King of Pride (Kings of Sin #2) by Ana Huang

Thankfully, he’d returned to D.C. and wasn’t in attendance tonight, or I’d be thrown out of Valhalla myself for murdering another club member.

I ran a hand over my mouth and forced my mind elsewhere. It was neither the time nor the place for violent fantasies.

For the next hour, Clarissa and I circulated the room as I introduced her to the other members. Some she already knew. The international jet set was small, and they gathered at the same glittering social events every year: Cannes, the Legacy Ball, the Met Gala, New York and Paris Fashion Week. The list went on.

Dante and Vivian were here, as were the Laurents, the Singhs, and Dominic and his wife Alessandra. Even the Serb made an appearance, though he left after only a few minutes. I was surprised he’d showed at all; the unsmiling, unspeaking tycoon rarely showed his face in public. He’d joined Valhalla last year, and I hadn’t heard him talk once. I made a valiant effort to avoid the bar, but when Clarissa excused herself to use the restroom, I couldn’t resist a quick look. The crowd had cleared, and I found myself scanning the length of the room for a flash of distinctive purple.

Blonde hair, red hair, silver…violet.

My breath stilled. Isabella stood at the end of the bar, talking to Vivian. High ponytail, sparkling eyes, unfettered grin. Somehow, she made her simple black uniform look better than any of the expensive designer dresses on display tonight.

My feet took me across the room before my brain could protest.

In a rare change of pace, Isabella spotted me before I could overhear her talking about something inappropriate—glitter condoms, perhaps, or a modern reenactment of ancient Roman orgies—and her voice petered off as I approached.

A strange stab of disappointment pierced my gut.

“Hey, Kai.” Vivian smiled, resplendent in a floor-length aqua gown and diamonds befitting the Lau jewelry heiress. “You have perfect timing. I was just about to find Dante. You know him. Can’t leave him alone for too long.” She slid off her seat. “Have fun. Isa, I’ll see you at Sloane’s on Thursday.”

She disappeared into the crowd before Isabella or I could get a word in.

An awkward silence bloomed in her wake. I smoothed a palm over my tie, needing something to do with my hands. My tuxedo was custom-tailored, but it suddenly felt too tight, like it could barely contain the heavy drum of my heartbeat.

I’d dined with presidents, negotiated with CEOs, and vacationed with royalty, but none had shredded my composure the way Isabella did.

“So where’s your date?” she asked, not looking at me as she worked on a drink.

Who—right. Clarissa. “She’s in the restroom.” I recovered quickly from my near misstep. “I figured it would be a good time to check in on you. Make sure you’re not distributing certain…party favors illegally on club grounds.”

“Ha ha.” Isabella rolled her eyes, but a smile curved her mouth. “What did I tell you the other night? I knew you and Corissa would end up dating.”

“Her name is Clarissa, and we’re on a date, not dating. There’s a difference.”

“You know what they say. The road to dating is paved with dates.” Her tone was casual, but I detected an undercurrent of tension.

“Jealous?” I drawled, more pleased by the thought than I should’ve been. Dark, amused satisfaction coasted through me at her telling scowl.

“Hardly. You two are perfect for each other. You’re both so…proper.”

“You say that like it’s an insult. Where I come from, propriety is a virtue, not a vice.”

“You mean the Rupert Giles school of life?” Isabella wrinkled her nose. “I can only imagine.”

I couldn’t contain a grin. “A Buffy reference. Why am I not surprised?” She reminded me a lot of the titular nineties character. Often underestimated because of her looks and stature, but fiercely intelligent with a spine of steel beneath the delicate exterior.

“Because you know I have taste,” she said primly. She handed me the drink she’d been working on. Strawberries. Pink. “Tradition.”

The idea of sharing a tradition with Isabella, even one as silly as a cocktail, pleased me even more than her potential jealousy, but I kept my voice bland as I took a sip. It was the perfect balance of sweet and tart.

“So we’re on a tradition basis now,” I drawled. “I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. I have traditions with everyone, including my oversexed neighbor and the barista at my local coffee shop.” Isabella’s dimples flashed at the quizzical tilt of my brows. “Whenever my neighbor disrupts my sleep with his activities, I blast Nickelback and sing along off-key until I kill their mood. Usually takes about ten minutes. I like to think I’m doing the women a favor because their moans do not sound real. There’s nothing worse than performing vocally without getting paid in the form of orgasms.”

A laugh bubbled into my throat even as my blood heated at the sound of the word orgasms leaving her mouth. “And the barista?”

“His girlfriend is Filipino. He wants to learn Tagalog for her, so I teach him a new phrase every morning when I come in for my coffee. He’s getting pretty good.”

My smile softened at the mental image of Isabella teaching someone random Tagalog phrases at the register. It sounded exactly like something she would do. Beneath all the sass and sarcasm, she had a heart of gold.