Nyx
I’ve seen plenty of women pretend to be in control, armored in confidence and expensive perfume, seated at conference tables built on legacies they didn’t earn.
But not this one.
Naomi is the kind of woman who doesn’t pretend. I read her file last night, then three times more on the ride here. It’s hard to believe someone so young could build such an impressive resume in just a few short years. But here she is—practically Jaxon’s equal in every damn way.
She built her company from the ground up, refusing help from anyone, and now, Starlight Interior Designs is international.
One of her staff members escorts us through the posh space to her office in the back, while the rest watch us pass, whispering behind manicured hands.
We step into her office, and I feel it immediately—this space doesn’t belong to just any woman.
It belongs to her.
She doesn’t look up when we enter, doesn’t ask who’s in the room, because she already knows.
That kind of knowing? It’s dangerous. Makes men like me lean in when we should be stepping back.
Everything about her office whispers control.
Not loud. Not flashy. Everything is in its proper place, deliberately.
The floor gleams—black marble, smooth as still water, etched with faint veins of silver that remind me of constellations.
Cosmic. Beautiful. As if she carved the damn galaxy into her floor just to remind you the universe is hers.
The walls are a deep navy, almost black. Midnight blue, if I had to name it. Velvet-slick. Soft to the eye but firm in presence. There’s texture here—mood, depth, attitude.
Light filters in through massive windows, sheer curtains casting gold across the stone like a quiet blessing. Or maybe a warning. Her desk is a monolith—black stone, sharp angles, the kind of surface you don’t rest your elbows on unless you’re invited.
She sits in a plum velvet chair, high-backed and regal as hell. It looks like something plucked from a throne room and dipped in modern armor.
Behind her, glowing in a soft neon script:
“Where vision lives and fear dies.”
And I know she means that shit.
I scan the space—instinct and years of training taking over. The shelves are brass-trimmed, custom, filled with books, blueprints, and heirlooms. A corkboard dressed in sketches and pinned swatches; all arranged with a chaos that’s only surface deep. She sees patterns in the mess. And I see it too.
There’s an altar in the corner. Not churchy.
It is something spiritual. Something personal.
On it sits candles, stones, something wrapped in silk, and a photo of an older woman—she looks like Naomi.
They have the same look in their eyes, like they’ve both seen something that didn’t break them, just reforged them.
The scent in the air is warm and subtle—jasmine, maybe, with a trace of citrus. It's clean but feminine, as if she doesn't want to smell like flowers, but like a memory.
The bar cart in the corner catches my eye—bourbon and gin, the expensive kinds, untouched but ready.
In the air, there’s a low hum of music that drifts from somewhere unseen. It’s jazz, sparse and brooding, like the walls are breathing with it.
Everything is carefully curated. Like a home. Like a statement. And she looks like she loves to make a statement.
It’s how she got this far—at least that's what I got from the hours of interviews I watched to get a feel of her personality.
I only remember her vaguely. We don’t have much history, just a thank-you note she sent me once; it meant more than she knew at the time, still does. But I’ve never seen her before, not in person.
Jaxon walks ahead, shouldering through the space like he owns it, his voice cutting through the air, deep and crisp.
Before he even finishes his sentence, she cuts in. “What happened to 'hi”? What happened to 'how are you?”
That voice—the kind that a sinner like me yearns for—a gentle storm. The kind of voice you want pressed to your ear when your back hits the mattress.
I watch Jaxon crack a smile. Slow. Easy.
The one that makes women stupid. But it doesn’t work on her.
She doesn’t even look at him. He leans slightly forward, one palm on her desk, not bothering to hide the way his gaze lingers on her legs—crossed at the knee—her fingers still toying with swatches of velvet.
“My apologies,” he says, and here it comes—the bullshit— “Reina. Good afternoon. This is your team.”
Diane stiffens immediately beside me, but I don’t have time to soften the blow that the whole team felt. All my attention is captivated by the little woman in the hot pink power suit.
Naomi finally looks up, slowly, and for the first time, her eyes find me.
Still.
Dark.
Assessing.
She doesn’t blink. Neither do I.
It’s not recognition—it’s curiosity. The sharp, lethal kind. The kind that made Eve bite into the apple just to see what would happen.
“Don’t call me that.” She says to Jaxon, keeping her eyes on mine.
