XAVIER
She cuts herself.
I don't know how I know that. I don't even know who she is. But I can somehow taste her sweet blood on my tongue like something akin to a memory intruding on my mind.
This mystery girl is in my fucking head, and I don't know why. Her taste is intoxicating, and I get momentarily lost in the sensation, rolling my tongue, salivating as if savoring a cherry-filled chocolate.
Damn--my grip slips on the razor pressed against my chin, and a tiny droplet of blood appears where there was dark stubble. Ironic.
Doing my best to shrug off this intrusive feeling, I toss my hair back from my shoulder, examining what's left of my five o’clock shadow.
The door opens, and I glance up from my razor.
"Hey, boss,” Jax says, blowing a strand of blonde hair from his face.
My eyebrow raises. "Yes?"
He clears his throat.
“Lyndi Margot is here tonight, a friend of Katie’s. We’re supposed to be nice—
“Margot? As in, Damon Margot’s daughter?”
My inner beast twitches its tail as he smiles, a faint red glow in his dark blue eyes.
“That’s why we’re supposed to be nice. Bouncer says she's pretty hot for a—"
“Nobody’s to touch her. But me,” I say sharply.
His brow raises into a wicked arch. He’s not used to me claiming them for my own; usually, I avoid groupies. But that’s not what this is about.
I narrow my eyes, pressing the blade over my throat, a sneer edging the corner of my mouth as I remove the remaining black stubble.
Jax nods at me in the mirror, a devious look flashing in his eyes.
“Understood, boss,” he says, glancing at his watch before disappearing—his subtle way of telling me that the band is ready.
Lyndi. Fucking. Margot.
Her name echoes enchantingly in my mind as I rinse the blade. Wonder if she's dirty like her daddy. Damon, the shit-bag has been selling us bad fluids—cheaper, dirty chemical-blood that’s sickening and killing normies, the non-shifters who drink the stuff.
Which equals cops sniffing around, screwing up my plans.
The old man can only pay off so many. There’s always some new good cop on the scene mucking things up for him—something I used to find entertaining before it threatened my club to the point of shutdown. Music is the only thing I care about.
As for Lyndi, the girl I know nothing about except...
One crucial detail.
She is the daughter of a major thorn in my side, an enemy.
She’s also friends with our most dedicated groupies, the fresh meat new on the scene, and she’s dying to be in the bands that frequent my club.
Keeping my enemies close, or in this case, his darling daughter, will be like slurping from a tender cut of lamb.
Jumping up from the chair, I throw on my boots and head into the smoky hall. Voices and clanking glasses are the backdrop to the band warming up.
I make my way to the bar. The new girl behind the counter perks up at my sight, her red hair tied back in a tight ponytail.
“Oh, Mr. Layne,” she smiles flirtatiously. I know she would drop her panties for me in an instant if I gave the order, but I'm not that easily swayed.
“I’ve got your bottle of Screaming Eagle Cab, sir.” She bites her lip. "Oh-um, do you need a glass?”
I raise an eyebrow, and her cheeks blush red.
“I don’t use a glass on stage.”
“Right, I knew that. Sorry.”
I give her a slight nod before turning around and leaning against the bar as I scan the room. People slowly start trickling in. But where is this Lyndi Margot?
Come out, come out, wherever you are.
This Daddy’s girl doesn’t know it yet, but she’s already mine.
LYNDI
Three whole nights.
“Lyndi Margot,” I repeat, annunciating to the bouncer with the eerie red eye lenses.
The summer sun is low in the Floridian sky, causing me to squint.
I fold my arms against my stomach. A nervous habit that hides the scars.
“V.I.P. Jay-Jay,” says Katie, her black, deep-v top slinking down her shoulder. Apparently, she's become a regular here.
“Gotcha,” he mumbles, glancing up at me from his cell phone with a smirk.
“She’s staying at the mansion,” she adds like that’s a big deal, and Amy and Maryanne whisper something from behind.
We have reserved special seating tonight thanks to Damon—aka the bio-dad, who prefers to be called by his name. Damon’s an art dealer and one of The Lair’s suppliers, so the tickets were free.
Damon’s brilliant idea was to enter my name into the stupid mansion lotto, where once in a full moon, some lucky person gets to stay the weekend in the famous Beauty & Beast Suite, where music videos have been filmed, and mostly only celebrities have stayed.
