Naomi
Siren, a nightclub in West Hollywood, is hosting a costume party tonight, but as I’m giving my dress another tug, I wonder if we went too far.
“You don’t think it’s too much?” I ask for the fourth time, adjusting the lace on thigh highs.
Considering we’re already stumbling out of the Uber, there is no point in backing out now.
Tonight, the club is hosting a fairy tale ball with a grown-and-sexy twist—at least, that’s what their Instagram promises.
Back at the house, Aisha tossed me her phone, giving me a glimpse of last year’s event.
From what I saw, the men were dressed like princes straight out of a fairy tale movie, while the women rocked custom gowns or sultry, modern takes on their favorite princesses.
Skin, and lots of it, seemed to be a requirement.
“Girl, if you don’t cut the shit,” Aisha huffs, glancing at the growing line of attendees. “You see all these people? We’re not waiting.” She flashes me a grin and sings, “That dress is getting us through the front doors right about…” She trails off dramatically, sauntering ahead.
And behind us, someone whistles. “You know? I’ve been looking for my princess all night.”
Aisha’s grin widens. “…Now,” she whispers, turning toward the voice. Her eyes narrow mischievously as she spots the source. “Well then, I hope you know the way to a woman’s heart is through her best friend,” she quips, grabbing my hand and twirling me out in front of her in a full 360.
Loud groans and murmurs erupt from the line behind us as Aisha tugs me alongside her to the front of the queue.
Xayvion’s serpentine grin curls around a toothpick he toys with between his teeth.
His gaze drags over me, heavy and assessing.
The tequila in my stomach churns uneasily—my palms go clammy as I try to contain a shudder.
I remember him from when Jaxon introduced his staff earlier this week in my office.
So, this should be easy. I don’t think things will get too out of hand.
Calm. Cool. Collected.
I tuck all of the uneasy emotions away, ignoring the rising bile in my throat as I center my thoughts, trying my best to steady my body.
It’s not that the man isn’t gorgeous—no, he’s fine as hell.
Midnight-dark skin, a full, immaculately groomed beard, and muscles straining against the seams of his t-shirt.
The club logo sits on his right pec: Sirens, written in white ink outlined in ocean blue, making the font appear neon.
I watch the way his muscles ripple under it every time his arm moves. The man is definitely well-built.
But the way his eyes linger on my thighs makes my skin prickle.
Vulnerability isn’t a feeling I handle well these days, though Aisha doesn’t know that.
I’ve never told her the full extent of how bad it is—she would never drag me to places like this if she knew.
She would go all mama bear on me, and I didn’t need that either. So, I play along, just like always.
He sits perched on a barstool, one boot resting on the footplate as though he’s ready to strike. A black cobra coils around his left arm, its fangs bared as its head peeks out from under his sleeve—a tattoo as intimidating as the man himself. Aisha’s eyes practically sparkle. He’s exactly her type.
“Well, that’s simple,” he chuckles, his voice low and teasing. “When she has a best friend who looks like you.”
Aisha shoots him a sultry smile, though she rolls her eyes for show. “Touché, Handsome.”
Boldness is her weapon of choice, especially with men like him. She’s always had this enigmatic pull on the opposite sex—men gravitate to her like ships pulled into a whirlpool’s current. It’s amusing to watch, really, until his gaze finds me again, and my smirk falters.
“What about you, Sweetness?” he asks, his eyes gleaming with challenge. “You like to share?”
A scowl threatens to form, but I suppress it, channeling Aisha’s confidence instead. My heels click against the pavement as I step forward, settling between his knees.
His hand grazes the back of my thigh mere inches from my ass, and I jump right out of my skin, my heart clattering in my chest. It makes him chuckle, low and slow, vibrating with satisfaction. But I press on, steeling my resolve. I don’t want to wait in that endless line any more than Aisha does.
Placing a hand on the hard plane of his chest, I lean close, letting my lips brush his ear.
“You might need to find us later, find out for yourself.” My voice drips with honeyed seduction, sweetened with just enough sin to leave him wanting more.
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” he rumbles. His chest vibrates under my palm before he nods toward the door, but his hand lingers on me for just a second too long.
“They’re good,” he calls to the man at the door, his eyes never leaving mine.
