“Yeah,” he said. “But you know it was an accident.”

  “Was it?”

  His grin was half-cocked and awkward, far from the guilt of a man who’d been caught in his crime. “Of course,” he said. “I don’t just go around biting people. That would be weird.”

  Having no patience for his feigned ignorance, I scowled. “I said you weren’t stupid, so don’t play at it now. I don’t mean the bite.”

  He studied me between slow blinks. “Then what?”

  “You poisoned me.”

  Zephyr rubbed at his eyes as though he could scrub clarity into the situation. When he started shifting off the bed, I backed up a step.

  His gaze snapped to the space I’d put between us, and he had the gall to look wounded by it.

  “You put me under your spell.” I aimed my sore finger at his chest. “And I hope you got whatever you wanted out of this because it’s through. I won’t be manipulated or used by anyone. Not again.”

  He leaned back, no longer trying to leave the bed but rather disappear into it. “What spell?” He shook his head. “I didn’t⁠—”

  “It’s not what you did,” I cut in. “It’s what you are.”

  The statement appeared to be as much of an affront to him as his treachery was to me. But was it truly his deception? I may have misread him, but not entirely. He was trusting and malleable and could have been manipulated by the wraith who held the strings of his fate.

  “Did Maslow put you up to this?” I demanded, then decided as much for myself. My face twisted in a scowl. “He’s using you as leverage. Trying to get me to sign for Fairmont. That rat.”

  Zephyr glanced around as if there were someone here who could save him. From this. From me. But no, even if Maslow was the cause, Zephyr was the culprit. He deserved my scorn.

  “I-I didn’t… I wouldn’t,” he sputtered, trying for an excuse but failing to come up with anything more than a plea. “Beck, stop…”

  “Say it’s not true, then.”

  “It’s not!” he bawled.

  I lunged forward, bending in and planting my palms on the mattress. “You didn’t put your venom in me? Didn’t enchant me so I’d be your thrall? Your puppet? Your pet?”

  When he tried to speak, nothing came out. His shoulders caved inward as he started to cry in earnest, mouth working like the words were there but stuck in his throat.

  I felt sick.

  I felt cruel.

  More than that, I felt justified.

  Standing straight, I pointed toward the door. “Get out. You can wait in the hall. Colette will take you home.”

  Zephyr looked up at me, eyes glassy, lashes wet. When his voice came, it was low and steady, more steel than sob. “That’s not my home,” he said.

  “Well, it’s where you belong.”

  He didn’t meet my gaze again before swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. His bare feet hit the floor with soft thuds, then he mopped his face with the sleeve of his pajama top and followed my lead toward the exit.

  When I opened the door, the hallway light cast long shadows between us. Zephyr stepped over the threshold, and I didn’t touch him. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe.

  Then I shut him out.

  The lock clicked into place, and the ensuing silence was profound. I stood for a long second, resting my hand on the knob, staring at nothing.

  Turning, I walked back to the bedroom and retrieved my phone from the side table. My fingers hovered before I punched in the number.

  It rang twice before Colette picked up.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Zephyr

  I remembered this feeling from sometime long ago. Breathlessly gasping, dangling, waiting… It felt like dying.

  That was how the hellhound found me: far from death but close to the source of another devastating loss.

  She pounded her fist on the hotel room door. Maybe that was what I should have done, but I was too bewildered to argue a point I didn’t understand. Things like poison, and Maslow, and making Beck my thrall twisted together in a hopeless tangle. He seemed to think it had something to do with the bite, but that happened weeks ago. Why was it a problem now?

  More than a problem. A detonation.

  Everything was ruined. Over. We were done before we began, and the happier future I’d barely glimpsed was closed off to me.

  If this was grief, I had yet to process it.

  I hunkered in the passenger seat of the limousine, still wearing Beck’s pajamas. My clothes and new shoes had been left behind.