It’s supposed to be haunted.
Damon ostensibly thought it would help my fledgling music career if I got cozy with the Laynes. Whatever. Nobody gets cozy with the Laynes. His plot has nothing to do with my would-be career and more to do with his own.
Damon is an opportunist to the core. Money and connections are his sole motivations in life.
It’s the reason he got custody of me, his only heir. He fought Mother tooth and nail to keep his precious legacy intact. And though I’m twenty-one and graduated from college early, I will live with him until I'm married if I want to see my inheritance. Controlling bastard that he is.
The big gold doors finally open, and the scent of cologned decadence wafts. Gawking as we enter, everyone goes silent.
Um, just…wow.
It's…like being inside an antique lacquer box, with decadent layers of red and gold wrapping around. Heavy curtains and toile scenery on the silk walls, ornate glass lights hanging from the arched ceiling, and these massive golden dragon statues fill the room's corners. Bet Damon supplied those. Dragons are his specialty.
As a girl, I would pore over his catalogs, learning to spot the authentic antiques from the fake reproductions. But it’s all the same to him; money in the bank.
“Pretty wicked, right?” says Katie, blowing her auburn bangs from her smokey-lined baby blues.
“Wait ‘till you see backstage,” says Amy too loud, her curly blonde hair teased to perfection atop her head.
Maryanne takes my hand, squeezing it.
“Crazy, huh?” she whispers. She opted for a white summer dress and black flats, and I’ve got on jeans, a lacy white tank, and black boots.
People say we look alike. We are both brown-haired, five-six-ish in shoes, and both rather pale-skinned for Southern Florida. But Maryanne has a button nose, light brown eyes, and hair cut into a thick, shiny bob. I've got a ski jump nose, hazel-green eyes, and long, fine hair that tangles easily.
“Man, looking up is dizzying,” she says, eyes circling between the various chandeliers.
“So, look down,” I say, pointing at the horizontal tapestry beneath our feet.
“I just read about this in an article. An authentic Axminster, woven in 1780 on a midsummer’s day.”
“Romantic,” she says.
“Yeah. It looks like the sunset on steroids.”
“I love the spiral suns...the wicked, winged beasts surrounding them...the violet background—well, more of an Iris,” she says.
“Yeah, more of a bluish purple.”
“Doesn’t it look like the beasts are trying to swallow the suns?”
“Hm. Wonder why.”
She shrugs. “Dunno. To steal their energy?”
I laugh. “Maybe it’s a bad omen." My mind drifts to the weird news I’ve read about this place.
Though legendary in local Fort Myers music circles, The Lair has a notorious reputation. Dead bodies showing up, hauntings, creepy shit.
I shake off the thought, reminding myself that tonight is a special night with nothing to do with staying over. Tonight, I get to hear Vixxen sing my songs.
I’ve only seen her on YouTube, my words rolling off her signature contralto like a dark melodic wave. I don’t mind her taking credit for penning her verses. Someone has to, and I’m not ready for the world to know my secrets and obsessions.
“Wait up, girls,” I say, and we follow Katie and Amy to the reserved seating before the grand-looking tear-drop stage framed in red and gold curtains.
People start trickling in, a thrum of voices amidst the clanking of glasses at the bar, the sound of men’s voices rising from a hall.
The place smells masculine, like faded cologne and whiskey and cigar smoke.
“What’s with the shadow people on the wall?” I say, pointing to the weird silhouettes to the right of the stage, lined up in a row before flames of fire.
“Jax calls it, Offerings to Volos,” says Katie with a shrug.
I’m about to ask what that means when Maryanne cuts in.
“When do the bands start?”
“Usually, they’re warming up by, like, eight. House bands go first,” says Amy.
Katie gets a sly smile on her face, and Amy nudges her.
“What? Only band that matters is Crownless,” shrugs Katie.
“Yes, we all know that Xavier Layne is God’s gift,” teases Amy, hoisting herself onto the edge of the stage, legs dangling from under a miniskirt.
Katie leans against the stage.
“He’s heir to the fucking Layne dynasty. Not only is he an insanely talented musician, but he’s also filthy rich.”
“A dynasty built on blood supply," says Maryanne.
“On blood money,” I add, sitting down.
“Guess the world needs a lot of blood,” shrugs Amy, and we all go quiet.
