under my skin, telling me to flee and never come back.
It’d devastate my parents, but I need to do something or I’ll combust.
I press my fingers to my temple, trying to massage away an impending headache.
My emotions are everywhere. I’m running on fumes, adrenaline, and alcohol—a terrible combo, but that’s what I get for pregaming two nights straight. A surprise proposal by the guy I was one conversation away from breaking up with doesn’t help either.
“May I have this dance?” a deep voice says, barely audible over the thumping music.
A black-gloved hand enters my vision, palm up.
My gaze rises to find Zy in the Siegfried costume jacket, its high collar raised to his jawline, a crossbow peeking over his shoulder, and his dark hair tousled over his black mask.
The costume team really went all out on the prop weapon.
It looks real, not that I’d know the difference.
And Jesus, I knew Zy was big, but sitting down like this, he looks as massive as a Saints football player.
His sharp focus needles into me like he’s searching for signs of… something.
“You feel okay?” he asks, an edge to his voice. His posture is stiff but his hand is still out casually, waiting for me to hold it.
I blink. “Yeah… of course, I just…” Even with all that running through my mind, only one thing comes out. “You changed your mask.”
His lips twitch, and I swear his shoulders relax. “The white wasn’t me.”
“Fair enough.” I laugh.
A small smile curves his lips, then he blinks quickly, shaking his head.
“Hold on.” He pulls a bouquet out from behind his back— where the hell did he get that from ? “For you.”
I blink, taking in the wildflowers and blush roses amidst sprigs of green, with downy feather accents. A lush meadow fills my hands as I slowly take it and inhale deeply.
The scent reminds me of family road trips through mountain parkways, my hand surfing the wind outside the car window. After the awful meeting that changed everything, we never went back.
My eyes sting, my voice suddenly watery, and I have to clear my throat. “But you already got me flowers.”
The ones my mom loves.
“You like these ones,” he says simply, like it’s no big deal.
“Did you go to Saint’s Petals?” It’s our family’s favorite store, and the only place in the city that always stocks my favorites for me.
“Is there anywhere else? I got them before your show. My… cousins brought them from my car before the party, and I hid them in the corner until I could have my first real moment alone with my fiancée. Miss Mabel’s son says, ‘Hi,’ by the way.”
His words are slower than usual, but maybe that’s the shots catching up to me. Or the fact that this guy I questioned everything about a few minutes ago just asked me to dance and gave me my favorite flowers from my favorite store.
He closes my dropped jaw with a gentle lift of his gloved finger.
“You sure you feel okay?” he asks again, but with less worry behind it this time. “You look a little confused.”
“I am.” I tilt my head at him. “I think I’m not used to this side of you.”
“Ah. Makes sense.” His grin suddenly sends my stomach all a-fluttery, and he motions to me with two fingers. “Come on, Luna Bordeaux. Dance with me.”
For the second time this conversation, my lips part in surprise, entranced by the man who most assuredly got hit on the head during his smoke break. But hell, if he’s asking me to dance, I’m not gonna pass up the opportunity.
I use the tablecloth and mountains of tulle in my tutu to covertly slide my phone back into the carrier garter on my thigh that Brylie’s mom, a costume designer, made for me. Zy tracks the movement, and I swear there’s heat there I’ve never seen before.
Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.
Before I take his hand, I reach for the drink I’ve barely touched, but it’s snatched from me.
“Zy, what the hell?”
“How much of this have you had?” he growls, almost to himself, but the emotion behind it makes me shiver.
“Maybe a sip? Why?” I grimace. He did buy it for me.
“ Maybe a sip?”
“Ugh, okay, you got me. None of it alright? I’m sorry, but it smelled like rotten cotton candy and overly sweet drinks aren’t my style.”
His lips purse, but the tension in his forehead eases, his voice gentling. “And this is the only one I’ve gotten you?”
“Weird question,” I say, barely resisting being a sassy bitch. “But yeah, Ozias. That’s the only drink you bought me.”
He blows out a deep breath and nods.
“Good.”
Then he chucks the damn thing into a nearby trashcan.
