Chapter 4: Le Bon Ton Roulette

Layla

Alden and I weave through the labyrinthine streets of the French Quarter. The city is alive tonight, its pulse a chaotic symphony of neon lights, laughter, and the distant wail of a saxophone. It’s a world away from the suffocating confines of the dragon shifter community I fled, a world away from the weight of the black diamond fused to my heart. For tonight, at least, I’m allowed to forget.

Alden strides beside me, his presence a beacon of reckless abandon. His flamboyant attire—a tailored velvet jacket in deep crimson, slashed with gold embroidery, and trousers that shimmer like molten bronze—is a stark contrast to the muted tones of the night. His skin glows under the streetlights, and his fiery-tipped curls that I tried and failed to gel down seem to catch every flicker of light, as if they’re alive, dancing with the shadows. The lava-inspired pendant around his neck glints like molten gold, a subtle reminder of the ancient power he wields. He’s been my mentor, my confidant, my lifeline, and yet, tonight, he’s just Alden—my friend, treating me to a night of unbridled indulgence.

“You’re staring,” he teases, his amber eyes sparkling with amusement. His voice, smooth as aged whiskey, wraps around me like a promise. “Do I have something on my face? Or are you just admiring my impeccable fashion sense?”

I roll my eyes, a smile tugging at my lips despite the tightness in my chest. “I was just thinking how out of place you look. Like a supernova in a sea of shadows.”

“And you, my dear, are a shadow yourself,” he retorts, his tone laced with mock pity. His gaze flicks to the dark leather jacket I wear, the mask pulled low over my face, as if I could ever truly hide. “Though I suppose that’s intentional, given your… predicament.”

I shrug, the weight of his words settling in my chest like a stone. My predicament—the black diamond, the dragon mafia hunting me, the constant fear of exposure—is never far from my mind. But tonight, I’ve sworn to leave it behind. “Let’s not talk about that,” I say, looping my arm through his. My fingers brush the cool metal of his pendant, a fleeting connection. “Tonight, I’m just Layla. No diamonds, no dragons, no death threats.”

“Just fun,” he agrees, his grin widening as he squeezes my arm. “And I promise, this will be a night to remember.”

We stop at a small, unassuming bar tucked between a voodoo shop and a tattoo parlor. The sign above the door reads “The Ember’s Edge” in faded letters, the paint peeling like old scars. The air inside is thick with the smell of whiskey, smoke, and something else—something primal, like the scent of desire itself. Alden pushes open the door, and a wave of music and laughter washes over us. The crowd is a mix of locals and tourists, all swaying to the rhythm of a live band playing a sultry blues tune. The bass thumps through my chest, a heartbeat I can’t ignore.

“This place has character,” I remark, scanning the room. The walls are lined with vintage posters of jazz legends, their faces smudged with age, and the bar itself is polished to a mirror shine. A bartender with a sleeve of tattoos and a mischievous grin waves us over. His eyes linger on Alden a moment too long, and I catch the flicker of interest before he looks away. I don’t blame the guy. My Alden is a very handsome man, but he will never be more than my friend, which I am thankful for. I once wanted a mate, but that won’t ever happen. The only thing another dragon will ever want from me isn’t my love but this damn black diamond.

“What’ll it be?” he asks, his voice deep and gravelly, like the rumble of distant thunder.

“Something strong,” Alden says, sliding onto a stool with a grace that belies his millennia-old soul. “And make it fiery.”

The bartender raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question it. He reaches under the counter and pulls out a bottle of amber liquid, its label worn and illegible. The glass catches the light, throwing fractured rainbows across the bar. “This ought to do the trick,” he says, pouring two shots and setting them ablaze.

I take the glass, my fingers brushing Alden’s as I do. We both blow out the flame, and I take a huge sip of the shot. The warmth of the liquid burns down my throat like a brand, and I cough, laughing as tears prick my eyes. “What the fuck is this?”

“Cayenne-infused whiskey,” Alden says, grinning as he slams his shot back. His Adam’s apple bobs, and I watch, transfixed, as he swallows. “A local specialty. You’ll get used to it.”

I take another sip, this time bracing myself for the heat. It’s not unpleasant, just… intense. Like everything else in New Orleans, it demands your attention, refuses to be ignored.

As the night wears on, we fall into an easy rhythm. Alden’s wit and charm draw in a small crowd, and soon we’re laughing and joking with strangers as if we’ve known them for years. He’s a natural storyteller, his words painting vivid pictures of his millennia-long life. I listen, half-amused, half-in awe, as he recounts tales of ancient civilizations and long-forgotten wars. The humans are entertained, but I know that there is some truth to his stories, if even only a fraction.

“And then,” he says, leaning in dramatically, his breath warm against my ear, “I shifted into my lava snail form and left a trail of embers that spelled out ‘fuck off’ in ancient Sumerian. The pharaoh was not amused.”

The crowd erupts in laughter, and I shake my head, grinning. “You’re full of shit, you know that?”

“Only the finest, most polished shit,” he replies, raising his glass in a mock toast. His eyes glint with challenge, and I feel the familiar pull of his presence, like gravity itself.

But beneath the laughter and the stories, I feel it—the undercurrent of tension that never truly leaves me. It’s in the way I scan the room, in the way my hand instinctively rests on the hilt of the dagger strapped to my thigh under my dress. Alden notices, of course. He always does.