The elephant in the room is that we all know the rumors about blood being a front for drugs.
“Speaking of,” says Katie, looking around briefly before pulling a tiny glass bottle from her black leather purse.
“Who wants some DB?”
Maryanne cocks an eyebrow. “Dragon's Blood?"
Speak of the devil.
"No, I'm good," I shrug.
Maryanne says nothing, sitting down beside me.
Katie lifts the bottle to her mouth, tapping some onto her tongue before passing it to Amy.
I’ve never had blood before, but I’ve always questioned whether it’s real blood, and if so, is it clean and safe? Call me a prude, but I’d rather not experiment on myself.
Maryanne nudges me, and I look at the black guy staring us down.
“What's his problem?"
Katie sighs. “Don’t worry about him. If he’s mean to us, I’ll tattle to Jax.”
Amy shoots her a look.
“You’re only into him to get closer to the God.”
“Whatever works, babe,” she says with a wink.
“So, do you gals know when Vixxen is up?” I ask. “She said she wasn’t sure about the time tonight.”
Katie points at a wall left of the stage.
“Check out the line-up on the board."
I squint my eyes, reading the chalk scrawled there.
TBA 8 p.m. – The Wyvern and the Hellcats 8:30 pm - Crownless 9:15 pm - Serpent Spawn 10:00 pm - Vixxen 10:45 p.m. — After Party 11 - 2 a.m.
“Guess she’s closing. An hour past my bedtime," I laugh.
The only good part about Damon arranging this is that I don't have to answer to him for an entire weekend.
Katie laughs. “Screw your bedtime. You’re a grown woman.”
“Better to screw at your bedtime,” laughs Amy, and my cheeks turn red with virginal ignorance.
“You’re going to sneak us into your room tonight, right, Lynds?” winks Katie.
“I hope so," I shrug. "Not looking forward to being alone.”
Dead bodies come to mind again. I bet dollars to doughnuts the after-party is when they start dropping. But I don’t want to bust any bubbles by saying it aloud.
The guy in black appears before us, looking overly cross.
“Off the stage, please."
“Hey, Jim," smiles Amy. He nods curtly before heading off.
“Floor manager,” huffs Katie. "The owners don't mind, but Jim's anal."
Two guys appear on the stage, setting up equipment. The waitress appears.
“What would you ladies like? A bottle of house wine is included with V.I.P. seating.”
“That’s a good start,” chirps Katie, met with a round of approving nods.
Within a few minutes, we are sipping wine, and the club is bustling with energy and strange faces. The opening band tests the mic.
“Well, the drummer is pretty hot," smiles Maryanne.
This tall, blonde-haired guy flexes the muscles in his tattooed arms as he readies his instrument.
“You think that now. Wait until the holy one appears,” laughs Amy.
"Obsessed much?" I shoot her a raised brow when suddenly distracted by this strange feeling, like a change in the room's energy. The hairs raise on the back of my neck as I turn my head in the direction of the bar. What…the?
As tall as he is muscular, this dark-haired, green-eyed creature stands near the waitress like a supernatural. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if he's really there--is there something in this wine? I mean, the man is the most...scarily-attractive... My breath catches as his green eyes lock hard on mine, jaw slackening. A distinct chill creeps down my neck as I realize it's him. Xaiver fucking Layne.
You, reverberates a deep masculine voice inside my head, deepening my shiver.
His lips aren’t moving, but he’s talking to me. Impossible to believe. Impossible to ignore. His eyes match the tone of the voice so completely: intensely deep, darkly seductive.
The green eyes and the deep, dark voice burn into me...
Hello, Lyndi
With his green eyes on me, the moment freezes.
I tune everything else out. Everything but the strangely brilliant work of art before me--no, don't that, Lyndi. But I can't help myself. It's my nature to objectify. It’s the art dealer’s daughter in me. I absorb, analyze, and collect. And Xavier Layne is just so... Larger than life. Darker and brighter than a moonlit night.
Shockingly tall—what is he like, 6’8? Not even kidding. Muscled and breathtakingly beautiful, he's watching me with such deliberate tension in his pale, sculpted face. Sharp cheekbones and a divot at the center of his angry jaw, supporting a handsome mouth, full and sensual but mean and masculine all at once.
On the other hand, there’s something very wrong with him.