  Colette drove, but not in silence. She’d been rambling since Beck refused to answer the door, spouting off words in the language that rang like bells in my ears. I tried to tune her out. My brain was already cluttered with noise and nonsense. But as her volume increased and her grip on the steering wheel made her knuckles pop up in an angry ridge, I registered her words at last.

  “Et voilà, Beck a pris une autre décision merveilleuse: il a trop peur d’aimer, alors il fait souffrir a quelqu’un d’autre.”

  It was gibberish at first. But then understanding filtered in, and I realized I understood every word.

  “And there you have it, Beck made a wonderful decision: he’s too afraid to love, so he makes someone else suffer.” She scoffed, then continue. “He could’ve opened his heart to you, but no. Mister Big Shot would rather run like a child.”

  “It’s not his fault,” I said amidst her tirade.

  Her lips bent in a deep frown. I was used to seeing makeup on her, but at this early hour she was barefaced, and also in her sleep clothes. Before she could argue with me, her sour expression changed into one of mild delight.

  “Tu parles français?” She cocked her head toward me.

  Did I speak French?

  “Uh…” I paused. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  Colette snuffled a breath. For the first time that day, she looked something other than perturbed. In fact, she grinned.

  “I knew I liked you.” She smiled wider, then reached over to smooth my sleep-tousled hair. “Mon petit français.”

  I was too shaken to return her cheer, feeling chilled through and so unsteady I was glad to be sitting down. The events of the morning rolled over me like waves, dragging me farther from shore.

  “It’s generous of you to defend him, but Lucas is a bastard,” she carried on in French that I slowly pieced together. “He’s done nothing but talk about you for weeks. Horribly smitten. I’ve not seen the likes of it since, well… it’s been a long time.”

  “He said I poisoned him,” I replied in English. Despite the foreign language sounding right to my ears, my tongue didn’t seem to know it.

  Colette tossed her head. “Ridiculous.”

  I’d thought so—in what little time I’d had to think at all. Since being drawn up from Hell, I’d been told next to nothing about myself. Outside of Maslow’s opinions about my needs and wants, it had been a rocky road of self-discovery. I had so much yet to learn, and it was possible I could do things—had done things—I didn’t understand.

  The Strip passed by, nearly vacant so close to dawn, but I didn’t stare at it today. Instead, I looked at the floor and my bare feet before asking Colette, “What if I did?”

  She shot me a skeptical side-eye. “You don’t know?”

  I drew a deep breath as pain throbbed in my heart. “I bit him,” I said, starting with the obvious. “And he asked me, the night we met, if I had bewitched him.”

  In hindsight, it had been closer to an accusation. Beck had seemed severe in the moody lights of the executive suite, questioning my ability to enthrall him or his client. I told him I hadn’t; I wasn’t sure I could.

  But what if I did?

  “I didn’t mean to,” I said, protesting my sudden self-doubt. “It was my first time⁠—”

  “First time?” Colette’s brown eyes went round as her attention bounced between me and the road ahead.

  “I hadn’t been…” I balled up in my seat, tucking my knees under my chin and resting my head on top. “I was a virgin.”

  The hellhound made a sound of equal parts intrigue and amusement. “A virgin incubus?” She looked to me for the confirmation I reluctantly gave, then her lips quirked. “I suppose everyone starts somewhere.”

  I grunted in agreement, then wiped my soggy sleeve across my face. We traveled in silence a few moments until Colette gave a cry of surprise.

  “Wait! That means Lucas was…” Her eyes stretched wider as her brows arched toward her hairline. We had stopped at a red light, where she turned toward me and gripped my shoulder. “Does he know this?”

  The sight of her sympathy and the weight of my self-pity was too much to bear. Tears made my eyes ache with fresh heat, and I turned away. “No,” I mumbled.

  Colette made another sound, this one almost mournful. “Oh, darling. You gave him a precious gift.”

  I caught sight of my scowl in the passenger door window as I asked, “My poison?”

  Colette shook her head. “Your innocence. Your… self.” The light changed, but she idled a moment more before declaring, “He cannot squander this. I won’t allow it.”

