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“Ready for this, Carver?” he asks. His voice is low and gravelly, drawing me up to those ever-changing hazels. They’re dark tonight, like a midnight forest. Seeking.
Despite how flustered I feel with his fingers clasping my hip, I don’t shy away from his probing gaze, relishing both my pounding pulse in unexpected places and the years of etiquette training permitting me to hide it. “I’m always ready for anything, Graves.”
He smirks down at me as we head toward what appears to be a private entrance. We meet up with Wells and Gage, escorting Ivy, the guys forming an armed wall around us. Ivy beams. She’s wanted me to visit La Lune Noire for a while, and I can’t deny how enticing it is already.
To pass through the first door, Wells enters required codes into what looks like an ATM machine and answers a security question, which gains us access to a registration room. Authorization doesn’t take long, but even the holding area is fascinating. It’s got a dimly lit cigar-room vibe, tantalizing with the aroma of sweet and musty tobacco, the signature smell of spices, seduction, and secrets. The decor is a mixture of rich woods and brick, smoky golden light, warm accent tones in greens and reds and aged prosperity.
Every detail of this admittance feels selective and privileged. My pulse races to be welcomed into the next space, like we’ve won simply by entering. A brilliant strategy to combat the losses that might transpire in their casino.
Being invited in is the win.
When Wells described it to me this afternoon, he simply said, “It’s a place where the purse strings are loose because the morals are looser.”
That statement makes this locale of depravity the last venue in which a Carver should be spotted and a temptation I couldn’t seem to resist.
The comment about taming the wild that I made to Ty is my Achilles’ heel. I’ve lost so many years to numbness that chasing the whir and tingle of a rush is an awakening I covet. Whether it’s defying the foam and torrent of tumultuous rapids, confounding an adversary with a sneak attack, or dipping a toe into the forbidden, that jolt of electricity reminds me why I’m alive.
Waking up makes sense again.
So, for this one night, the Carver legacy can take a back seat to the thrill of debauchery.
I’m all in.
As that thought sails through my mind, I’m brought back to the possessive grip still on my hip. Even though he’s discussing the logistics of Axel and Ryker receiving us, Liam hasn’t let go, which evokes a thrill of its own. My eyes travel up to the cut of his chest and the hint of ink above the button. Curiosity pumps through me about the entirety of the image etched onto his tanned skin. He catches my conspicuous scanning, his rosy lips splitting his scruffy jaw into a victorious grin. I’m not even ashamed because those hazels, whether berating or praising, leave me enlivened and reckless.
Liam Graves could be an exhilarating mistake.
“Celeste Carver. Holy shit!” A voice slices through my unabashed ogling as we’re moving toward the penthouse elevators.
I search for the source, zeroing in on an old acquaintance. He’s a few years older, but our brothers were friends. It’s been years since I’ve seen him.
“Hi, Pruitt.” I smile, moving forward for the embrace he’s throwing his arms wide open for.
Liam tugs me backward, pulling my attention to the wary expressions on all four men.
“He’s a friend from high school. It’s fine,” I say, turning back to face Pruitt.
He halts, the goofy grin from childhood reinstated. “Daddy’s as paranoid as ever, I see,” he teases, noting Liam’s firm hold and Gage’s new position a half foot in front of me. “Think the guards will release you for a hug?”
“Of course.” I squirm between the guys and wrap my arms around his neck. “It’s good to see you.”
He drags me into a tight squeeze before backing up and scrutinizing the four glaring men again. Deciding to ignore them, he lifts my hand high in the air as he soaks in more than a gander of my all-grown-up figure. “Fuck, Celeste. You are like a fine wine. Seriously, girl. Hot doesn’t cover it.”
I can’t help but laugh. That saying doesn’t quite apply to a twenty-four-year-old. He’s always been over the top, but it’s easier to humor him. “You’re looking good yourself, Pru. What are you doing here?”
“I know the owners—”
“How?” Liam cuts him off, his delivery as sharp as a steel blade.
Pruitt’s eyes narrow. “Cousin.” As the word leaves his lips with an edge, he spots Ivy, who’s never been his biggest fan, but that could be said about ninety-eight percent of people. And the fact that he’s a complete prick. “Hey there, Luna Lovegood. Still got your head in the clouds?”
Wells shifts into a threatening stance, but Ivy pats his chest, handling her old antagonizer with ease.
“Sure do, and I’m happy to report the thirty-thousand-foot view wins. Far preferable to climbing a ladder to nowhere with a bunch of clones chucking each other off, ending up on that bottom rung one way or another.” She shrugs with a saccharine smile. “I’d rather fly.”
He always gave her a hard time about her mind escapes. It’s one of the many reasons he’s a prick, but I got far more ruffled about his jabs than Ivy ever did. Once upon a time, she politely ignored them, too unbothered to respond. But that right there is a fucking cabal queen. I can’t help beaming at her quick wit while savoring his irritated grimace.
His eyes flit to her belly, and Wells growls. Pruitt takes that as a cue, I guess, because his scrutiny returns to me and Liam’s arm currently slung around my waist.