“Hey!”
“Don’t worry.” His smile returns, fully carefree and wide this time. “If we have time, I’ll get you another one after our dance.”
“You really want to dance with me?” I ask, a little starstruck by the way the twinkling lights highlight the excitement flickering in his eyes.
“Yeah, Luna, I really wanna dance with you.” His gloved hand finds mine, not letting me stall anymore and laying the bouquet on the table. “We can grab them before we leave tonight.”
I frown at the wording, but then the music shifts into a sultry, slow beat as he leads me onto the dance floor.
In the crowd, I see Brylie and Benoit dancing together, and Nox twirling around two girls I’ve never seen before, both of whom he’ll probably take home.
Lucy’s nowhere in sight, but we’re in the safest bar in New Orleans, and my dad is literally stalking us all from the corner…
Wait, where is he?
Zy wraps his arm around me, spinning me to the beat, and catching me off guard.
I giggle as he pulls me into his chest and leads me away from Dad’s usual corner booth.
One gloved hand slides into mine, and the other rests on my lower back.
Even through the fabric, my skin tingles underneath his warm palm, radiating a flush of desire through me.
Now he decides to pull out the stops? I exhale through my nose and can’t help my scowl, allowing myself to daydream about throttling him for turning my mind and body into an emotional wreck for the past few hours now. It’s not like he’ll see the expression through my mask.
He glances down and his lips quirk before he rumbles, “Don’t look at me like that, Luna.”
Oh God, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, has my name ever sounded that sweet off his tongue? Like he’s tasting it slowly, savoring it. Pressed against him, I can feel every syllable vibrate from his chest and into mine. I want to curl into him until what he said hits me.
Oh.
Could he tell I was scowling at him?
Oops.
I swallow and ask hoarsely. “Like what?”
His head dips, brushing featherlight lips along my cheek.
“Like you can’t decide if you want to make love to me or hate-fuck me right here on this dance floor.”
My eyes widen, and I freeze, but his hands just tighten around me as he twirls me again. I glide with him, my body flowing in his embrace like we’ve danced for years, all while my brain short-circuits.
“I… I don’t want to hate-fuck you.”
“Not yet anyway. We’re young. It’ll happen eventually.” A sinful smile graces his full lips. “But the alternative sounds damn good to me.”
Any response I could have disappears in my watering mouth because…
Oh.
My.
God.
He’s shocking me. I am well and truly shocked, and it feels like I’m seeing my fiancé for the very first time.
We’re hardly ever this close, and now I can’t take my eyes off him. Is there more stubble on his jawline? Five o’clock shadow is just a saying, right? It looks hot as hell on him, outlining those lips that I’d love to taste.
No. I’m ending things tonight. Just because he’s acting the exact way I’ve always wanted him to, and then some, getting knocked on the head during his cigarette break doesn’t mean any?—
Wait.
I sniff.
Huh.
I’d expect the pungent scent of cigarette smoke, but instead, I get crisp river air winding through pine forests, cut with sweet bourbon. I breathe him in without meaning to, and his arm tightens, pressing me against his chest and making my lower belly clinch.
“You don’t smell like smoke,” is all I manage.
Smooth, Luna.
“I decided against it,” he murmurs into my hair, then his thumb brushes my shoulder. “I like these. Your tattoos. The skulls are… fuck, they’re perfect.”
I pull back. “You like them?”
“Yeah. I’m surprised your dad let you get them.”
I snort. “He didn’t have a choice once I bribed someone outside New Orleans to do it.” I shrug. “I wanted to wear our family’s mark.”
His dark eyes flash. “And so you do.”
Those words are thick like caramel. He tugs me impossibly close as he guides me through the chorus, placing my hand on his shoulder before skimming down my torso. His hand drops low, grazing where the skull’s wreath of flowers bloom up my upper thigh.
“I especially love the one here.”
I shiver from the heat in his voice and touch. But I bite my lip until anger and uncertainty drives the question from me.
“It doesn’t make me look like a Fury fucker?”
His steps falter. His gaze hardens. “ What ?”