  She jerked the wheel hard to the left, cutting through a gap in oncoming traffic to veer into a street-side parking space. We’d barely stopped when she shifted into reverse.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Colette looked over her shoulder out the rear window as the limo began to roll. She cut the wheel, angling back the way we came.

  “Taking you back,” she replied. “We will confront the idiot and make him understand. He’s stupid, but he’ll see reason when it’s right in front of him.” Her eyes found mine as she added, “And you, mon petit, are a very good reason.”

  The idea of returning to that hotel room and being subjected to Beck’s ire again made me quake. I couldn’t endure seeing what I’d wanted to be a haven turned into a war zone. I wouldn’t bring more conflict into Beck’s home.

  She’d returned both hands to the wheel, and I grabbed hold of one while being careful not to pull. “No, please.” My voice was tremulous. “I can’t face him. He’s right, I did. I was… using him.”

  It felt harsh to describe it that way, but unfortunately accurate. Beck was a food source for me. I craved him for reasons that weren’t entirely romantic, and he wouldn’t be wrong to resent that.

  I was a parasite.

  A predator.

  And the Dollhouse was where I belonged.

  “I don’t believe that,” Colette said as though she could hear the hateful words looping through my brain.

  “Beck does,” I replied.

  Pulling forward, she parked in the spot. Her fingers drummed across the leather-wrapped steering wheel before she heaved a sigh.

  “Very well,” she said. “I won’t force you. But Lucas will answer for this. I’m sure he’s already full of regret, but he will be even more so when I’m through with him.”

  I nodded, feeling numb as the limo lurched into motion once more. It reversed then turned toward the Dollhouse.

  The last leg of our journey passed without discourse. We rolled into the lot outside the club and sat for a minute while the engine rumbled low.

  When I didn’t hurry to climb out of the car, Colette glanced over. I was wadded up as compact as I could get and hugging my arms around my knees. Feeling small.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Colette asked, trading English for her earlier French. “We can go somewhere else for a while. Waste a bit of time.”

  I wasn’t due back at the club for hours, and I wasn’t eager to face Maslow or explain the chain of events that led to me being dropped on his doorstep before breakfast. But practical concerns overrode my emotional wants.

  “In these clothes?” I stretched out my arms to reference the shiny satin PJs.

  I worried, fleetingly, that Colette might ask for them back. They weren’t mine, after all. And while I should’ve been eager to shed them, along with everything that had happened since I woke up, they offered a small amount of comfort.

  The hellhound snorted and referenced her own sleepwear. I hadn’t noticed her bunny slippers until she kicked up one leg and bobbed her foot at me. “We could also waste a bit of Lucas’s money,” she teased. “He owes you a new outfit. And shoes.”

  I forced a thin smile. “I’m okay.”

  I wasn’t. Not even a little, but it would do no good to tell her that. This wasn’t a problem she could fix, despite her good intentions.

  Straightening, I reached for the door handle, but Colette caught me with a tap on the shoulder. I glanced back at her. Without the makeup giving her features a polish, she looked softer, more approachable, and so genuine. There was a sense of care in the crease between her brows that I could not overlook. And I didn’t want to.

  “Prends bien soin de toi, mon petit français,” she said. “Until we meet again.”

  She hooked her fingers around my shoulder and pulled me in so she could press her cheek to mine and make a kissing sound. Once on my left and once on my right. The gesture was so familiar it made my aching eyes leak anew.

  When she leaned back, I blinked, scattering droplets from my lashes. “I think you remind me of my mom,” I said before realizing how strange it sounded.

  Stranger still that I’d had no thoughts of family or friends outside the Dollhouse in my entire time on Earth. My memory remained a blank space, but it was a little brighter while recalling another French woman, older than Colette but equally charming. Affectionate. Loving.

  The hellhound flushed lightly pink, and her lips fell apart, speechless for a moment.

  “Sorry,” I offered, but she shook her head.

