Chapter 1: Fireworks Over the French Quarter
The balcony was a gilded cage of twisted iron, and Iris Potter had never felt more alive.
Bourbon Street sprawled beneath her like a neon-lit serpent, all laughter and jazz and the distant wail of a saxophone that sounded like it was crying for its mama. The air tasted of spilled whiskey and fried beignets and something older, something hungry, curling just beneath the city's glittering skin.
She breathed it in deep, let it settle in her lungs like smoke.
"Fuck yes," she whispered, and raised her wand.
The first rocket shot from the tip like a comet made of pure spite, trailing sparks the color of molten gold. It spiraled once, twice, then detonated directly above a cluster of tourists who'd been posing for photographs in front of a voodoo shop. The explosion spelled out one glorious word in shimmering crimson letters:
CUNT.
The screams were immediate and delicious.
Iris doubled over the railing, cackling so hard her ribs ached. Her dress—a scrap of electric blue silk that barely covered her arse—rode up dangerously high, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Let them look. Let them all fucking look.
She'd spent eighteen years being the Girl Who Lived, the Chosen One, the savior of the wizarding world. Eighteen years of people staring at her scar instead of her face, of expecting her to be grateful, humble, good.
Fuck that.
The second rocket was already in the air before she'd finished catching her breath. This one had been modified by Fred and George themselves—a parting gift she'd smuggled out of their shop before they could ask too many questions. It chased a group of vampires down the street, weaving between them like a sheepdog herding particularly stupid sheep, before exploding into a shower of purple sparks that spelled:
EAT MY ARSE.
Iris was wheezing now, tears streaming down her cheeks. One of the vampires—a blonde with a pixie cut and murder in her eyes—whirled around, fangs extended.
"WHO THE BLOODY HELL—"
The third rocket cut her off.
This one caught the vampire square in her perfectly styled hair, and the resulting whoomp of flame was deeply, profoundly satisfying. The vampire shrieked, batting at her head like a lunatic, and Iris nearly fell off the balcony laughing.
"Merlin's tits, that's the best thing I've seen all year," she gasped.
"I'd have to agree."
The voice came from directly behind her.
Iris didn't jump. She didn't. She was a war veteran, a survivor, a woman who'd stared down Voldemort himself and told him to fuck off.
But her heart definitely did something acrobatic in her chest as she spun around, wand raised.
The man leaning against the balcony's French doors was… not what she expected.
Dark hair, tousled like he'd just rolled out of someone's bed. Brown eyes that gleamed with something between mischief and madness. A smile that suggested he'd invented sin and was rather proud of the fact. He was dressed in a Henley that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe and jeans that fit like they'd been painted on.
He looked like trouble.
The good kind.
"Nice fireworks," he said, nodding toward the chaos below. "Though I have to say, the execution could use a little work."
Iris narrowed her eyes. "Excuse me?"
"The timing." He pushed off the doorframe, sauntering toward her with the casual grace of a predator who knew exactly how dangerous he was. "You're telegraphing your shots. The moment of hesitation before you cast—it's a dead giveaway. Any vampire with half a brain could dodge those."
"I wasn't trying to kill them." She crossed her arms, which had the unfortunate effect of pushing her tits up in a way she absolutely noticed him noticing. "I was trying to annoy them."
"Ah." His smile widened, and it was sharp and bright as a blade. "Then you succeeded admirably. That blonde is going to be smelling burnt hair for a week."
Iris snorted despite herself. "She's lucky I didn't aim lower."
"Now that would have been a show." He was close now—too close, the kind of close that made her skin prickle with awareness. Up close, she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight dimple in his left cheek, the way his pupils dilated just a fraction as his gaze swept over her.
"You're not human," she said flatly.
"Neither are you." He tilted his head, studying her like she was a particularly interesting book he'd found in a dusty library. "Though I'll admit, you're not quite anything, are you? You smell like magic, but there's something else under it. Something…"
He leaned in, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, could smell cedar and whiskey and something darker beneath.
"Interesting," he finished.
