“Our next Lost Girl came to Boston a fish out of water,” Geanie says, now lying on his side on one of the heavy tree branches, fingers running along the bark suggestively.
Long copper hair cascades around the Lost Girl’s slender shoulders, catching fire in the lights as she rolls forward in a sleek black-and-chrome wheelchair. Tattoos swirl over one arm, intricate ink against porcelain skin, a striking contrast. Piercings glitter subtly along her ears and nose, silver accents on sharp edges.
"But oh," Geanie continues, eyes sparking with mischief, "how quickly our girl Ariel learned to swim."
As if answering his call, Ariel pivots her wheelchair into a tight, lightning-fast spin, her copper hair whipping outward in a dazzling arc. The crowd gasps, completely enthralled as she slows to a flawless halt, aquamarine eyes simmering with quiet challenge beneath smoky lashes.
"Don’t let Ariel’s quiet fool you," Geanie warns warmly. "Still waters run deepest, and in hers, you just might drown."
With deliberate ease, Ariel lays the bottle horizontally across her tattooed forearm, letting it roll elegantly along the intricate patterns before flicking it upright into her hand. Without looking away from the crowd, she lifts the bottle to her lips, taking a slow, deliberate drink.
Lowering it again, she extends the bottle out over the bar, allowing it to slip casually from her fingertips, tumbling gracefully downward into another waiting grasp.
Another spotlight hits, bathing a third woman in golden light.
Geanie's voice rolls through the room again, vibrant and teasing. "And finally, our fearless leader, the original Lost Girl herself—the boss lady who built this den of sin brick by wicked brick. She’s the queen of this court, and she makes her own rules. I give you,Rap."
The woman named Rap instantly captivates, owning the space behind the bar without needing theatrics. She catches the falling bottle effortlessly.
Her lean, muscular frame is draped in intentionally shredded clothing. Rap’s short platinum hair is braided back on either side to create a Viking mohawk that is streaked in pastel colors. Sharp eyes survey the crowd from beneath heavy, smudged black eyeliner. She's older than the others, though not by much, and authority radiates from her like heat off a flame.
Poison Apple belongs to her.
She places the bottle on the bar with calm authority, as she scans the crowd in silent command.
When Rap’s gaze hits us, it jerks to a halt.
I tense under the quick but targeted scrutiny, but then she continues surveying the crowd.
The emcee turns, leaps off the tree, and lands easily on the floor. He sweeps an arm toward the bar. “Drink up, darlings. Because what happens at Poison Apple stays withus.”
The spotlight vanishes as the house lights lift.
The dance music blares and the bar roars to life again, bodies moving, glasses clinking, bottles flying between skilled hands. The Lost Girls keep the energy high, pouring drinks, teasing the crowd, their control absolute as they dance to the heavy, quick beat of the music.
“That was fantastic,” Aura breathes, her fingers still gripping my arm.
Never before did we engage in casual touching like this. I tighten my jaw, liking it too much. Wanting her to never let go. Yet it’s not nearly enough.
A creeping, uneasy feeling travels up my spine. “Aura, why are we here?”
“I want to be a Lost Girl,” she says, smiling at me. Then she’s off like a shot.
Oh.Oh fae lords.
She’s going to give this Dragon a heart attack.
Chapter 4
A Succubus and Dragon on Rumspringa
AURORA
“What’ll you have?” Rap asks me without looking up. She’s busy removing dirty glasses from the bar top, pulling fresh glasses, and mixing multiple cocktails at once.
A lump rises in my throat, pumping in time with my heartbeat. “A job.”
The woman’s eyes barely flick up at me, and she doesn’t even pause what she’s doing.
