Chapter 5
“Why are you avoiding eye contact? Are you having a seizure? What’s happening?” I ask Krimson.
He keeps his strained stare on the glittering night sky. Chin raised. Lips pursed.
“I’m not going to look at you when you have everything out on display like that,” he grumbles, clenching his jaw.
I look down at my plunging square neckline. My dress is made of onyx silk, short and flowy around my mid-thigh, tight and tied off around my waist. My candy apple red winter cloak takes the bite out of the frost in the air, but yes, I’m freezing my ass off.
Do I look like an evil seductress coming to take a nice, juicy bite out of a boy’s heart? Also, yes. Worth the discomfort.
“I look like old money and expensive sex. It’s all a part of the plan.”
Krimson huffs. “Never say that again.”
We’re walking along Main Street to the Chandelier Tavern. It was built seven years ago, encouraging women to dress less proper and express themselves and their sexuality. Apparently, dresses this short and lowcut weren’t allowed in my mother’s time.
Boring.
“I’m going to make him bleed.” Did I say that out loud?
“You may be giving him the wrong idea with how you look.”
My copper-blonde hair hangs in long spirals down my back, decorated with small rubies gifted to my mom by Aunt Ruth.
(She doesn’t know I took them, whoops.) My makeup was done with a precise hand, gold glitter on the inner corners of my eyes, black ink pointed like small knives on the outer corners. Long, wispy lashes, and blood red lips.
“Don’t ruin my high,” I tell him as he opens the tavern door for me.
The tavern is dim with candle-lit chandeliers, black marble surfaces, glossy espresso floors, and the strong scent of cigars and horny men.
Krimson laughs, signaling to the bar. “What’ll it be?”
“Two shots of cognac.” In the corner of my eye, I see Niklaus sitting with his inner circle. The traitor planted on his lap like a ridiculous decoration. “Make that three.”
“Dear God,” Krimson groans.
I hang my red cloak on the rack by the front door.
And I’d be lying if I said I don’t immediately notice the heads turn in the glowing, crystal tavern.
My legs are shiny with gold shimmery body cream, breasts are two heavy swells above my low neckline, and this dress is stunning. It’s a show or armor.
I can feel his eyes on me.
Let the games begin.
“Sapphire, you’re a vision.” Trexon Parlomon. The son of the late Suseas Parlomon. Former head conformist of the Emerald Lake Asylum. You’d think he’d hate me for what my mother did to his.
But of course, he’s a man. And he’s always made it clear he wants to buy me flowers, kiss my hand, and take me on lavish dates.
“Well, aren’t you sweet?” I gaze up at him from under my lashes. I’m laying it on thick.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asks with a little too much excitement in his eyes. Trexon isn’t very tall. About my height with skinny arms, chapped lips, and curly yellow hair. He has no idea that he’s currently a pawn.
“She has one.” My brother hands me my three shots, glaring down at Trexon with those eyes. The ones that big brothers and fathers have when they’re hit with that horrid territorial urge to protect.
With one hand on my back, Krimson guides me deeper into the tavern.
One down.
“You must be psychic. That happened exactly how you planned,” he murmurs over the loud music of saxophones and piano.
“And we’re just getting started.” I clink my glass to his, and we down our first shot. My throat, chest, and stomach buzz with a fierce chemical burn, but I don’t let my face show it. It’s water. Water. Water. Water.
“Did you wear that dress for me?” Ernest, the Chandelier City rake whispers in my ear.
He hits on me occasionally, but it isn’t usually in front of large crowds like this. Ernest has old money, regularly throws ridiculously expensive parties, has had sex with basically every woman with a heartbeat. Even women older than his mother.
“I wore it for me,” I say with a soft smile.
“Then maybe you could take it off for me. Later?”
“Perhaps. But you won’t be able to enjoy the view without your eyes,” Krimson growls, taking a step toward me.
Ernest is a good-looking man. Muscular and in shape, but he’s no match for my brother. And he’s certainly no match for the reputation attached to our last name.