Iris's pulse hammered against her throat, but she forced her voice to stay level. "Do you always go around sniffing strangers, or is this a special occasion?"
"Only when they're setting my city on fire." He stepped back, and she tried not to feel disappointed. "I'm Kol, by the way. Kol Mikaelson. And you're—"
"Leaving." She spun on her heel, gathering her remaining rockets from where they'd been perched on the railing. "Nice meeting you, Kol Whatever-Your-Name-Was. Try not to get your hair set on fire on your way out."
"I didn't catch your name."
"That's because I didn't throw it."
She heard him laugh—a sound like honey and broken glass—and then suddenly he was there, blocking her path to the door, moving faster than anything she'd ever seen.
"You're very rude," he observed, still smiling. "I like that."
"I'm not here to be liked."
"Then what are you here for?"
The question caught her off guard. She looked up—way up, because he had at least a foot on her—and found him watching her with an intensity that made her stomach flip.
"None of your business," she managed.
"Hmm." He reached out, and before she could react, his fingers caught a strand of her hair, twirling it around his knuckle. "You know, most people who come to New Orleans looking for trouble end up finding more than they bargained for."
"I'm counting on it."
The words came out bolder than she felt, and his smile turned wolfish.
"Are you now?"
Below them, another rocket exploded—she must have accidentally set one off when she'd gathered them—and the resulting FUCK OFF, MATEY lit up the night sky in neon green letters.
Kol didn't even flinch. His eyes stayed locked on hers, fingers still playing with her hair.
"You know," he murmured, "if you wanted to cause real damage, I could show you how. This city has so many delicious targets."
Iris raised an eyebrow. "You're offering to help me commit property crimes?"
"I'm offering to make it memorable."
She should say no. She should definitely, absolutely say no. She didn't know this man, didn't know what he was, didn't know what he wanted from her—
"Fine," she heard herself say. "But if you try anything weird, I'll set your dick on fire."
Kol threw his head back and laughed, a genuine, delighted sound that made something warm curl in her chest.
"Oh, darling," he said, eyes glittering. "I think this is going to be the start of something beautiful."
---
They worked in tandem, and Iris had to admit—begrudgingly—that he was good.
Not just good. Inspired.
He moved through the streets like he owned them, which, apparently, he kind of did. Every vampire they passed either nodded respectfully or veered sharply in the other direction. The humans simply didn't notice him, their eyes sliding past him like he was a ghost.
"What are you?" she asked, as they ducked into an alley to avoid a particularly angry-looking werewolf.
"Vampire," he said, like it was obvious. "Original, to be specific. The first of my kind. My family are the ones who made all the rules—for our species, anyway. Though I'm rather fond of breaking them."
"Original vampire," Iris repeated. "That sounds pretentious."
"It is." He grinned. "But it's also accurate. So you're allowed to be impressed."
"I'm not."
"You will be."
They set off three more rockets between them—Kol paid for the property damage in cash, which was either very cool or very concerning—and by the time midnight rolled around, Iris was having more fun than she'd had in years.
Which was probably why she didn't notice his hand on her thigh until it was already there.
They were standing on a street corner, watching the fourth rocket spell out DICK DICK DICK over the cathedral. Kol was pressed against her side, ostensibly to shield her from the wind, and his fingers were tracing lazy circles on her bare skin, dangerously close to the hem of her dress.
"You're not wearing knickers," he observed, conversationally.
Iris's breath caught. "How do you—"
"I can smell it." His voice had gone low, rough. "Your cunt. You're wet, too. Have been for a while."
"Arrogant much?"
"Honest." His fingers slid higher. "Should I stop?"
She should say yes. She should push him away, hex him, do something other than press her thighs together and try to slow her racing heart.
"Not because I don't want to," he murmured, lips brushing her ear. "Because I'll stop if you ask. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a rapist."
Iris swallowed hard. "I didn't ask."
"No. You didn't."
His fingers reached the edge of her dress, drifting underneath, touching her where she was slick and hot and aching.
"Fuck," she gasped.