The edge of his frowning mouth nearly forms into a mocking smile, hinting at cruelty. And those intense green eyes, framed by dark brows and straight black hair, twinkle with deadliness. Is that...a trickle of blood dripping down his thick neck? Weirdly, I can almost taste its musk. My senses are overwhelmed with this moment; all I can do is lick my lips, watching him watch me.
He’s the kind of art that makes one question the sanity of the maker. In this case, the maker would be an aesthete with a twisted soul, rendering the most painfully beautiful image of a man hiding some secret malice, like a monster wearing the suit of an angel, a fallen angel captured in stone.
I can easily imagine him with wings.
I need to look away, but I can’t blink.
He’s got me stuck on his image, my heart speeding. Maryanne pinches me, but I just... I can’t let go until he does. He's captured me. The sound of his deep voice lingers in my mind, taunting me. You.
Hello, Lyndi.
But that can’t be, that’s not possible. He’s across the room, and his lips haven’t moved.
He suddenly seems to catch himself, almost like he’s changed his mind about something, his expression turning sharp before looking away.
This cold weight lifts from my spine, and I sigh in relief.
“He was looking right at you,” hisses Amy.
“Xavier Layne never looks at anybody,” declares Katie as if I’ve been blessed.
“I’m not sure it was friendly,” I mutter.
Why was he watching me so pointedly, making me feel like some starstruck fan, which I’m obviously not? I mean, I do know and like a couple of their songs. But I didn’t come here for Xavier or his band.
Magnetism. That’s what it is. Xavier’s got it. Okay, so what? Now I know what all the obsession is over him. But no, not me. I won’t be that girl. In fact, I’m already over it.
Or, so I think, still trailing him with my eyes as he circles back from the bar with a drink in his hand, then disappears into the hallway. I remind myself to breathe.
“One more, and they’re up,” winks Katie as the next band, Wyvern and the Hellcats, sets up.
“Warning,” says Amy. “They’re hardcore.”
There are four girls and a guy. The girls are all dressed in black miniskirts and leggings, bright red eyeshadow and lipstick, and red streaks in their hair. The sandy-haired guy warming up his voice at the mic must be the wyvern in the group.
I know what that is from studying royal crests. The wyvern, or dragon with two legs, is often depicted.
This guy’s got red flames dancing down his black button-up and dragon tattoos running up and down his arms. Red eye-contacts, just like the waitress and the bouncer. Guess that’s a thing around here.
Or maybe it’s a thing in the metal music scene in general, for all I know. I’m not exactly up to speed on trends.
I’ve spent my life surrounded by antiquated things. I’ve done most of my art history degree online. When I occasionally go to campus, I’m usually found in the library researching music and looking through medieval and Victorian sheet music. Usually, only finding Wassailing holiday songs and stuff about courtly love. But occasionally, I find something more interesting, like a suicidal queen or a battle with a dragon.
“Ya’ll fucking ready?” shouts Wyvern amongst cheers. The club is packed now, the energy palpable.
The lights lower, smoke spiraling. The drummer girl starts tapping, and then the guitars kick in.
“Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi!” chants the backup vocalist.
“This one's called the Weepers,” growls Wyvern, a low rumbling into the mic.
When he sings, he yells, making me wish I had earplugs. Maryanne and I exchange a look, and I know she's wishing the same. At least the dude annunciates his lyrics, so I know what the hell he's yelling about.
They came…the night they built the FIRE
yeah, in Florence Square
and the friar, SAVANAROLA
yeah, he was there
They BURNED the sins, the vanities
They tricked the FLAMES
into the air
They woke the DRA-GON
within it’s LAIR!
They woke the DRA-GON
within it’s LAIR, LAIR, LAIR!
“Lair. Lair. Lair,” chants the crowd.
Dragons? Really? I dart my eyes from the band to the mosh pit, forming a few feet from us. It sure didn't take much to get these guys riled up.
Another brow-raised glance between Maryanne and me, hoping the moshers don’t fall into us, with their shadowed faces and bobbing red eyes. Maybe we’re the only ones without colored contacts, not counting the green-eyed creature I witnessed a few minutes ago.
Katie and Amy don’t seem to care; they look moderately into it, bobbing their heads.
I get that feeling again, like I’m being watched. When I search past Katie, I find those scary green eyes boring into me again. Shit. Something falls into my leg, and I tear my eyes from Xavier Layne to this sweaty guy on the ground at my feet.
