Chapter 3: Midnight in the Garden of Sins
The taste of cheap vodka and Derek’s dominance still lingered on her tongue two days later, a phantom brand. She’d left his number scrawled on a cocktail napkin in a hotel room wastebasket, the act feeling necessary, a line drawn. Now, the humid New Orleans night clung to her skin like a second dress as she wandered away from the predictable roar of Bourbon Street, seeking quieter, darker veins in the city’s body.
She turned down an alley barely wider than her shoulders, the sounds of brass bands fading into a drip of water, the scuttle of something in the shadows. At the end, a wrought-iron gate stood slightly ajar, its intricate scrollwork twisted into shapes of flowers and serpents. A faint, impossible thread of jazz curled through the opening, along with the heavy perfume of magnolias undercut by the damp smell of old stone.
She pushed the gate. It groaned, a sound of protest and invitation.
The courtyard was a pocket of another century. Spanish moss draped from a massive oak like a funeral shroud, trembling in the warm, slight breeze. Lanterns hung from iron branches, their flames guttering behind glass, casting pools of liquid gold over cobblestones worn smooth by time. A stone fountain murmured in the center, the water a dark, glinting mirror. The air itself felt thick, syrupy with scent and secret.
And he was there, as if he’d been waiting for the scenery to complete itself before making an entrance.
He stood beneath the heaviest drape of moss, a silhouette of impeccable tailoring. A dark suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, a glass of something amber held with casual grace. As she stepped fully inside, the gate clicking shut behind her, he turned. The lantern light caught the sharp planes of his face, the unnatural stillness of his eyes. He smiled. It wasn’t like Derek’s predatory claim, or Niall’s sunny invitation. This was the smile of a man who owned the very ground she stood on.
“Lost?” His voice was a smooth, dark ribbon, untouched by the humidity.
“Intentionally,” Emery replied, her own voice steady despite the quickening of her pulse. This was a different kind of danger. It smelled like expensive cologne and ancient power.
“A dangerous habit.” He took a slow sip from his glass, his gaze traveling over her—the simple sundress, the bare legs, the defiant set of her shoulders. “This city eats pretty wanderers alive.”
“I’ve got a strong stomach.”
His smile widened, a flash of white. “I can see that.” He gestured with his glass. “You’ve strayed into a private refuge. Mine.”
She should have apologized, turned, left. Instead, she took a step closer, the damp cobblestones cool under her feet. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is.” He watched her approach as if he’d orchestrated it. “You look like trouble found its way in, regardless.”
She stopped a few feet from him. “Maybe trouble was looking for a nicer neighborhood.”
He laughed, a low, rich sound that seemed to vibrate in the stone. He set his glass on the lip of the fountain. In two strides, he closed the distance. He didn’t touch her at first, just studied her face, his head tilted. “You have the eyes of someone who is always leaving. It’s remarkably attractive.”
Then his hands were on her, clean and sure. One cupped the back of her neck, not pulling, just anchoring. The other slid down her spine, over the cheap cotton of her dress, coming to rest on the curve of her ass. He pulled her into him. His body was solid, unyielding, a wall of refined muscle and fine wool.
“What’s your name?” he murmured, his lips near her temple.
“Emery.”
“Elijah.” He said it like a gift, or a warning. “Tell me to stop, Emery.”
She didn’t. She tilted her head back, offering her mouth. He took it, but not hungrily. He kissed her with a devastating, controlled precision, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips before delving inside. He tasted of top-shelf bourbon and something eternally cool, like a stone cellar. It was a claiming, but a patient one.
His wandering hand slid under the skirt of her dress, hiking it up. His fingers, cool and dry, traced the line of her thigh, higher, until they met the lace edge of her panties. He made a soft, dismissive sound. With a sharp tug, the fragile lace tore. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet courtyard.
“Better,” he whispered against her mouth.
His fingers found her naked flesh, parting her folds. She was wet, had been since he smiled. He stroked her, a slow, circling torment over her clit before slipping two fingers inside her cunt with ease.
“So eager,” he observed, his voice a detached murmur as he worked his fingers in and out, the wet sound echoing the fountain’s trickle. “And so tight. Have you been thinking of this? Or is this for someone else? The boy on the beach? The animal in the club?”