"That's the idea." He pulled his hand back, and the loss was almost painful. When she looked up at him, his eyes were nearly black with hunger. "But not here. I have… standards."
"You have standards?"
"Shocking, I know." He smiled, but there was something darker in it now. "Come back to my place. Let me show you how original vampires enjoy themselves."
Iris should say no.
Instead, she grabbed his collar and yanked him down to her level, crushing their mouths together in a kiss that was all teeth and no finesse.
He kissed her back like he was starving.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Kol looked at her like she'd just given him the best gift of his life.
"Was that a yes?"
"It was a maybe." She was already walking toward the street, hips swaying, knowing he was watching. "Convince me."
His laugh followed her into the night.
"I do love a challenge."
---
The compound was obscene.
That was the first thing Iris noticed as they walked through the iron gates and into the courtyard—the sheer, gaudy, ancient wealth of the place. Wrought-iron balconies, stone archways, gardens that must have cost a fortune to maintain. It made Grimmauld Place look like a council flat.
"Nice digs," she said, because she refused to be impressed.
"I'll give you the tour later." Kol's hand was on the small of her back, guiding her inside. "Right now, I have more pressing concerns."
"Such as?"
He pushed her against the wall, hard, and kissed her like he was trying to devour her.
Iris moaned into his mouth, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling hard enough that he groaned. His body pressed against hers, all lean muscle and immortal strength, and she felt small in a way that made her knees weak.
"You're going to wreck me," she gasped, when he broke away to mouth at her neck.
"Yes." He bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make her cry out. "And you're going to love every second of it."
His hands found the hem of her dress again, this time pushing it up without pretense. She was already bare beneath—she rarely bothered with underwear—and the look on his face when he discovered that was almost worth the whole night.
"Fucking hell," he breathed. "You really are a menace."
"Flatterer."
He dropped to his knees.
Iris's brain short-circuited. "What are you—"
"Ssh." He pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh, making her shudder. "Let me work."
And then his mouth was on her, and she stopped thinking entirely.
He ate her out like it was an art form, slow and deliberate and devastatingly skilled. His tongue traced patterns she didn't have names for, lapping at her clit until she was shaking, then withdrawing to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to her cunt, to her thighs, to the place where her pulse hammered against her skin.
"Kol—" Her hands fisted in his hair. "Kol, I'm—"
"Not yet."
He added two fingers, curling them inside her, finding a spot that made stars explode behind her eyes.
"You're going to come for me," he murmured against her skin. "And then you're going to do it again. And again. Until you can't remember your own name."
Iris had been with experienced partners before—she'd lost her virginity at fourteen, had fucked her way through most of Hogwarts and a good portion of the Ministry—but none of them had ever looked at her like this. Like she was something precious. Something dangerous.
Something worth consuming.
"Please," she heard herself beg.
"You'll have to be more specific than that."
"Please let me come."
He smiled against her cunt—she felt it, the curve of his lips—and curled his fingers again, and sucked her clit hard, and Iris shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her like a tidal wave, leaving her gasping and boneless against the wall. Kol worked her through it, gentle now, lapping at her until the pleasure edged into oversensitivity.
When he finally pulled back, his mouth was wet and his eyes were wild and the lower half of his face was gleaming.
"You taste like chaos," he said. "I'm obsessed."
Iris couldn't speak. She could barely stand.
He caught her before she could slide down the wall, gathering her into his arms like she weighed nothing.
"Come on," he murmured. "I'm not done with you yet."
---
The bedroom was enormous.
That was all Iris could register before Kol dropped her onto the bed—silk sheets, dark red, probably worth more than her entire wardrobe—and climbed on top of her.
"You're wearing too many clothes," he informed her.
"So are you."
"Fair point."
He stripped with vampiric speed, and Iris's mouth went dry.
She'd seen attractive bodies before. She'd been with attractive people before. But Kol Mikaelson was something else—all lean muscle and pale skin and tattoos that probably had meanings she'd never learn. His cock was hard and thick and already dripping, and Iris felt her cunt clench at the sight of it.
