Queen of Hearts (ELM HOLLOW HOLIDAYS: From Sunrise Ranch #3)

Prologue

Cohen

Okay, yeah. I’m drunk.

But not that drunk. Not “celestial hallucinations” drunk.

Yet I must be, because what I’m looking at can’t be real. It just can’t. What I’m looking at is an angel.

And yes, I’m in a room full of them. I’ve counted at least fifteen. Sixteen, if you include the brunette with the rhinestone halo who keeps pretending she’s not giving a lap dance to Mark in front of all his jackass clapping friends.

Best bachelor party ever—though I’m pretty sure that idiot Mark doesn’t plan on saying goodbye to bachelorhood anytime soon.

Honestly, I hope for Audrey’s sake he never makes it down the aisle.

Call me an asshole, fine, but Dominic took at least three high-def photos of Mark’s tongue in places that don’t legally appear on the image of a ready-to-marry man, and I’m a hundred percent certain he plans to show them to Audrey before she gets to choose the wedding cake flavor.

Me? I’m an idiot, too, sure. Just not that kind of idiot.

For example, if I were two months away from getting married (yes, this is actually a pre-bachelor party.

.. whatever the hell that means), I probably wouldn’t be staring at Angel No.

3’s tits like that. Or even thinking about getting my tongue so far down her throat I’m practically checking her tonsils.

Revolting.

I’m not judging. Okay, yes, I’m judging.

It’s not like I’m at risk of getting married anyway—different story, different trauma, file that under ‘later.’

Let’s go back to the part where I might be in a coma.

Because The Angel isn’t like the others.

The other girls are wearing shimmering white outfits, halos, and plastic wings with elastic bands. It’s all very “chic,” but still “bachelor party chic,” if you catch my drift. Glitter, champagne, and rented morality.

She… isn't.

Her wings look real.

Layers of soft, enormous white feathers, arcing high over her shoulders like those old Victoria’s Secret runway shows that I, of course, never watched for "research". The feathers catch the light with every move, stroking the air. They make her look ethereal. Untouchable.

She’s wearing red.

It’s the first thing that hit me in the chest. All the others are white, glittering, fake-innocent. She is a blood-red, lace poured over a body that shouldn't be in the same room as people like us. She doesn't look like she's on our level at all. She doesn't look like a common mortal at all.

The bodysuit cuts high on her hips, small satin bows on the sides, and there's this sheer panel down her stomach that does absolutely nothing to hide how flat and taut she is. My brain shut down there for a second.

Long legs. Smooth skin, so pale it makes you want to lick it just to see if it tastes like cream or sin. Big, impossibly blue eyes, framed by lashes she knows exactly how to use. Full mouth. The kind of mouth you’d sell your soul for, if you had anything left to sell.

So, yeah.

Vision. Coma. Heaven. Something like that.

“What is it, Lucifer?” she asks me, and her voice—Christ—her voice is silk dragged over bare skin. “Regretting your fall from Grace already?”

Lucifer.

That’s new. It takes me a moment to realize. Then I remember I’m wearing a costume too.

Black wings. Dark pants. A chain around my neck.

I’m definitely ridiculous.

I tilt my head, smirk. “My original plan was to own Heaven,” I tell her.

Is that a cheap pickup line? One hundred percent yes.

She makes a small sound, entertained, not annoyed. Already better than any other conversation I’ve started tonight.

If I’m honest? I’m rusty.

I usually don’t have to work this hard. Not to brag—I don’t think being the object is a brag—but a lot of girls are happy to say yes to a Pro Soccer League striker.

And I haven't been out much lately. I screwed up one too many times here and there, and now the club has me on a leash.

Which means this is my first "unapproved" night out in weeks.

So, yeah. Out of practice.

Yet, somehow, she’s smiling at me like I’m worth her time.

That alone is dangerous.

“Mmm,” she says. “Ambitious. I like ambitious.” And then she twirls a blonde lock of hair around her finger, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Her lips curl. Slow. Filthy. Knowing.

“I’m more of an Olympus girl, personally.”

I laugh. “Olympus, huh?”

“Yeah.” She leans toward me a little as if she's about to tell me a secret. Her scent hits me and I forget what I wanted to say for two full seconds. Vanilla and something warmer underneath—amber, maybe—a scent that slides down your spine like a hand. “Mmm. Less rules, more fun.”

Her eyes drift down to my chest.

Then down to my abdomen. I silently thank the hours spent at the gym and all the grueling workouts.

I loosen the chain around my neck a bit. I feel like I’m choking. I’m too hot—and not in the fun way. In the way where you can’t breathe.

