Darby sprang off the mattress with a laugh. “Come to my room. You aren’t staying here.”

  Peeking between my fingers, I saw him standing by with a mischievous grin.

  “You mean it?” I asked.

  “Sure.” He beamed wider. “My bed’s only a twin, though, so we’ll have to get real cozy unless you’re okay with sleeping on the floor.”

  It was the first reason I’d had to smile all day. “Thanks,” I said.

  He nodded, then spun away, but not toward the exit. “One last thing,” he called back.

  Skipping over to one of the display cases, he slid the glass door open and pulled out a jiggly purple dildo. The thing was massive in his hand, long and girthy with exaggerated veins. He gave it a wiggle before approaching the opposite wall and stopping beside the video camera. Sticking out his tongue, he made a show of licking the suction cup base of the phallus before slapping it over the camera’s lens, obstructing its view of the room.

  When released, the rubber cock wobbled comically, and Darby erupted into laughter. He hurried away, catching my hand as he passed and towing me along behind.

  It was a rescue I didn’t have to bargain for. No contract, no fine print, just the gentle encouragement of someone who wanted me to be free.

  Maybe that shouldn’t have meant so much, but it hit differently.

  Maslow had pulled me out of Hell, but he’d done so with chains in mind. He’d dressed it up as mercy and spun it into a story where I owed him everything. Then he told me to be grateful, reminding me constantly how he’d “saved” me.

  Darby didn’t save me; he just led me out of a place I didn’t want to be.

  And somehow, I was more grateful for that than anything Maslow had ever done.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  Beck

  Considering how determined I was to drain every drop of bourbon from the decanter, I probably should’ve skipped the glass altogether. I’d already refilled it twice and now let it dangle from my fingers, swirling the amber liquid with idle intent. I’d dragged a chair from the sitting area and planted it in front of the window—the vast pane of glass that had held Zephyr spellbound last night.

  I sipped the liquor and looked out, searching for what I’d lost. What I sent away.

  My hand throbbed, a reminder of the kind of trickery I’d vowed never to fall for. I’d come too far to stumble into the pitfalls of my youth, and love was foremost among them. If nothing had come from a young, idealistic demon pledging himself to an angel except a lesson learned, so be it. But I wouldn’t ignore my own hard-earned wisdom.

  I wouldn’t love Zephyr.

  I didn’t.

  What had happened between us was a fiction of his design. He enticed me with his wiles, then strung me along with simpering smiles and good manners. Never forgetting the please when he asked me to feed him, or the thank you afterward. Like I was helping him. Doing something meaningful with my dreary existence. Taking care of something precious.

  He’d become fragile when I shouted at him, cowed and quivering. I’d been no different than Maslow using words to cut him down, and I’d tossed him out the moment I was through.

  Because he deserved it.

  He hurt me.

  Being made into a fool hurt me.

  But now, I wanted him back because the illusion was better than the ugly reality. Having someone on my arm admiring me, relying on me, was far preferable to this solitude. I’d enjoyed getting to dote on someone. Especially someone as grateful as Zephyr. He soaked up every ounce of attention and scrap of affection, then radiated it back onto me. He took and gave in a perfect circle of trust.

  Until I broke it.

  No.

  He did.

  He shattered my faith in him, in us, and fuck… I had wanted there to be an us. I was tired of only me. Always me. Year after year, decade after decade. I made for miserable company.

  An hour passed before a barrage of knocks thundered at the door. I’d ignored the earlier ones, after Colette delayed Zephyr’s return to the Dollhouse for the sake of shouting at me from the hall. Several curse words, only a few in English, and demands that I come out and deal with my problems rather than foist them off onto her.

  But I’d sat.

  Here, in this chair, watching the sun rise over Mount Charleston.

  And Colette was back.

  I’d had her key card deactivated since the last raid on my minibar, or she would likely be in my face already.

  Ignoring her was impossible with the ruckus she was raising, though. My neighbors would be calling the front desk any minute to lodge complaints.

  Setting the decanter and glass aside, I hauled myself to my feet and answered the door to a very angry hellhound.

  Colette’s blonde hair was frizzed, and her expression was a series of hard lines, every one of them pointing at me. “You are an imbecile,” she said as she stomped into the suite.

  I pushed the door shut behind her while muttering, “By all means, come in.”

  She wheeled on me before I’d even turned around. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Coll—”

  “No.” She wagged a chastising finger. “You don’t get to dismiss that boy like he’s nothing and then hide up here nursing a glass of guilt.”

  I massaged my temples. “You don’t understand⁠—”

  “I do understand,” she snapped. “I understand that you’re a coward.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The suite that had seemed almost fantastical last night was lackluster now. The sun burned in through the open window, glaring at me along with Colette as she roamed around the space, burning energy and venting anger.

  “You heard me,” she said. “You’re hiding from your feelings like a lovesick mortal instead of dealing with them like a grown-ass demon.”

  I bristled. “This isn’t about feelings. It’s about damage control.”

  “Zephyr didn’t poison you on purpose,” Colette said, her voice sharp. “And you know it.”

  I didn’t answer. My silence was its own admission.

  Colette stopped and faced me with her fists on her hips. I braced for the rebuke that must have been brewing behind her pinched lips, but when she spoke, I didn’t feel scolded at all.