"How do you want me?" she asked, because she was nothing if not direct.
His eyes flashed. "However I want."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting." He crawled toward her, caging her between his arms. "You're going to be my good little slut tonight, aren't you? Let me do whatever I want, whenever I want, and you're going to thank me for it."
Iris's breath caught. She'd played this game before—submission, obedience, the sweet release of giving up control—but she'd never had someone ask so matter-of-factly.
"And if I say no?"
His expression didn't change. "Then I stop. We talk. We do something else." He paused, studying her. "But you're not going to say no, are you?"
No. She wasn't.
"I need words, darling. Yes or no."
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes."
His smile was a blade in the darkness.
He flipped her onto her stomach so fast she barely registered the movement, yanking her hips up so she was on her knees, face pressed into the pillows.
"Stay," he ordered.
She stayed.
He spread her legs wider, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. She felt him behind her, the heat of his body, the press of his cock against her thigh.
"Are you on anything?" he asked. "Potions? Spells?"
"I—yes. I take a potion. I can't get pregnant."
"Good." He pressed the head of his cock against her cunt, teasing. "Because I intend to absolutely ruin this perfect little pussy."
And then he pushed inside.
Iris screamed into the pillow.
He was big—bigger than she'd expected—and the stretch was glorious, painful in the best way. He didn't give her time to adjust, just pulled out and slammed back in, setting a brutal pace from the start.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
"Language," he chided, and slapped her arse.
The sting made her see stars. She loved it.
"You like that?" He did it again, harder. "You like being spanked like the filthy little whore you are?"
"Yes—"
"Yes what?"
"Yes sir—"
"Good girl."
He fucked her like he was trying to break her, and she loved every second of it. His hips slapped against her arse, his balls slapping against her clit, a rhythm that was equal parts poetry and violence. She could hear herself moaning, could feel drool pooling on the pillow beneath her face, could feel the coil of pleasure tightening in her belly.
"I'm going to come inside you," he growled. "And then I'm going to do it again. And you're going to take it, aren't you? You're going to take everything I give you."
"Yes—please—"
He pulled out suddenly, and Iris nearly wept.
"Not yet." He flipped her onto her back, settling between her legs. "I want to see your face when I make you come."
He thrust back inside, and this time he was slower, more deliberate. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, angling deep enough that she felt like he was fucking her soul.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured, thumb brushing her clit. "Perfect little cunt. Perfect little body. Perfect little monster."
She came with a scream, her nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood. He snarled at the pain, fucking her through her orgasm with renewed vigor, chasing his own release.
When he finally spilled inside her—hot and thick and overwhelming—Iris felt tears leak from her eyes.
Not from pain. Not from sadness.
From the sheer, devastating joy of being seen.
Kol collapsed on top of her, breathing hard, and for a long moment they just lay there, tangled together, sweat cooling on their skin.
"That," he said eventually, "was the best sex I've had in at least a century."
"High praise."
"It is." He lifted his head to look at her, and his expression was unexpectedly soft. "What's your name?"
"Iris. Iris Potter."
Something flickered in his eyes—recognition, surprise, something else.
"Iris," he repeated slowly. "Red hair. Green eyes. Powerful magic." He sat up, suddenly serious. "Tell me, Iris Potter—who are your parents?"
"My parents were James and Lily Potter. They died when I was a baby."
"Were they?" His voice had gone strange. "Both of them?"
"Yes. I—why are you looking at me like that?"
Kol was staring at her like he'd just realized he was holding a live grenade.
"No reason," he said, but his voice was tight. "Just… I need to make a phone call."
He was off the bed and pulling on his jeans before she could respond.
"Wait—Kol—what's going on?"
He paused at the door, looking back at her with an expression she couldn't read.
"Stay here," he ordered. "I'll be back. There's something I need to verify."
And then he was gone, leaving Iris alone in a stranger's bed, naked and confused and suddenly, bone-deep terrified.
She'd come to New Orleans looking for adventure.
She had a feeling she was about to find one.