“Why?” Jaxon’s grin grows. “Getting under your skin is the best part of my day.” He winks, sending her eyes rolling as he turns to start introductions. As he makes them, she scans us head to toe, her eyes running over us one by one.
“This is Xayvion. He’ll be on logistics.
” Jaxon says as Xay salutes her with two fingers and a smile.
“Cade’s your shadow.” He continues while Cade waves, giving her a toothy grin.
“Zaden is in tech with my youngest brother.” Jaxon points to the only man in the room who knows almost as much as our brother.
For some reason, Kaios was highly against coming with us today so he sent Zaden in his place.
Zaden nods once, fitting his personality—quiet, keeping mostly to himself.
Then Jaxon turns to me, “And my brother Nyx runs perimeter and intelligence.”
Her eyes fall on me again. I watch the way her eyes fall down my body, not in the way most women do—but more like she is collecting data.
“And last but certainly not least, Diane.” Jaxon doesn’t waver on his flirtatious tone, even though Diane looks as if she’s mentally putting a bullet through his head. “She runs command.”
Naomi looks over at Diane. Her expression shifts—just slightly. The way a knife might glisten before it draws blood. I know she sees the tension between Jaxon and Diane. It would be hard for anyone to miss something so glaringly obvious, and she seems more observant than most.
“You don’t look thrilled,” Naomi says, smooth as satin.
Diane straightens. “I wasn’t informed of the reallocation. This was not cleared through official protocol—”
Naomi cuts her off with a shrug. “That seems to be Jaxon’s M.O.—going against protocol. Isn’t that so, Mr. Knox?” she says, smiling back at him sweetly, but I can see the defiance burning under the surface. She will not make this easy, not for any of us.
I can feel the heat rolling off Diane as Naomi stands, smoothing her skirt, heels clicking as she walks around the desk to greet us one by one. Jaxon’s jaw ticks as she brushes past him, and I can visibly see him struggling not to look at her ass as she walks by.
“Diane’s your liaison when I’m not here,” he says, tone clipped. “She runs this team when I’m out.”
Naomi stops in front of me, turning to look at him over her shoulder. “Well then, I’m sure Diane and I will be best friends in no time. Won’t we, lovely?” She gives her a bright smile, but there’s a challenge in her eyes—something that clearly says, “Fuck around and find out.”
Goddamn.
I exhale through my nose. Low. Controlled. Because that? That was sex wrapped in command, and every man in this room felt it.
Diane doesn’t answer, turning and storming out of the office. Jaxon follows her without another word, the door snapping shut behind him.
Then the yelling starts, muffled but angry. She peers through the floor-to-ceiling office window that gives her a perfect view of the commotion in the hall before attention is on me again, her molten chocolate eyes glancing up at me. “What’s that about?”
Only once before has a woman left me this breathless, but somehow I find the words to speak. I keep my voice low and measured.
“Tale as old as time,” I say simply.
She lifts a brow at me. “Try me.”
Her heart-shaped face—so perfect, with wide doe-eyes filled with darkness, and full pouty lips—is almost doll-like.
“Boy meets girl. Boy fucks girl. Girl falls in love. Boy doesn’t.” I murmur.
“So that’s normal?” she asks, eyes narrowing. “Is this how my team’s going to function? Arguing in hallways and springing security on me like a surprise party?”
I let a beat pass before I respond. Let her question settle.
“No,” I say. “This is not normal protocol. Your security detail was escalated. Fast. That always creates friction.”
She crosses her arms, considering. “So, what’s the real story? Am I actually in enough danger for all of this, or am I just making people uncomfortable?”
I almost smile. Almost. “I’ve been doing this for a while and experience tells me… a little of both.”
She huffs out a dry laugh. “Fantastic.”
I nod toward the others—Xay, Cade, Zaden—waiting quietly in the sitting area on the opposite side of the room, her gaze follows. “They’re here to serve. They’re not political. They’ll keep you safe.”
“And you?”
I meet her gaze again. “I’m here to see the parts of the story no one tells you.”
She blinks once, her attention snapping back to me, and she finally looks away from the scene Diane is making in the hall. Jaxon is just standing there silently, hands in his pockets.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not a bodyguard. I don’t run defense. I run information. Patterns. Weaknesses and threats, before they become problems.”
She’s quiet for a moment before she speaks. “Do I fall into one of those categories?”