“You, okay?” I yell to him, but I don’t know if he can hear me; the music is so damn loud. The bass guitar, the drums, the growling singer blaring his metallic verse.
The FRIAR…ran from the FIRE!
Savonarola from the burning FLAME
Twas not the bon-FIRE…he came
But from the dragon’s acid-BURN
BURN, BURN, BURN!
Heat spreads over my face as flames shoot into the air from the stage. Something clutches my leg, and I look down at this weird guy looking up at me. I jerk my leg away. "Get off!"
He smirks, releasing me—freaking weirdo.
“Burn. Burn. Burn,” chants the crowd, and the red-eyed moshers break into a mad, shoulder-shoving frenzy. Maryanne clenches my hand. Even Katie and Amy look slightly wary.
There’s this cacophony of sound, smoke, and fire before the band finally dies down. The mosh pit halts as a scantily-clad woman on stage is lifted onto a small platform. She screams in convincing terror, chills hitting my body as she leaps into the flames. It looked more like she was pushed from behind. I remind myself that it's just an illusion. Surely she fell onto a hidden trampoline. The lights slowly lower, and a hush comes over the crowd. I look back toward the bar to confirm that glowing green eyes are still gone.
Nothing but shadow there now.
* * *
Like the devil incarnate.
Smoke pumps through green-filtered light as Crownless finally takes the stage.
I thought he seemed larger than life before, but now that he’s above me, looking down, so statuesque, fiercely beautiful to the point that he’s almost torturous to look at, Xavier Layne really does appear God-like.
More of a Dark Lord or master of dark powers.
Surely from his vantage point, I’m just a shadow. I can study him all I want.
He wears black fitted jeans and a tight, sleeveless blue-grey tee, with tattoos winding along the corded muscles of his long arms. He’s so tall and wide-shouldered, and everything about him is hard—from his body to the angles of his face. Even his long neck looks strong.
His pale skin is the only thing soft about his face, and his full, sullen lips seem relaxed into a perpetual-looking frown. There's anger in that sexy, masculine pout.
He whips his dark hair aside, adjusting his bass guitar. The focus in his startlingly handsome face is subtle as he strums. I can tell he's done this a million times before by how easy he makes it look. My eyes are happily full of him as I visually absorb his high bones and striking features. The fierce-looking ridge along the lower part of his forehead, and those mean, dark brows over killer emerald eyes, framed by black lashes. Eyes full of mystery, cunning, and rage. Pure. Fucking. Rage. God, why is it so sexy?
He plucks the bass guitar with a big, long hand, and I’m instantly sucked into his gothic, doom-metal world. His deep voice purrs like a lion as he chants cryptic lyrics.
Unlike the previous singer, who was so raw and explosive, Xavier is like lava bubbling beneath the dark earth. His low, bass-heavy voice is utterly haunting and edged with wicked promise, lulling the room into a quiet, dark trance.
Ave Volos, cuh-thonic ones
chthonic one
Mm...
I went down into the 9th pagan realm
of Hella’s hall
into that savage forest darkly...
Found a lost girl, in limbo waiting — hesitating
petunias in her hair, all black and purple — second circle
Her white breasts, so pale and heaving
Said I’ll be...
I’ll be your poet, pet — yeah, in the deep
My dragon spoke, a low rumble in the jungle darkly...
To the lost girl, in limbo waiting — vacillating
said I’ll take you there, to midnight purple — second circle
Her white breasts, so pale and heaving
Said I’ll be...
I’ll be your poet, pet — yeah, in the deep
I’ll take you down to that savage lair so darkly...
Lost girl, in lust waiting — incarnating
Cold lips, all wet and purple — second circle
White breasts, so pale and heaving
Said I’ll be...
I’ll be your poet, pet — yeah, in the deep
Mm...
Salty petals dripping...down
velvet on my...mouth
yeah, in the deep
I’m...
I’m in...
I’m in so...
I’m in so fucking...
I’m in so fucking deep-ly...
Mesmerized, I lick my lips as smoke rises around his towering figure.
Xavier turns, his back muscles visible through his sweaty, tight tee, is black jeans hug his sculpted ass to perfection as he puts down his guitar. That's it? No more?
Like the biggest tease of all time, he vanishes behind the smoke. He doesn’t return for another song, and the next hour feels like a prelude to trouble, bordering on obsession.