Ernest backs away with an apologetic look. I shrug a shoulder and mouth the word sorry.
“This plan is starting to turn my stomach,” my brother complains. And although he likes to pretend otherwise, Krimson has a temper when it comes to defending me or my mother. I know this is actually boiling his blood.
“Don’t worry. Your part is almost over. Then you get to go flirt with the precious Genevieve watching you in the corner.”
Krimson straightens, peeking over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of her.
“Good.”
“Are they watching me?” I ask.
My twin’s brown and green eyes slide to the left side of the tavern. He nods twice.
“Beautiful.” I grin.
We take another shot. Krimson orders us two more. A shadow shifts behind me, and a finger taps me on the shoulder.
“No,” Krimson barks at the faceless figure.
I grin wider. And that was the last one I needed. Here’s the thing. Men want what other men want. If I walk into this tavern turning heads, and shooting down every suitor who comes tapping me on the shoulder…I’m twice as desirable. Even to the inner circle of my enemy.
Men are competitive. They want the chance to prove that they can claim what other men have tried and failed at. I’m playing them right into my hand.
Aunt Ruth taught me this.
“You’re scary accurate. Quite the mastermind manipulator,” Krimson mutters, giving me a quick kiss on my cheek before he makes his way to sweet Genevieve in the corner.
Game time.
I hold two shots in my hands, feeling the downpour of a great buzz filling my mind with temporary bliss. Careful not to appear too intoxicated, I start walking toward enemy lines. Niklaus’s usual table. To his gang of friends that have helped make my life hell.
Although there is one man left who I’m waiting on to approach me.
Ralik Marvelan. He’s the only Demechnef swordsman who gives Niklaus a run for his money.
They hate each other. Maybe more than he hates me.
But the thing about Ralik is—he’d never approach me with Krimson at my side.
He may be good with a sword, but everyone knows that no one can take Krimson on in hand-to-hand combat. He really is our father’s son.
So, where does that leave me? Waiting on Ralik to approach now that I’m without my twin bodyguard. I’m banking on this exact move to put the pieces exactly where I want them.
And like a well-dressed puppeteer, a single step away from crossing Niklaus’s table, Ralik stops me, holding a glass of champagne and that dangerously beautiful smile of his.
Please, please, please ask me what I want you to ask.
“Did you come here all by yourself, Valdawell?” Ralik purrs, those stunning white teeth contrasting with his dark skin.
There it is.
Even in the hazy shadows of the tavern, Niklaus’s intrigued stare is boring into my spine. The weight of it alone sends a tingle of adrenaline scorching my toes and fingertips.
“Sorry, Marvelan. I’m actually here with my boyfriend.” I point my chin to Niklaus’s best friend, Stark. Broad-backed, long chestnut hair, pale skin, amber eyes, and apparently sporting a huge dick. I’ve chosen my puppet with careful consideration and distinct precision.
Stark and Niklaus have mirroring expressions. Wide eyes. Raised brows.
I smile sweetly to him, holding out the cognac. “Here’s your shot, handsome.” And for the killing blow…I give him the “help me” eyes. What man can resist swooping in and laying false claim to the woman in the tavern who’s getting the most attention? Especially from their sworn swordsman opponent.
Stark takes a second too long to think about this. His glowing amber eyes shift from me to Ralik. My stomach sinks at the possibility of this plan failing miserably. How would I play it off? How would I recover?
“Rotten luck, Marvelan,” Stark says, standing to take the shot out of my hands. “She’s coming home with me tonight.”
I give Ralik an apologetic look as he storms off.
Taking a seat next to my victim posing as a white knight, I delicately place my hand on his thigh, leaning close to his ear.
“You’re a lifesaver,” I breathe against his skin.
Stark freezes up, then clinks his glass against mine. “Need a fake boyfriend tonight to keep these horny men off you, little Valdawell?”
I’m tempted to roll my eyes at the nickname. I’m five foot ten, much taller than the average woman here.