“Not yet." I huff, half amused, half wary of her boldness. “But you are… a wild card.”
Her gaze sharpens again, but it’s not offended. It’s calculating, like she’s wondering whether I’ve already made my mind up about her.
“Nice to finally meet you, Nyx.”
I fold my arms across my chest and dip my chin. “Likewise.”
I know something’s wrong with Jaxon the second we step back into Verrin Hall: the usual hum of guards and staff has quieted to an uneasy hush, as if the marble walls themselves are straining to catch every whisper.
He trails a half-step in front of me, shoulders tight, hands jammed into his pockets like he’s trying to keep his thoughts from spilling out.
“Yo,” I say, sliding alongside him. “Got a minute?”
He nods curtly and veers up the stairs and toward the library without asking why—his shoes echo on the polished floor, passing framed portraits that watch us with painted eyes.
Inside the library, the setting sun slants through tall windows, illuminating swirling dust motes among the scent of old paper and polished oak. Jaxon drifts to the shelves, his fingertips brushing spines as though realigning the books will reorder his mind.
I lean on the edge of his desk, crossing my arms. The surface is scattered with half-read notebooks, pens, and a half-empty mug of tepid coffee. “If you really like Naomi,” I say, “stop fuckin’ with Diane.”
He freezes mid-reach, pale eyes flicking up. “I haven’t been with Diane since before we started the case.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Before the case? That was like a month and a half ago.”
He shrugs, yanks a book free, and sets it on the desk. “Yeah—six weeks.”
“She’s calling again,” I point out, his phone constantly vibrating in his pocket. “You know that, right?”
He slumps into the chair behind his desk, running a hand through his dark hair. “She uses every minute she can.”
He pulls out his phone and flips the screen toward me—a string of blue bubbles from Diane, the newest pleading, ‘You know, we’d be so good together if you just tried.’
I whistle low under my breath. “Damn, man.”
“Yup,” he says flatly, tossing the phone onto the desk like it burns. Diane’s name flashes across the screen again.
“You’re not gonna pick it up, what if it’s something important?” I ask, “About one of the cases?”
“If it were important, she’d use official channels, not my personal line,” he mutters, closing his eyes.
“You could change your number,” I suggest. “Kaios could reroute it overnight.”
He doesn’t open his eyes, “Hmm.”
I let out a humorless laugh, rubbing a hand over my face. “Bet you wish you never got mixed up with her, huh?”
He huffs a laugh that sounds more like regret than amusement. “More than you know.”
“Why did you?”
“I don’t know.” He hums. “I think at the time she was lonely, so was I. It just happened."
I push off the desk and pace between shelves. “Then you just gotta be honest with her.”
“I have been honest with her. A million times.” His tone’s clipped, frustration bleeding through as his eyes snap open. “She just doesn’t get it.”
“Yeah, well,” I say quietly, watching him stare down at the text thread like it’s the bubonic plague. “You’re gonna have to make it a bit clearer, huh?”
He says nothing, jaw working, lost in thought.
I almost head for the door, but something pulls me back. Jaxon’s thumb traces the edge of his phone, like he’s trying to scrub away the guilt glaring from Diane’s name.
“Also,” I say, stopping in the doorway. “Cut the shit you’re doing with Naomi. You know—the smug smiles, the teasing. It’s not going to work on her.”
He raises an eyebrow, that familiar half-smirk tugging at his mouth, daring me to go on.
I cut him off before he can speak. “I’m not saying don’t flirt. You obviously like her, and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind hearing that. She’s beautiful, man. But just… be yourself.” I shrug. “It’ll work better than you think.”
He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Just looks at me, that grin fading slowly until there’s nothing but thought behind his eyes.
Good. Maybe something finally stuck.
I nod once, then head for the door, calling over my shoulder, “Don’t stay up too long reading that book.”
His soft laugh follows me out, low and tired, like retreating smoke.
By the time I step outside, the night air hits me—cool, heavy, and serene with the sound of crickets chirping in the silence. My phone buzzes with a text from one of my bartenders at Siren, asking if I’m coming in tonight.
Yeah. I need the noise. The lights. The pulse of something that doesn’t make me think too much about her. Because why wouldn’t I catch feelings for the girl my brother so obviously wants?
I pocket my phone, head down the steps, and make my way toward my club—the one place where I can drown out everybody else’s mess, including my own.