Page 65 of Duty Unbound

I found Mel exactly where I knew I would—standing in the wings, her tablet clutched to her chest as she watched her sister command the stage. Something was different about her tonight. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders instead of being pulled back in her usual professional style, and the sight of those dark waves made my fingers itch to touch them.

“Everything running smoothly?” I asked, stepping close enough to catch the faint vanilla scent that always seemed to cling to her skin.

She turned toward me, and my breath caught in my throat. There, just above her left eyebrow, was a small smudge of bluepaint—evidence that she’d been using the art supplies I’d given her again this afternoon. The sight of it sent an unexpected surge of satisfaction through me.

“All good so far,” she replied softly, her voice barely audible over the music. “Nova’s in top form tonight. The crowd’s eating it up.”

“You’ve been painting.” The words escaped before I could stop them, my eyes fixed on that telltale streak of color.

Her hand flew to her face, fingers searching frantically. “Oh God, I left some on my face, didn’t I? Where is it? I thought I got it all.”

I caught her wrist gently, lowering her hand. “Don’t. I like it.”

Pink bloomed across her cheeks, and memories of last night flooded my mind: her gasps echoing in the command center, the way she’d arched against my mouth, how my name had sounded on her lips when she’d come apart beneath my tongue.

“About tonight,” I murmured, keeping my voice low. I did a quick visual sweep to ensure we were alone in our little corner. “How about if I come to your room as soon as the show ends?”

“We can’t.”

“Fine.” I trailed a finger down her arm. “You come to mine.”

“I want to,” she whispered, her green eyes darkening with unmistakable heat. “But we have that after-party at Skylight. Nova’s been talking about it for days.”

Damn. In the haze of desire, I’d momentarily forgotten about Nova’s celebration plans at New Orleans’ hottest nightclub.

“Right. The nightclub.” I couldn’t keep the disappointment from my voice, though I tried.

“I have to be there,” she said apologetically, twisting her fingers together. “Nova needs me to handle the VIP list, makesure the right people get in, coordinate with the club’s management?—”

“I know.” I cut off her explanation gently. She didn’t need to justify herself to me. This was her job, her responsibility. “We’ll both be there. Security detail doesn’t stop just because the venue changes.”

Her fingers brushed against mine, a fleeting touch that sent electricity racing up my arm. “Later?” The single word held so much promise.

“Definitely later,” I assured her, my voice rougher than intended.

Ty’s voice crackled urgently in my earpiece, breaking the moment. “Boss, we’ve got a situation. Drunk fan trying to climb the barricade at section B. Security’s struggling to contain him.”

“On my way,” I responded, pressing my finger to the comms unit. To Mel, I said, “Duty calls.”

“Go,” she said, but her eyes held promises for later that made my blood heat.

I forced myself to turn away, to focus on the job at hand. Professional distance was becoming harder to maintain with each passing second.

The Skylight club pulsed with an energy that bordered on frenetic. Located on the top floor of the prestigious Astoria Hotel, it offered panoramic views of New Orleans’ glittering skyline rather than the French Quarter—not that anyone was paying attention to the scenery. The bass thumped through the floorboards, vibrating up through my boots as colored lights swept across the packed dance floor in dizzying patterns.

“All entry points secure,” Logan reported through the comms, his voice carrying a strain I recognized all too well. The crowds, the noise, the constant flashing lights—I knew thisenvironment was hell on his PTSD, but he was maintaining his position without complaint.

“Copy that,” I replied, my eyes continuously scanning the writhing mass of bodies on the dance floor. Nova held court in the elevated VIP section, surrounded by her ever-present entourage. Dexter was there, gesticulating wildly as he told some story that had the backup dancers in stitches. Local celebrities and industry bigwigs the promoters had invited mingled among them, everyone vying for proximity to the pop star.

“Jace, status on surveillance?” I asked, pressing my finger to my earpiece to better hear over the thunderous music.

“All feeds operational,” he responded from his position in the club’s security office. “Got eyes on every corner. Nothing suspicious so far, but this place is packed way beyond legal capacity.”

The club was indeed dangerously crowded, bodies pressed together so tightly that movement through the space required constant physical contact. Servers in skimpy uniforms weaved through the maze of people with trays of overpriced drinks held high above their heads, while security personnel in matching black shirts maintained watch from strategic positions around the perimeter.

I spotted Mel near the edge of the dance floor, not quite part of Nova’s inner circle but still present, still watchful. She’d changed for the occasion, trading her backstage attire for a black dress that hugged every curve. Watching her move to the music, her body swaying with unconscious grace, was pure torture. Every shift of her hips, every toss of her hair, reminded me of how she’d moved beneath my hands, above my mouth.

“Ah fuck.” Ty’s voice burst through the comms, annoyed. “Got a handsy drunk trying to pull Nova onto his lap. Moving to intercept.”

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