His knowledge froze her for a second. He felt it, and his fingers curled inside her, hitting a spot that made her gasp.
“I make it my business to know who walks into my garden,” he said, answering the unasked question. He withdrew his fingers, glistening in the lantern light, and brought them to his lips. He tasted her, his eyes holding hers. “Hmm. Salt. Sunshine. And a hint of brute force. An intriguing vintage.”
He shifted then, his hands on her hips spinning her to face the gnarled trunk of the oak. The bark was rough against her palms. He pressed against her from behind, his erection a hard ridge against her through his trousers.
“Stay.”
The command was absolute. He released her and stepped back. She heard the rustle of clothing, the clink of a belt buckle. She didn’t turn. Anticipation coiled in her belly, a live wire.
His hands returned, smoothing over her hips, pushing her dress up to her waist entirely. The night air kissed her exposed skin. He dropped to his knees behind her. His mouth, hot and voracious now, found her.
He didn’t start gently. His tongue licked a broad, flat stripe from her dripping opening up to her clit, which he immediately sucked into his mouth, worrying it with a ruthless rhythm. She cried out, her forehead thudding against the tree. He held her hips steady, his tongue plunging into her cunt, fucking her with it, before returning to her clit with relentless focus. He was an artist of sensation, building her pleasure with calculated strokes, then backing off, then building again, until her legs were shaking and her knuckles were white on the bark.
“Please,” she choked out, unsure what she was asking for.
He stood. The thick, blunt head of his cock nudged against her entrance. He was bare; she felt the hot, smooth skin. He hadn’t asked, hadn’t prepared. He just pushed.
He filled her in one long, devastating thrust, stealing the breath from her lungs. He was big, thicker than Derek, and he seated himself to the hilt with a groan that was all possessive satisfaction.
“Christ, you’re perfect,” he breathed into her hair, not moving, letting her feel every inch of him stretching her. “A perfect, filthy little container.”
Then he moved. His pace was not the brutal pounding she’d experienced before. It was deep, measured, and utterly controlling. Each withdrawal was slow, deliberate, each thrust back in a precise, grinding conquest. He fucked her with the quiet authority of a man who had all night and owned everything in it. One hand wrapped around her torso, pinning her to him, the other gripped the tree beside her head for leverage.
“You will come for me,” he stated, his voice barely strained. “You will come on my cock, and you will say my name when you do.”
The command, delivered in that cultured, calm tone, was more potent than any growled order. The pleasure built not in a frenzied rush, but as an inevitable tide. His angled thrusts rubbed his length against a spot inside her that soon had her seeing bursts of light behind her closed eyelids.
“Elijah,” she whimpered, a preemptive surrender.
“Again.”
“Elijah!”
Her orgasm broke over her like a slow, hot wave, pulling her under, milking his cock in rhythmic, clutching spasms. Only then did his control fracture. A raw, guttural sound tore from his throat, and his thrusts lost their precision, becoming fast, hard, and final. He slammed into her, holding deep as he emptied himself, his body shuddering against hers.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the fountain. He softened inside her, but didn’t pull away. He rested his forehead against her shoulder, his lips brushing her damp skin.
Eventually, he withdrew. He attended to himself with a quiet efficiency, then gently tugged her dress back into place. When she turned, shaky, he was already holding his bourbon glass again, as unruffled as if they’d just shared a conversation. Only the faint sheen of sweat at his temples betrayed him.
He handed her the glass. She took a sip; the bourbon burned, a familiar fire.
“You should go, Emery,” he said, his voice once more the quiet, implacable host. “The streets are less friendly after midnight.”
She handed the glass back, their fingers brushing. “And you?”
“I own the night here.” He smiled that timeless smile again. “But I suspect our paths will cross again. Trouble has a way of circling back to its source.”
He picked up a fallen magnolia blossom from the cobblestones and tucked it behind her ear. The gesture was oddly tender, terrifying in its finality. She walked back to the groaning gate, feeling his eyes on her every step. As she slipped into the dark mouth of the alley, she glanced back once.
The courtyard was empty. The lanterns flickered over stillness, as if it had all been a dream woven by the humid air. But the ache between her legs was real. The blossom behind her ear was real. And the chilling, certain knowledge that Elijah Mikaelson was not a chapter, but an ongoing volume, settled in her bones as she walked alone into the waiting dark.