  “No, it’s…” Her smile returned with a vigor that made an odd contrast to the mist in her warm brown eyes. “Merci,” she said. “You’re very kind.”

  I stepped out of the limo into a parking lot and made my way toward the entrance. The hellhounds on duty gave silent nods and let me pass without question. Inside, the club was dark and still. The others wouldn’t be up yet, and I planned to slip up to my room and vanish for a few hours—just long enough for the spin in my head to settle and the ache in my chest to ease. Though I had a feeling that would take more time than I had to spare.

  I crossed the club floor, weaving between scattered tables and booths toward the dressing room door. As I reached for it, the door swung open to reveal my boss standing in the frame. Maslow blinked in surprise, then grinned wide, sharp teeth flashing in the gloom.

  “Baby boy, you’re back early.” He stepped forward while glancing around as though he expected to find Beck nearby. The absence amused Maslow while making me ache all the more.

  “I hope Beckett isn’t angling for a refund.” He clapped a meaty hand on my back, knocking the breath out of my lungs. “And I hope you didn’t think your little sleepover exempted you from roll call.”

  The cheeky phrase hit me like a slap. Roll call. No, I hadn’t thought about it—hadn’t missed it either. But the moment he said it, dread coiled like a viper in my gut.

  He meant the morning feeding. The lineup. The inspection where we stood shoulder to shoulder like show animals before a judge, waiting to be pawed over and scored. He liked to draw it out, sensing the way our energy shifted as he approached, savoring the taste of fear and resentment in the air.

  I’d woken up today without that weight pressing down on me, but it was crushing now.

  “No…” My reply was a squeak, better suited for a mouse than a man. A pathetic protest.

  I’d been stripped down to borrowed clothes and bare feet, but at least I was full. I had something to show for yesterday’s wonder, for being cared for and guided through the city like I belonged in it, not just some sideshow curiosity. My hunger was gone because Beck fed me.

  Then I lost him—we were through—and the thought of losing the last piece of him still with me…

  Maslow’s eyes danced with mirth.

  “Please, I can… I’ll…”

  I wrung my brain dry trying to come up with a proposition he would accept. Something I could offer besides the energy he intended to drain. I could think of only one thing, and it rankled me, but with everything else gone, I had nothing more to give.

  Breaking free of Maslow’s touch, I turned and dropped. I meant to lower myself gracefully, maybe seductively, but no. This was a collapse. I got on my knees before the man who’d first asked to see me that way, then looked up at him through lashes clumped with tears.

  It wasn’t what he wanted, but perhaps he would take it. Maybe if he got his own pleasure, he would leave me with mine.

  I knelt there, broken and begging, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch him. Or to offer in words what I invited with my posture.

  Then, the wraith laughed. His belly bounced uproariously, and my burden of apprehension was coupled with devastating shame. I had become everything he wanted, forced into the mold made for me, and he thought it was funny.

  Maslow’s chuckle tapered off as he reached down, fingers like a shackle around my arm. He hauled me up in a single jerking motion until I stood on my toes.

  “Nice try,” he snarled, his breath hot and sour in my face. “But I won’t be cheated out of what I’m due.”

  His other hand flattened over my chest, fingers splayed, and then—he pulled.

  It felt like my skin inverted. Like my soul stretched thin, peeled away layer by layer. My breath caught, locked behind my ribs as if even oxygen was being taken from me. My knees buckled, but Maslow held me up while drinking deep, draining every drop of Beck’s essence, every scrap of safety I’d stored away.

  When he finally let go, I crumpled and fell to the cold cement floor.

  Maslow loomed over me. “I don’t want to fuck you, but if I did, I wouldn’t need an invitation.” His voice was alarmingly calm. “Now, get up and go to your room.”

  My pulse pounded as my eyes drifted to the door behind him. The steps beyond it would be hell to climb, but I would crawl if it meant I could get away from him. Away from this.

  Maslow followed my gaze, then smirked. “Not up there. That’s closed now. I needed the space for storage.”