I wink at him. “See you later then, Gorgeous.”
“You’re damn right,” he replies, flicking the toothpick up and down with his tongue.
The other bouncer wastes no time letting us through, clipboard in hand. As we pass, I silently start to worry if Jaxon already knows I’m here.
The hallway pulses with the heavy bass of music that grows louder with each step. At the end, a door covered in deep blue tufted fabric looms before us.
“Password,” a voice demands from behind it.
Aisha and I chant in unison. “Poor Unfortunate Soul.” The Club is known for its rotating passwords, with clues sent out every night.
As soon as it’s dropped, you’d better haul your ass here.
The club has a strict capacity limit, and the owners don't do pity. I’ve seen girls standing in high heels all night, only to be sent packing.
The door swings inward, and the music explodes, battering my eardrums as we step into the night’s sinful fairytale.
The ambiance is an intoxicating blend of decadence and allure.
From the moment we step inside, the air practically hums with magnetic energy, the bass vibrating through my chest like a second heartbeat.
Dynamic lights swirl in hues of deep ocean blues and smoky grays, casting shadows that feel almost alive.
The decor looks as if someone bottled the darkness of the sea and poured it into every inch of the club—mysterious, sensual, and just the right amount of dangerous.
The dance floor is a crush of bodies, all grinding to the primal beat.
It’s hypnotic, the kind of rhythm that strokes your inner sinner and dares you to lose control.
Above it all, the elite VIP Sky Lounge looms, offering a panoramic view of the mayhem below.
That’s where the real power players perch, sipping on drinks that cost more by the ounce than most people’s rent.
Aisha is already buzzing with excitement.
This place holds memories for her—the kind she likes to relive over and over.
She’s been itching to come back ever since my brothers rented it out for my 22nd birthday.
That night was unforgettable, not just because of the extravagance but because of the man who made it all happen: Nyx.
I never actually met him until recently.
Still, now I can see that his presence lingered in every detail that night, from the exquisite decorations to the jaw-dropping surprise: Empress Beatrix herself serenading me.
I thought my brothers had pulled the strings, but they swore they hadn’t.
My parents? Oblivious. Christian hadn’t even been in the picture yet.
That left only Nyx—everything was meticulous, and well put together just in the way he seems to be.
I’d tried to thank him in person, but he was a ghost—always just out of reach.
Eventually, I settled for a handwritten note, telling him how he’d turned one of my bucket-list dreams into a reality.
That night changed everything. It even led to Empress B hiring me to redesign her Malibu home.
Aisha and I have been her biggest fans ever since, following her on tour like groupies.
To kick the night off, we head straight for the bar.
Aisha orders us each two shots to warm up, but I know we’ll be ordering more before we hit the dance floor.
She leans backward, facing the dancefloor, her elbows on the bar, her eyes drifting upward toward the Sky Lounge.
Usually, it’s a look of longing. Tonight, it’s something else.
“Is that…Jaxon?” she asks, squinting like she’s trying to see through a fog. Her contact prescription is long overdue for a change, so I’m ready to shrug it off as I look up to check for myself.
“What in the actual fuck?” I exclaim as Aisha slides another shot into my hand.
Jaxon leans over the illuminated railing, his glare fixed directly on me. It’s the kind of look that makes your pulse race, equal parts infuriating and electrifying. And he’s not alone. Two men flank him, each as striking and commanding as he is, but in their own twisted ways.
Aisha laughs, throwing back her shot. “I knew that muy caliente captain looked familiar.”
And she’s not wrong. Jaxon’s costume is a dark twist on a sea captain—the kind that makes you want to rip it off of him.
His tailored jacket clings to his broad shoulders; the deep navy fabric is embroidered with subtle silver accents that glint under the club’s lights.
He’s modeled after the hotter version on TV from Once Upon a Time, a fantasy I’d never admit I’ve indulged in late at night.
To his right stands Nyx—his intensity rivals Jaxon’s.
His eyes burn into me as if he’s trying to devour me whole.
His dirty blonde hair cascades over his shoulders like a lion’s mane, and a scar slashes through his left brow, adding a layer of danger to his already intimidating glare.
His suit is jet black, but the gold chain on his lapel and the glittering cuff links scream luxury.
A lion given human form, but it’s working for him.