My instincts tell me that Xavier Layne is dangerous, which only makes him more compelling.
I try not to think about him, but I can’t help it.
I’ve already collected him in my mental catalog, like some newly discovered, dark, and ancient weapon bejeweled in rare finds—green emeralds, blood-red rubies. A ceremonial sheath and dagger, hieroglyphic inscriptions along the curved blade… I want to know him better.
* * *
Hours go by. Then, finally, it's Vixxen's turn. I'll hear my songs. This should be the highlight of my night, the reason that I agreed to go along with Damien's stupid plan to get me inside this probably overrated mansion.
But I'm so damn distracted by trying to shake off the lingering haunting feeling from Xavier. Things aren't going as planned, as it's unnerving. I’m at least glad we girls made it this far without a scratch. Other than a few moshers falling into us, we’re unscathed. But the night isn’t over, and my weekend here has just begun.
Excitement fizzes inside me as Vixxen takes the stage, her silky brown hair flowing down, her pale, curvy figure tucked into a tight, sleeveless, white dress.
My words on her tongue delivered so beautifully to a crowded, low-lit room listening intently. With no fear of discovery on my part, the songstress on the stage will take both the criticism and the praise. I’m feeling pretty satisfied with this arrangement when I become preoccupied with that weird feeling again.
I turn my head toward the bar, and this time, my stomach drops. Xavier. Okay, this is getting weird now. My lips part as I watch him watching me, not just my words on Vixxen’s tongue dancing in my head but...his.
I’m onto your…secret, his deep baritone rumbles, reverberating inside of me like a tremor. He glances at the stage, his eyes narrowing at Vixxen. He smirks, returning his gaze to me.
She’s not you, he murmurs, condescension in his tone.
Did I really hear him say that...telepathically?
I divert my eyes from him, trying to focus on Vixxen. But the weight of his stare lingers a moment longer, followed by a feeling of release, like a tiny chain broken. I know instinctively he's gone.
I look over, confirming I’m right.
But he still lingers. The meaning embedded in those phantom words nags at me. Words that came from closed lips across a smoky room, from a voice that matches the commanding manner of the man.
She’s not you.
Aside from the impossibility of hearing him, what does it mean? It could be interpreted as both positive and negative. Naturally, my mind chooses the latter of the two. She’s not you. Meaning you’ll never be her.
If this is what the phantom voice means, it’s not wrong. She’s not me, and I will never be her.
But I’ve given her a part of me, and she has brought my lyrics alive in return. So, in this way, we are like twin sisters, two sides of the same coin.
“The deeper it cuts, the better I feel," she sings. My twisted words, my pain. She's the conduit for my silent suffering.
I look around the room, watching the reaction of the audience.
Like dark magic, her sultry voice delivers the blade, and my cutting words painlessly draw blood. Maybe it will resonate, and the audience will feel it later, a tiny red trickle that forms a microscopic scar.
I can make a mark on this dark world in this small way.
She's not you.
I sigh, returning my eyes to the stage. I want to bask in this moment, yet I cannot shake this creature of a man.
Admittedly, when he was on stage, I fell into a trance with the rest of the room—this feverish moment of adoration for this wrathful, dark angel of music.
His impossible, cryptic phantom words haunt me.
Maybe nobody expects this thing when it hits, this feeling of...obsession. Maybe this is how it works, catching you by surprise when you’re somehow vulnerable. Am I? Vulnerable?
Nah, I’m good.
But assuming that I'm not totally crazy and just experienced a psychic moment with Xavier Layne, how can I not feel captivated?
I hate what I want to do right now: I want to go and find that tower of a man and confirm that I’m not insane. And that sucks because I don’t want to chase him like some groupie.
Vixxen exits the stage, and I clap my hands with the sinking realization that within a matter of hours of being here, I’ve been sucked into Xavier’s orbit, this undeniable gravitational hold.
It’s unsettling. I mean, what’s to differentiate me from any hopeless fan girl? I came here expecting the polar opposite. Not counting my connection with Vixxen, that is.
But here I am, stupidly ignoring the warning inside of me that knows that Xavier’s universe isn’t solar-centric. He’s a big, dark, cold planet, and I’m like a tiny burning sun seeking answers in his shadow. He could swallow me whole. And maybe because of my insatiable curiosity, I would let him.
