Page 13 of Dominion’s Collar

Sebastien gives her a look.

"What?" Renata says. "She was going to ask eventually."

"Was I?"

"You were." Renata reaches for a bottle. "Commercial property, family investments, a ridiculous amount of old New Orleans real estate. Basically, if the Villere family has owned it for five generations, Sebastien is the one making sure they will still own it for a six, seventh and on and on."

"Renata."

"I'm done." She isn't remotely sorry.

Sebastien. My pulse ticks up by a beat I keep off my face. Obsidian.

I spent years searching every public record and digital footprint I could find, and I never turned up his real name. Renata just handed it to me over the mahogany like a garnish on a cocktail.

Apparently she handed me his occupation too.

"Renata has a gift for introductions," he says. The roughness underneath his voice is the same register that had me stepping aside at the bar like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"What do you write?" he asks.

"Nonfiction. I'm researching private communities and consent culture."

He listens with his whole body angled toward the words, and the angle itself tells me he's hearing more than the answer.

"Private communities," he repeats. The words sound different in his mouth. Heavier. Stripped of the academic distance I wrapped them in. "You're writing about people who trust each other in rooms most people don't know exist."

"I'm writing about what people build when they can't trust the rooms everyone else uses."

The words land between us and I hear how true they are. Too honest. Too close to Claire.

His gaze sharpens. The scotch in his hand stays untouched.

"Then you'll want the regulars," he says. "People who've been here long enough to know what belonging costs. The dues aren't the expensive part."

"I've met a few. Most of them are friendlier than you."

"Most of them are less interesting than you." No inflection. No charm. The word interesting delivered flat and factual, and the breath I'm holding has nothing to do with composure.

He isn't flirting. He's telling me he's been paying attention.

"Is that a warning?"

"Warnings require investment." The corner of his mouth shifts. Not a smile. Sharper than that. "We've just met."

"And yet here you are. Investing."

The silence holds. I'm too aware of how carefully I'm breathing. He doesn't look away. Neither do I.

Sebastien takes his glass and returns to his booth. I watch him go, and the watching is a decision that happens somewhere below the investigation.

The Marion scene surfaces uninvited. The crop. His hands. The way the woman on the bench gave herself over to it completely, and the exact moment my attention shifted from her to him.

What stays is the sense of being measured. Margot measured me with stated terms and clear consequences. Sebastien measured me like a locksmith studying a lock. The thought should concern me more than it does.

Prosper Gaudet approaches my end of the bar. I spotted him from across the room on my first visit, but up close the warmth is harder to resist. When he extends his hand, his handshake makes you want to tell him things.

"Prosper Gaudet." The name comes with a slight inclination of the head. "I couldn't help noticing you're new. I make it a point to welcome new members when I can."