I gaze up at him from under my lashes and nod. “Would you mind?”
Stark is particularly attractive as he nods. Amber eyes, plush full lips, and hair that might be shinier than mine. It goes down to his collarbone, pin straight and tousled to one side.
He’s gorgeous.
Unfortunately, nothing compares to the icy blades that are Niklaus’s searing eyes. His face, holding no shame, is turned toward me. A portrait of disbelief. Raw, unblemished beauty. Disagreement written across his pinched brow.
The sight is victory. It only spurs me on.
“To being your fake girlfriend for the night?” I hold up my glass.
“To making every man in this bar sick with jealousy.” He smiles, tossing back the shot.
Now that I have a solid buzz, keeping my face emotionless as I let the fire slip down my throat is fairly easy. However, even I know I shouldn’t have taken this next shot. The fear of getting too happy, too friendly sits unwelcomed on the precipice of this plan.
“How should we keep up the ruse of convincing everyone here that we’re together?” I ask, pulling the hem of my dress down an inch.
Keep your faculties, Sapphire.
“Well,” Stark sits up a little straighter, “I’d normally have my girlfriend sit in my lap.”
I must be a fucking wizard.
“I guess I could—”
“No.” Niklaus’s silky voice cuts through my buzz.
Stark shoots him with a grimace. “And you can shut the fuck up.”
“I said no,” Niklaus repeats, stroking Mabel Rose’s thigh.
Ha! Faculties gone.
I pop up from my seat, straighten my dress, and slide onto Stark’s lap like a lady. Right hand clasping his neck, I take his wrists and circle them around my legs and waist. All while facing Niklaus and the traitor.
Does he see right through this? Without a doubt.
Is that the point? No.
This is.
“You know…I could use a fake boyfriend to the Emerald Lake Ball next week,” I murmur so so close to Stark’s face.
“Need me to fend off more horny men, little Valdawell?” An eagerness is sparked in those amber eyes.
“Mmm-hmm. If you’re not careful, I may start needing you more often. Day and night.”
Niklaus is still staring. Seething. Smoke pouring from his skin in lethal waves.
“I think I’m up for the job,” he says.
Mabel Rose makes several attempts to get Niklaus’s attention to no avail.
“And what about right now? My boyfriend would have kissed me by now, don’t you think?” Whose voice am I using? It’s…perfect! Low, sultry, full of raspy spice.
Stark blinks before he processes my request. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t respond. He doesn’t waste this opportunity. Gripping his hands to my waist, he pulls me flush to his chest, lifting his chin so that I get the hint to lean in the rest of the way.
And I do.
My lips tease his at first. A light brushing of my skin to his.
But then I let out a soft moan and lick his mouth lightly.
That’s enough to undo the stoic composure that he’s known for.
Stark takes me by the neck, opening his mouth to meet my tongue with his own.
The kiss is hot, wet, and honestly? Delicious.
“Goddamn, little Valdawell,” he groans into my mouth.
Make it hotter. Alcohol swims in my thoughts, taking the reins and leading me to go further. I slide my hand down the tight muscles of his stomach, caressing his belt buckle.
His kiss is bruising before it stops abruptly. My mouth is greeted by a violent gust of air as Stark is ripped from my lips, my hands, even my backside is no longer supported by his lap. I crash to the floor.
“Shit!” An ache shoots up my tailbone. I scramble to get back to my feet in case I’m drunkenly flashing anyone in this dress.
Niklaus has taken Stark to the ground. Foot on his throat. “I. Said. No.”
Internally, fireworks erupt, the sun rises, and I do a little dance.
“Stark?” I place a hand on Niklaus’s shoulder, so I can get a better look at his best friend. “Pick me up at eight for the ball.”
And I make my exit. With one last look at that storm of bewildered, ocean eyes, I send him a message that’s made of hot coals and rusted blades.
What took you eight months, I can do in one night. To fuck my friend. To charm her pants off. To get into her heart.
Rot, Motherfucker.