* * *
Our secret.
We hug and smile briefly before Vixxen turns her attention to her fan club, mostly guys, dark-clothed, beneath one of the chandeliers. I stand beside her awkwardly, wondering where my girlfriends have gone.
So many red-eyed strangers lurking at the edges of the smoky room. It’s freaking eerie.
I’m supposed to check into my suite before attending the after-party, but I promised the girls we’d go together, wherever they are. I scan the room for a familiar face when none other than Xavier Layne appears beside me, his presence and scent immediately overwhelming.
Mad butterflies crash through me, and I sway a little before catching myself. Get a freaking grip, girl!
He moves past me to stand beside Vixxen, his long, muscled arm brushing against my side. Both electric and startling.
I suck in air, trying not to gawk at the spectacle of daunting, gorgeous Xavier towering beside pretty and petite Vixxen. Even my stage-trained songstress seems swayed by his supernatural charm, the devious sparkle in his green eyes, and the subtle smirk on his lips. She smiles up at him, eyes fluttering with false lashes.
His green gaze is fixed on her like everyone else in this corner of the room.
“So, tell me, Lisa. That’s your real name, right?” He trails his long, pale finger up her arm, and she seems to shudder. Yeah, I feel that too, my sister.
“Uh-yes, Vixxen is my stage name,” she swoons.
“Mm-hm. And so, what inspired you to write that last song? It was...troubled, melancholy. I didn’t dislike it.”
Vixxen’s eyebrows raise, her smile widening like she’s so happy he’s taking time out of his night to speak to her. He didn't exactly compliment her. But she is, after all, a guest in his house, right?
This must be a reaction that Xavier is used to inspiring. The thought of it gets under my skin, making me wish I weren’t drawn to him. At least Vixxen is a fellow musician.
As a composer, I should probably consider myself as well. But she’s the singer; she’s the one with the instrument.
“Well, I was just, you know, in one of those moods when I wrote it,” she says, clearing her throat.
He narrows his eyes at her, seeming unconvinced.
“Well, it's a thought-provoking song. I’ll give you that.”
She nods, biting her lip as male fans wait patiently behind her, totally forgotten.
“Thank you, Xavier. I write when I need to get stuff off my chest.”
True, I think, with an approving nod. Vixxen, my mouthpiece.
“You two know each other?” Xavier says, glancing at me. My cheeks turn hot, blushing uncontrollably. Damn, that sucks—one of the reasons I never like the spotlight.
“Oh, um, yes. Our fathers introduced us,” she says, eyes glancing briefly my way.
I nod stupidly while wondering why Vixxen seems suddenly awkward. Maybe she’s not as good a liar as I thought. However, I hate phrasing it that way. I don’t think of her as a liar. We have an arrangement. We aren’t the first or last to make music in this way.
“Yes, always useful to have a music producer daddy,” he winks at her. “Our little secret,” he adds. “Most of your idiot fans will never know you didn’t get here purely on merit.”
He seems to delight in how her smile slowly dies as her face turns to shock. I fumble with the hem of my shirt, unsure what to say.
Satisfaction twinkles in Xavier’s green-eyed gaze, meeting mine fleetingly before he vanishes.
I’m about to attempt to console flustered-looking Vixxen when her fans swarm her. Her smile returns. It must be nice to have an easy distraction from the Xavier effect.
“There you are!" calls Maryanne. “Jasmine is looking for you and says she needs you to sign some paperwork.”
“Who?”
Holding a clipboard, a woman in a business skirt and a pink silk blouse approaches me with a curt smile.
"Lyndi Margot?”
“Yes. Hi--”
“I’m here to check you in. I'll need you to sign the NDA before you attend the party. We can review the rules, and I'll show you how to access the suite and give you a temporary key.”
“Okay. NDA?”
“Oh, it’s something that all guests sign. In summation, it’s a contract agreeing not to share any information about the family, the home, and what goes on here. Your stay must be confidential. As they say... What happens at the mansion stays at the mansion.”
XAVIER
Shifting my gaze into night vision, I ponder the sudden urge to get Lyndi Margot alone. I have questions, and the after-party can wait.
The secret passageway through the kitchen leads to the wine cave, among other places. The tiled, sconce-lit hall meanders past my Master Suite and my study into the West Wing, where the guest quarters are located, where the lucky (or unlucky) lotto winner Lyndi Margot is staying.
