Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
LEO
La C?te d’Azur announced itself first through its security checkpoint.
“Leo.” Junie’s voice had gone slightly strained. “Why is there a guardhouse?”
“Standard precaution. The clientele values privacy.”
“The clientele. Meaning what, exactly?”
He pulled up to the checkpoint, lowered his window, presented identification to the uniformed attendant. The man’s nostrils flared slightly—scenting Leo’s alpha status—before nodding them through.
“Was that a shifter? Did that security guard scent you?” Junie twisted in her seat to look back at the guardhouse. “Leo. What restaurant has shifter security?”
“One that caters to certain communities.”
“Paranormal communities? This is a paranormal fancy restaurant?” Her voice climbed an octave. “Are you telling me there’s an entire circuit of supernatural fine dining establishments I didn’t know about?”
“It’s a relatively small circuit.”
“And you’re a member? How often do you—you know what, never mind.
” She faced forward again, hands pressed to her cheeks.
“I’m underdressed. I’m absolutely underdressed.
Everyone in there is going to be wearing designer gowns and ancient family jewels and I’m wearing a dress I bought at the summer solstice sale. ”
“You look perfect.”
“You can’t even look at me when you say that. You’re staring at the road.”
“Because if I look at you right now, I’ll crash the car.”
That silenced her. Leo kept his eyes on the curving driveway, lined with manicured hedges and subtle ward markers. His lion was pleased. Leo wasn’t sure what he was, except increasingly certain this had been a terrible idea.
The restaurant came into view: a converted estate that looked transplanted from the French countryside. Stone walls softened by ivy. Fountains catching the evening light. Valets in matching uniforms waiting at the entrance.
“Oh god,” Junie breathed. “This is a place that doesn’t list prices on the menu, isn’t it?”
“The tasting menu is prix fixe.”
“That’s a yes.”
A valet appeared at her door before Leo could respond. He watched her climb out, wobbling slightly on heels she clearly wasn’t accustomed to wearing, chin lifting with determined confidence despite the uncertainty in her eyes.
His lion rumbled approval. Whatever else happened tonight, she wouldn’t be cowed by wealth and pretension. That wasn’t who she was.
Leo rounded the car, offered his arm again, felt her grip tighten as they approached the entrance.
“If anyone judges me for not knowing which fork is which,” she muttered, “I’m absolutely causing a diplomatic incident.”
“There will be many forks.”
“How many?”
“Seven.”
“Seven?”
The ma?tre d’ appeared, all smooth competence and professional discretion. “Mr. Castellan. Welcome back. Your table is ready.”
They were led through the main dining room—white tablecloths, crystal glassware, a string quartet playing softly in the corner.
Every table occupied by supernatural elite in designer clothes and expressions of cultivated boredom.
Leo recognized a vampire elder, three pack alphas from the northern territories, and at least one fae diplomat whose presence probably violated several treaties.
Their table was in a private alcove. Secluded. Intimate.
Junie slid into her seat, picked up the menu, and stared at it with the expression of someone attempting to translate ancient Sumerian.
“I can’t pronounce any of this,” she whispered. “Is this French? This looks like French, but half these words aren’t real.”
“It’s a specialized culinary dialect. The chef trained in—”
“Leo.” She lowered the menu to glare at him over the top. “I don’t care where the chef trained. I care that I’m about to accidentally order sweetbreads because I thought it meant bread that’s sweet.”
“Sweetbreads are thymus glands.”
“See? That’s what I need.” She set the menu down. “Just… order for both of us. Pick things that don’t involve organs.”
The sommelier arrived before Leo could respond, launching into an elaborate description of the evening’s wine pairings. Tannins and terroir and particular notes of blackcurrant from a 1987 reserve that had been aged in oak barrels blessed by a coven in Burgundy.
Junie’s expression glazed over.
Leo recognized that look. The polite mask of someone desperately pretending to understand a language they’d never learned. He’d seen it on new pride members forced to attend political functions. On employees from non-supernatural backgrounds thrust into the paranormal business world.
He’d never expected to see it on Junie Reed, who had opinions about everything and wasn’t afraid to share them.
“We’ll take your recommendation,” he interrupted. “And water for both of us.”
The sommelier’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. Water. At La C?te d’Azur. Practically sacrilege.
But he recovered quickly. “Of course, sir.”
When he retreated, Junie let out a long breath. “Thank you. I was about thirty seconds from being allergic to grapes.”
“You don’t have a grape allergy.”
