I didn’t slow as I reached The Veil’s front steps.
A pair of supernaturals lounged near the entrance, one of them smoking something that hissed green smoke. They both turned to glance at me—and promptly stepped aside. Good.
The doorman, however, did not move.
He was massive—a freaking giant made of pure muscle and strength. His suit was immaculately tailored and looked like one quick flex would split all the seams.
“I’m here to see Lucien,” I announced.
He didn’t blink. “Name?”
“Isadora Laurent.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Your name is not on our pre-approved list.”
“You didn’t even look,” I growled, my hands curling into fists.
“I know the list by heart. It’s my job. And we don’t allow anyone in without an invitation. House policy.”
“Oh, how convenient,” I said sweetly, lacing my fingers in front of me like I was on the verge of asking about his extended warranty. “And here I thought Lucien was fond of surprise visits. He certainly didn’t need an invitation when he waltzed uninvited into my bar. Twice.”
The doorman didn’t move. “Mr. St. Germain is not receiving visitors tonight.”
“He’ll receive me,” I said. “Or you’ll receive a broken jaw.”
His brows lifted just slightly. “Threatening the doorman won’t get you inside.”
“Maybe not. But ask yourself this. Do I look like I’m in a charitable mood? I’m pissed and have absolutely nothing to lose.” I stepped closer until I could smell traces of his cologne beneath his suit jacket. “So, how about you go fetch Mr. St. Germain before I burn this building down to the studs? Trust me when I say he will speak with me.”
With a long, exaggerated sigh, the wanna-be gargoyle doorman stepped back and tapped his earpiece.
“We have a situation at the front door,” he muttered. “One that requires the boss’s attention.”
The boss’s attention. I rolled my eyes. Twenty bucks said he paid all his employees to call him that. Just to inflate his already overly inflated ego.
The bouncer turned away to speak in low tones and the earpiece crackled faintly as someone responded. I couldn’t hear the conversation, not over the music. But I didn’t need to. I could imagine exactly how it was going down.
Yes, she’s here.
No, she won’t leave.
Yes, she’s making a scene.
No, I can’t remove her unless I want to lose a limb.
I crossed my arms and let one hip cock lazily to the side. I’d learned the pose from my mother, who had a penchant for dramatic silences and half-raised eyebrows.
After a beat, the doorman turned back to me, face stony.
“He’ll be down shortly.”
“Excellent,” I said. “I do so love punctuality in a tyrant.”
That earned me a very slight twitch of the mouth—gone as quickly as it arrived.
Whispers rose around me, and someone even dared to raise their phone, until I turned my enraged gaze on them. They lowered their arm quickly. Good. Now I had no reason to kill them.
A few more moments passed before finally, the man of the hour himself appeared before us, granting me an audience.
