This specimen is as tall as Diaphonus, a solid six foot six at least, with inky, messy, cropped hair, pierced ears, dark eyes, and lashes so thick it appears as if he wears kajal. Strange, tattooed symbols crawl from the visible part of his chest up to his neck, covering most of his skin. The sleeves of his perfectly fitting white shirt, which screams quiet luxury, are rolled up, displaying inked, sinewy muscles, a healthy tan, and a Patek Filipe watch. If Diaphonus would be the highlight of each Calvin Klein underwear show, this man was born to steer a yacht somewhere in the Mediterranean, sipping on a 2600-dollar bottle of champagne while models claw their faces over him.
Black eyes pierce mine, the right angle of his lip curling up, drawing my attention to his stubble, and he stretches out his hand.
“I’m Tarcyll. Nice to meet you. Don’t mind Diaphonus. I’m pleased to witness the triumph of a friend.”
I shake his warm, hard hand, wondering where he got those calluses. Fencing? Working out? Steering a ship?
“Celeste,” I mumble when I notice a familiar flushed face in the background. “And this is Jasmin, my friend,” I add. The dark-haired man smiles wider, displaying predatory, unnaturally long, and sharp canines.
“A pleasure,” he purrs, “Diaphonus, we are in for one hell of a night, old friend.”
Jasmin calls them Ying and Yang. They’re so different in manners and looks yet work well together somehow. After the pretentious mingling with the art society, we head to the nightclub owned by Tarcyll. It’s my first ride in a Bugatti, and, honestly, it’s a little tight for four. Jasmin sits beside the driver, and I’m squeezed into the backseat with Diaphonus. His hand casually rests on my thigh. The cocktails I downed make his touch appear natural. The shots of absinthe and some “secret ingredient” later mixed with a couple of pills I popped do not improve my judgment.
We sit in the VIP area, overlooking the dance floor, the lights flashing over skimpy, glittering dresses, seductive bare flesh, hungry eyes, and unruly hands. The music makes it impossible to hold a conversation, yet Jasmin sits next to Tarcyll on the luxurious, soft couch opposite us while I feel the firm heat of Diaphonus´ thigh pressed against mine.
My world spins as a waitress wearing only tassels on her nipples brings another round of shots and gracefully bends over to refill Tarcyll and Jasmin’s glasses with Dom Perignon vintage, offering us a view of her transparent black thong.
She leaves, and my gaze shifts back to the couple at the other side of the table. Jasmin is kissing Tarcyll’s neck, but his eyes, those black, bottomless wells holding a promise of sweet torment, delve into mine. He doesn’t look away when my friend murmurs something in his ear and bites his earlobe. He only smiles wider, and his pearly fangs flash ominously.
Jasmin is under his spell. She shamelessly spreads her legs and moves her panties aside. I choke on my drink and leave a mental note to myself to speak to her about it tomorrow, yet what happens next drains all the blood from my brain and directs it to other regions.
Tarcyll’s hand reaches between my friend’s legs. I can clearly see the glistening rims of her sex, and it’s impossible to look away, hypnotized by the moves of his digits circling her opening, gliding along her folds, then dipping into her slit. Jasmin gasps, throwing her head back, as the man slides his massive, ringed finger in and out of her drenched hole, his dark burning eyes locked with mine. I feel the heat of Diaphonus next to me, the warmth of his breath as he leaves a trail of soft kisses along my neck. I don’t resist as he gently lifts me and places me on his lap, making sure I feel the massive bulge of his erection against my ass.
I stare as Jasmin’s opening devours one, then two, of Tarcyll’s fingers. Her breasts have slipped out of her dress, and she’s rubbing her nipples.
The dancing crowds around us disappear, and the topless waitress knows better than to linger when her boss is occupied.
I turn to face Diaphonus and catch him staring, chest heaving, not at the shameless display unfolding before us but at me. His sapphire eyes are burning, his lips parted, and he looks like he’s about to lose control.
I take a deep breath.
The joke’s on you, Universe! My last boyfriend dumped me via text, and now these two twenty-out-of-tens are staring at me, drooling, while one is fondling my friend. This right here is my epic payback for all the ghosting, all my messages left on “seen” and unanswered, all the gray mediocrity of my life.
The air between us crackles with tension, as if the loud music, the flickering lights, and the heavy cocktail of perfume, sweat, and smoke disappear. It’s only the four of us now, and the two men stare at me with an intensity that starts to feel unnerving.
You are hunted, Celeste. The words of my strange white-haired savior from the previous night echo in my mind.
Cool, graceful fingers brush along my jaw, and the blond artist tilts my face toward him. Sparks shower over us—I definitely had one shot too many—and suddenly his lips draw me in, a siren’s call pulling the strings of desire I’m not even aware I had. Heat rushes between my legs, my breasts swelling with lust, and I part my lips. His large arms draw me to him, and his mouth crashes onto mine, the depths of his silvery irises consuming me.
I let his tongue explore my mouth, hot, daring, and curious, feasting on me and my desire while stars shower around us.
His flavor… so otherworldly and exquisite, so craved.
A rough pull shatters the moment, and I look up to a furious Tarcyll. It seems like our kiss has outraged him, and he has abandoned his ministrations, leaving a disappointed Jasmin sprawled on the velvet couch.
“You’ve glamoured her!” the dark-haired man barks, his hand subconsciously reaching to his left hip as if searching for a blade to draw. “How dare you glamour her?” he repeats in disbelief, his tone solidifying to a cool rage. Diaphonus rises, and the air around both men glows with tension. He is slightly taller than his dark-haired friend, yet he has the refined body shape of a professional swimmer with long, graceful limbs. Tarcyll is bulkier and, from what my hazy brain has witnessed, can move with a supernatural speed.
“You know why we don’t use magic in public, Diaphonus.” He pokes his chest with an accusing finger, “Are you that desperate that you use cheap tricks to snatch her away from me?”
What the hell?
“Glamoured me?” I try to grasp the meaning behind this word when security guards swarm the VIP area, alert and ready to act.
The tall Viking clenches his elegant fingers into fists, and I notice swarms of tiny lights gathering around them. I blame the shots.
“You know what’s at stake, spymaster. And I will use all the tricks I have at my disposal,” the blond man declares coldly, squaring his shoulders.
“Over my dead body, Priest.”