Her gaze lingers on my throat, my lips, then settles on my eyes. Her tongue barely brushes her lower lip, slow, as if she’s considering biting me there.

I forget English for a second.

“You’d make Venus jealous,” is all I manage.

She laughs, a soft and scandalous sound all at once. “How sweet,” she says. “But actually, I’m Cupid.”

It takes me a moment to realize, because I was staring at her breasts, not her accessories. Then I see it: a small red bow with a matching arrow, golden tip, clipped to her hip.

She pulls out the arrow. Aims. Draws the string.

“Bang,” she whispers.

And lets it go.

The arrow hits me right in the chest.

Cute.

Except when her knuckles brush my ribcage, my heart rate goes insane.

Oh, fun, I think. I’m in real trouble.

But… I try not to think about it.

I already messed up by coming here.

At least let's make it even bigger.

The club is the kind where you have to know someone to get in.

No sign outside. Private elevator. The lobby alone costs more than my first contract.

Everything is rich and golden—indirect lighting, backlit bottles like gems, glass, brass, velvet.

The music is slow, deep, it slides over your skin instead of entering your ears.

It doesn't smell like sweat and tequila: it smells like money and sex.

We’re in one of the side lounges. Private, but not closed off. A one-way glass wall overlooks the main room. Dark leather couch curving around a table piled with champagne and ice. Mirrors behind the bar, on the ceiling, in the corners.

The kind of place where everything is “consensual entertainment” but anything you do can still ruin you. It’s The Aureum… you don't get in easily, you don't get out easily.

Well, I admit, it’s not the first time I've been here. But this is the first time I’m truly captivated.

Her thigh brushes mine.

Not accidentally. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“So,” she says, tilting her head, “what’s your sin, Lucifer?”

I smile sideways. “Yours first, Angel.”

“Angel,” she repeats, as if savoring it. She smirks, “cute.”

She looks up at me.

Everything else fades.

There's the bass, the laughter from the other side of the glass. Mark groaning somewhere. Someone popping another bottle.

It all disappears.

Her eyes are glacial blue, rimmed with dark liner. Up close, she’s even more lethal—porcelain skin, perfect nose. Gloss that seems to taste of strawberry and sin.

She traces a fingernail along my throat.

I swallow.

The nail descends. To my sternum. Further down.

I grab her wrist.

Because if I don't, I'll start moaning like an idiot in a club full of people I’ll see again.

I feel her accelerated heartbeat beneath my fingers.

She raises her chin, provocative. “Are you stopping me?”

That tone.

That’s the tone men die to.

“Not here,” I say.

Her lips curve. “Not here,” she repeats, thoughtful. Then, with absolute calm: “Where?”

There's a corridor behind the lounge. I know at the end there's an unmarked door, with a keypad.

There was a guard earlier. Big guy. Suit. Earpiece. In any case, I have the password. Yes... courtesy of Dominic. He’s always why I have access to this place. I don't know if he's close with the owner or if it's something family-related. He's always enigmatic about it.

I look at her.

The Angel stares back as if reading my mind.

I lean in, my mouth close to her ear. “Come with me.”

She exhales softly.

And smiles.

Her wings spread when she moves, brushing my arm. Soft, like real feathers, like sin disguised as sanctity. A flash of bare skin where the lace rides up her hips. My hands are itching.

I'm a grown man, theoretically in control, yet I almost moan.

We leave, and no one stops us.

The corridor is quieter. Darker. The music is just a beat through the walls. The lights here are cold, more shadow than gold. Black walls. Brass sconces. Cameras in the corners.

She walks a few steps ahead of me. Cruel.

Her ass in that lace is—

Fuck, I need to get some self-control.

When we reach the door without a handle, I try the password. Technically, if someone is already inside, it shouldn't open. Unless… they don't want to get caught.

Open.

Obvious. Of course, this place has a room for this.

What’s less obvious is that no one has already occupied it.

Inside it’s dark, blue light instead of golden. Fewer mirrors, more shadows. A couch against the wall—low, wide, deliberately so. Small table, sink, full-length mirror, spare towels, a camera in the corner with the red light off.

I go in first. Check.

Off indeed. Either someone disabled it, or this is a “VIP” room and VIPs don’t want to be filmed. Good for me. Good for her.

When I turn around, she’s already inside, leaning against the door, one eyebrow raised as if I just passed a test.

She’s the one who locks the door from the inside.

“So,” she says softly, “now what?”

I don’t touch her right away.

I trap her.

One hand beside her head. The other on the wall near her waist. My body in her space, close enough to feel the heat, not close enough for contact.

Her breathing stops.

There it is, the moment.

“Now,” I murmur, “you tell me your sin.”