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“I’m not sure.” She twists her pink-and-blonde hair around her finger, furrowing her pierced brow in consideration. “I’ll know when it’s right. Tall, dark, beautiful. Dominant yet sweet and comforting in the same breath. Protective but gentle. Flexible and fun. A few demons of his own wouldn’t hurt, but he needs to be trustworthy with my deepest desires and secrets. And therein lies the issue. Very few men in my world encompass all those qualities. I understand the tightrope Axel and Ryker are walking, trying to find someone who won’t be a threat concerning our family business, but is also good in the way they’ll treat me.”
Rena’s family owns La Lune Noire. I’ve yet to go, but it’s a resort, complete with all manner of scandalous seduction—covert corruption, gambling, and salacious debauchery. They cater to the wealthiest of the wicked. My alter ego is dying to experience all they offer, but the sophisticated guise I’m expected to tout thinks it’s best to avoid it.
“At least the guys your brothers choose won’t be boring,” I counter, settling in a little deeper to the cushioned comfort of the opposing sofa while I lament. “I’m plagued with a life of waxy shells. Many are charismatic and attractive, but typically too in love with themselves and terribly dull. Insipid narcissists.”
“Truth.” Ivy laughs. She’s stretched out and shrouded by pillows. “And no amount of cliff jumping, canyoning, or galivanting around the globe in search of your next rush is going to soften that blow, Lettie. Maybe you should tell Grandpa Carver to hang his hopes on someone else.”
A disgruntled sigh flows out of me, wishing I could. “You know it isn’t that simple.”
Abandoning this plan of his would be like watching my grandfather grieve another death. I can’t. My father was my only hope, but since he wouldn’t let me touch his business with a ten-foot pole, it’s done. There’s no appealing to my mother either. She’s all too eager to see me as political royalty.
Ivy’s head whips toward me, nose scrunched incredulously. “What I know is that those politicians he’s forcing on you are often dangerous and downright despicable human beings.”
Her primary responsibility within KORT is finding representatives who align with the organization’s needs. From what little she can tell me, it’s evident she brings a shade of integrity to the role, but it isn’t a position marked by searching for the most upstanding government officials. My chest shudders while I imagine the evil secrets she uncovers.
“I won’t deny that. And you would know.” I choose my words delicately since Rena is only partially privy to Ivy’s position. I’m not sure she even knows that the organization is KORT. I know far more than I should, but that’s because of the cruel and absurd trial they put Ivy through a year ago. She filled me in at the time as a matter of survival—at least mental health survival. “But while you’ve hit the jackpot as far as a doting husband, you are married to and living with black-market royalty, so it’s hard to point fingers at the big, bad, waxy congressmen.”
She twists her mouth in a challenge-accepted simper, always passionate and unwavering in her loyalty. “I’d rather have a black-market king, who loves me with the untamable fury of Hell, than a devil who dresses in white, regards me below his career, and flashes his bewitching smile to hide his blackened soul. Tell Grandpa that.”
“Grandpa would not concur, but I can’t argue with that logic,” I confess, agreeing wholeheartedly and having no idea what that means for my life. I’m stuck. I’ve been stuck for nearly eight years.
Ivy’s eyes ping to Rena’s. “I assure you that men like you described exist in our world. There are four downstairs. Keep the hope and don’t settle.”
There’s a wistful yearning that coasts across Rena’s features with the downstairs comment. I’m pretty sure Ty would be the object of said yearning, although she never admits to it.
“Wells doesn’t hide who he is.” Ivy yawns long and hard, squirming and adjusting the pillow she’s holding against her baby bump. “He shows me everything, but that means I get it all. Even the jagged edges. And something about that makes even the hardest truths glint with beauty. I hope all the guys find someone who appreciates that in them. You all deserve to have an epic love.”
It’s clear that she’s drained after so much socializing, which is always rough on Ivy. She’ll be escaping into her mind soon whether she shuts her eyes to do it or not. I exchange a look with Rena, who grins in understanding.
“Maybe we should call it a night and get some sleep,” I suggest.
“No,” Ivy whines. “Sleepover. I’ll have Wells set up some air mattresses, and we can have a mattress movie night, like when we were kids. Popcorn and cookies. Oh, and Gage will make us nachos.”
“That sounds perfect.” I chuckle, soaking in her enthusiasm as I stand to stretch my legs. “You’re staying too, right, Rena?”
“Absolutely, girl. Any night without lockdown and the watchful eye of my overbearing brothers is a win. Sweet freedom. Plus, snacks.” She claps with a subsequent whoop, like the biggest decisions in life should all be boiled down to junk-food availability, which is a fair point. “It’s as satisfying as getting another piercing.”
That’s high praise because she has well over a dozen.
Ivy blows out a sleepy giggle and takes Rena to borrow some nightclothes while I saunter to my room to change. There are sixteen bedrooms in her palace, all with their own en suites. Like the rest of the home, the room I’m staying in is adorned in a homey elegance—a Brazilian rosewood four-poster bed, coordinating with the wood-and-white coffered ceiling. Creams and yellows and cornflower blues dress the bedding, drapes, and chairs. Elegant comfort.
Pulling my hair into a ponytail, I perform my nighttime face-washing routine and throw on a silk camisole and short set. With a hoodie in hand, I amble into the hallway and nearly crash into my nemesis, who is far sexier than should be permitted.
Maddening.
Liam stares back at me, his pompous smirk quirking his cheek into the subtlest dimple, nearly obscured by the golden scruff lining his jaw and upper lip. His dirty-blond hair is shaggy, but messy in a purposeful way. Obnoxious and enchanting. But it’s his eyes that piss me off the most. Menacing green-hazel orbs probing me from his towering six-three stature.
“Going somewhere”—his roguish gaze rakes slowly over my every curve while he licks his lips—“half dressed, Carver?”
God, the way he looks at me, like he’s starving and I’m a seven-course meal to devour. It’s addictive. Too bad he’s such a dick.
I swallow, my poker face firmly in place, but decide to keep this interaction brief so I don’t falter. “Yes. Sleepover.”
He steps closer—close enough that there’s a crackling, like the very molecules of the air are pulverized by whatever this energy is between us. But I don’t back up. I’m familiar with guys like Liam who expect me to crumble at their feet. Who think their breath on my neck will have me covered in goose bumps or cause a shiver to cascade down my spine. Who have the audacity to believe I’ll cower, intimidated, because, somehow, their mere proximity will harden my nipples, wet my panties, and strain my lungs to the point of panting.
Cocky assholes, full of themselves.
And maybe that is my current state, heated everywhere and shallow breathing. With a layer of goose bumps that makes zero sense because I’m so damn hot. But it’s most likely just the difference in my attire. I’m adjusting to the climate and probably jet-lagged. That’s all. That’s why I’m dizzy. It’s not his scent.