No doubt her daddy, Damon, got her in. It’s no secret that the contest is rigged. The lotto is merely a gimmick, a marketing tactic that Father’s PR firm developed years ago. Attach the word exclusive to a given place, and celebs and execs will flock. Their egos can’t resist a chance at doing something few others can.
But this isn’t just a luxe-themed suite at a historic mansion built by the Blood dynasty. This is one of those notoriously haunted places, most especially by the local scandal of the college girl who mysteriously died here. She was a superfan of my music from when I was still a member of MacRath's pack.
Before I entered my dragon, the old pack used to play through the night until our fingers bled. Good times, but things were simpler then. Fuck, I just heard that MacRath, the bastard, has taken the throne—a regular King of the Order. He’s got his family castle located on some Cuban archipelago or some shit, reigning over the wolf packs there. Whatever. I’m of the anarchist persuasion nowadays. Fuck the Order.
When I exit the passageway into the Hall of Kings, which is as far as I usually travel on this side of the sprawling mansion, and rarely at that, the red hall is a blaring reminder of ancestry that I resent. One that Shaw MacRath and I share. If only I could convince Father that I won’t sell out like MacRath. Regardless, he insists on reminding me—and I insist on forgetting—I’m hereditary heir to a powerful line of wolf shifter kings. The dragon side of my family means nothing to him.
I usually ignore politics just as much as I ignore the phantoms of this haunted mansion. Fucking Ghost Girl. No matter how unsettled I felt or maybe still feel about the unsolved case of a former fan, her memory is just money in the bank now. Everyone loves a good ghost story, and Father is soaking it for all it’s worth. He's a ruthless bastard like that.
Pausing in the narrow corridor’s musky, faintly perfumed air, I run my fingertip along an ornate, gold-framed portrait. One of a dozen along the red silk damask walls, dimly shimmering in the candlelight. There are no ancestors of Mother here. Hers are located in the less-regarded East Wing or Dragon Wing.
Mother. Gone forever. The woman who gave me my inner fire, for better or worse. The most apparent dragon attributes being a laissez-faire disposition and psychic abilities.
Speaking of which…
Little Lyndi Margot approaches.
I smile inwardly. Though I can't make out the words, I can almost taste her sweet scent. The girl smells like sun-drenched honey plucked straight from a fucking hive. I find her scent maddeningly alluring. I wasn’t expecting that.
I proceed a few steps up the hall, trying to ignore the lingering inward echo that the red hall always induces in me. That's probably why I avoid coming down here. Because, without meaning to, like some dutiful heir, I’ll find myself pondering the meaning of the Great War of Kings that ended the reign of my line. Bullshit. Forget about it.
I’d rather think about this strange girl. She’s…different.
She was highly attuned to my voice and not merely subconsciously. She knew I was talking to her, and she said something odd when I entered her mind.
I could only take so much of her adoration of Vixxen before messaging my disapproval. I said something simple like, She isn’t you. She replied, but her words are mine. Only mine.
A curious thing. But it didn’t take long for me to solve her meaning. Make no mistake, little Lyndi: I am onto you.
Reaching the Princess Suite, aka Beauty & Beast Suite, I fall back into the shadows, waiting. I'll get my answers.
“Right this way, Miss Margot,” rises a familiar voice, and I duck behind a red curtain dividing the seating area.
When I spy the pretty little liar just outside the guest suite, she looks downright awkward beside polished and prim Jasmine.
Strangely, I get this feeling of déjà vu.
The last time I stood here like this, I was looking at a dead girl. The forever fan, famous now. A phantom guest of honor echoing the halls nightly. Even dead, the groupie remains a thorn in my side.
Waiting for Jasmine to leave, I shake off the thought. I won’t let these old hauntings distract me from my savage intentions: to ensure that Lyndi Margot knows her place by firmly putting her in it.
Our latest guest of honor is here because of the opportunistic aim of her daddy, who's been dirty dealing with Father too long. I didn’t give a shit until it started fucking things up for my music. The only thing I care about in this world anymore is all on the line because of that filthy rat. But he won’t go away. Not easily. He’s in too deep, and father won’t hear of it.
So, then. I’ll get Damon where it hurts.
Yes, Lyndi Margot will pay for the sins of her father. I will make sure of it.