“He doesn’t know that.” She reached for the bread basket, then hesitated. “Am I allowed to touch this? Is bread an appetizer or a test of self-control?”
“Eat the bread.”
She tore off a piece, chewing with more relief than any bread deserved. Leo watched her—the way she gradually relaxed, the tension draining from her shoulders as she surveyed the room with more curiosity than discomfort now.
“So,” she said, reaching for another piece, “is this your usual Saturday night? Supernatural fine dining with the ancient and wealthy?”
“Not usually, no.”
“But it’s your world. This—” She gestured at the crystal, the string quartet, the effortlessly elegant patrons. “This is what you’re used to.”
It was. He’d built Castellan Ventures into an empire specifically so he would never feel out of place in rooms like this again. So he could move through wealth and power as if he belonged there, because he did. Because he’d earned it.
“Yes,” he admitted. “This is familiar.”
“Hmm.” She studied him, gaze direct and assessing. “You look different here.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. Tighter, maybe? Like you’re performing.” Her head tilted. “Is that what this dinner was supposed to be? A performance?”
The question hit closer than he’d expected. The honest answer was yes—he’d chosen this restaurant specifically because it was impressive, because it was a place designed to demonstrate worth through purchasing power and social access.
A gesture his father would have made.
The realization sat like lead in his stomach.
The wine arrived, saving him from having to answer. She took a sip. Her face twisted.
“Thoughts?” Leo asked.
“It tastes like someone set a blackberry on fire and then apologized to it.” She took another sip, brow furrowed. “There’s definitely a smoke element. And maybe… dirt? Is dirt a flavor note? Should I be tasting dirt?”
“Some wines have an earthy quality—”
“Earthy. That’s the word. This wine tastes like the earth. Specifically, like someone buried it in the earth and then dug it up and forgot to wash it.”
Leo pressed his napkin to his mouth. His shoulders were shaking.
“I’m serious,” Junie continued, encouraged by his reaction. “There’s layers happening here. Smoke, dirt, probably some regret. Maybe a hint of existential crisis.” She held the glass up to the candlelight. “This wine has been through things, Leo. This wine has seen some shit.”
He was laughing.
Actually laughing—not the sound he deployed at business dinners, but real laughter that cracked his chest open and spilled out before he could stop it. When had he last laughed at anything? He couldn’t remember. The sound felt foreign in his own throat.
The tables around them went silent. The sommelier froze mid-decanting at a nearby table. Somewhere in the kitchen, a pot probably clattered.
Leo didn’t care.
He was laughing at the absurdity of it all. At the wine that tasted like apologetic dirt and the restaurant where he’d spent years performing sophistication and the woman across from him who refused to play any game she hadn’t designed herself.
At the years he’d spent building a life that looked exactly like this room—pristine, expensive, hollow at its core.
The appetizers arrived. Tiny sculptures of food arranged on plates three times their size. Junie stared at her portion—a delicate construction of mousse topped with microgreens and edible flowers.
“Leo.”
“Yes?”
“What is this?”
“Foie gras terrine with—”
“I know what foie gras is. I’m asking why it’s the size of my thumbnail.
” She poked it with her fork. The entire structure wobbled precariously.
“This is the appetizer. The beginning of the meal. If this is the beginning, what’s the main course?
A single molecule of protein arranged artfully on a slate? ”
“The portions are designed to—”
“Starve people. The portions are designed to starve people.” She ate the entire thing in one bite, chewing with profound disappointment. “That was not worth four hours of driving.”
Leo looked at her. At this woman in her sale-rack dress and borrowed confidence, sitting in one of the most exclusive restaurants on the West Coast, utterly unimpressed by everything it represented.
His lion was silent. Waiting. Watching Leo make a choice.
“You hate it,” he said quietly.
“I don’t hate it, I just—” She gestured at the empty plate, the elaborate table setting, the string quartet now playing what sounded suspiciously like Debussy. “I’m going to need a drive-through on the way home.”
Leo was on his feet before he’d consciously decided to move.
“Get up.” He was already pulling bills from his wallet—enough to cover the appetizers, the wine, and the scandal of walking out before the main course.
Junie blinked. “What?”
“We’re leaving.” He held out his hand. “I know a place.”
“Leo, we can’t just—”
“I’m paying for the meal we didn’t eat. They’ll survive.” He kept his hand extended. Waited. “Trust me?”
She looked at his hand. At his face. At whatever she saw there that made her expression shift from confusion to curiosity to warmth.
“Yeah.” She took his hand. Her fingers were warm. Calloused in places from years of handling cauldrons and stirring rods. “Okay.”