  “He was a virgin, Beck.”

  Shock staggered me, or maybe it was the bourbon making me unsteady, but I suddenly needed to sit down. Making my way to the couch, I thought back to that night in the executive suites. To Livingston’s sour deal, and Luxe’s wingman act, and Zephyr dangling above the stage, bound in silks with his limbs tensed and body bowing like he’d been designed to ruin me.

  I thought about how he’d approached me and practically begged me to bed him. And I had. Because he was beautiful. Because he was hungry. Because he made me feel…

  That was it. He made me feel.

  But in his bedroom, that sad closet of a space with its barred-over window and sparse furnishings, he’d been uncertain. He’d bumbled through getting into position, then shied from my touch. But he’d said nothing about a lack of experience.

  Colette stared at me, brown eyes blazing.

  “No, that’s not…”

  I stopped myself because fuck. I’d treated him like a prostitute. Clamped my hand over his mouth, then rutted mindlessly into him. His first time—his first sexual experience—had been getting used like a toy.

  And maybe that was okay. He’d seemed to like it when I gagged him with my fingers, had moaned and writhed while my cock dipped into the wet heat of his ass. Maybe it didn’t matter that there had been no love in the act.

  Not then. But since…

  My mouth felt like it was packed with cotton, making it difficult to force the words out. “He didn’t tell me.”

  Colette sniffed, nose upturned so she could glower down at where I sat. “You’re not the easiest person to talk to.”

  I rolled my eyes and wished the bourbon was within reach as Colette carried on.

  “Was it good for him, at least?” she asked. “Were you gentle?”

  Not particularly.

  I fucked Zephyr like I had something to prove. Every time I touched him, it came with the uneasy weight of comparison, like some part of him was already measuring me against whoever might come next. And I couldn’t stand the thought of being forgettable. I wanted to leave a mark. I wanted to be the one he remembered.

  He took everything I had to give, gorged himself on my desire, and I had wanted it to be good for him. Good didn’t have to be gentle.

  “I’m not a fucking animal, Coll,” I grumbled.

  “Well, you’re behaving like one.” Colette stepped closer. “Zephyr was a wreck when I got here. You broke him. And the worst part is, he defended you. Said this wasn’t your fault.”

  “It’s not.” The rebuttal came quickly, but not half as quickly as Colette’s advance. Swooping in, she brought her hand around in a stinging slap that whipped my head to the side.

  Anger chased surprise, and I sprang to my feet only to be shoved back down.

  “Listen to me, you bitter old man.” Colette’s finger ticked too close to my face. “In the limo last night, I heard every word you said. You called that boy perfect and beautiful and then you sent him away. Why?”

  “He tricked me,” I replied, while my conviction—my righteous indignation—waned.

  “Non!” Colette barked. “I am not finished.”

  “You asked me a question.”

  “And your answer is wrong.” Colette folded her arms across her chest. “Now listen. Not only did I hear all the sweet nothings you whispered to him, I watched you fawn over him at lunch. While he was eating, you were feasting on his lips, his hair, his eyes, and blushing every time he laughed.” She shook her head. “Mon dieu, it was disgusting.”

  While I glared, Colette’s expression softened. Turning, she dropped onto the couch beside me and reached for my hand.

  “Lucas…” Her gaze was so beseeching I couldn’t avoid it. “You’ve sabotaged your own happiness.”

  I’d seen a different reality on yesterday’s stroll down the Strip. I’d pictured Zephyr as a fixture in my life, a constant presence. Like the street performer said: people like Zephyr made magic work better. Or maybe they had a little magic of their own, a gift they could give to people like me.

  But I should’ve known better. That kind of light didn’t stick around. It blazed bright and hot and drew you in with the promise of warmth, but it wasn’t meant to be contained. It couldn’t be kept, and I’d gotten burned trying.

  “It can’t be happiness if it’s a lie,” I explained. “The other shoe was bound to drop. I may have been Zephyr’s first, but I won’t be his last. I certainly won’t be his only. Creatures like him⁠—”

  Colette made a reproachful sound. “Do not call him that when you yourself are the least human being in this equation.”

  “Men like him,” I corrected, my voice flat, “will find someone else. I refuse to stand around waiting, wasting eternity on people who mean more to me than I mean to them.”

  Colette scowled through the pause before muttering, “I know what you’re talking about, and it’s irrelevant.”

  “It is relevant,” I argued.

  “It’s sad,” Colette replied. “This is not that, and Zephyr is not Stefano. You are also not the same as you were a hundred years ago. And if you are, that’s sad too.”

  I mirrored her frown as she continued.

  “It’s called the past because it is meant to stay behind you.” She swung her arm toward the door as though Zephyr was still in the hall, waiting. For a moment, I wished he was. “That precious boy is within your grasp,” she said, then fanned her fingers in front of her face. “And don’t get me started on all the other places he’s been because I can smell him everywhere.”

  “Just making the dicks kiss,” I replied dryly.

  “You’re the dick,” Colette fired back, then sighed. Shifting, she turned toward me. “I know you’re hurting; I know you feel deceived, but Lucas?” She waited until I met her eyes again to say, “It was an accident.”

  “You believe that?”

  Her head bobbed. “I do. And I think you do too.”

  I almost did. Zephyr hadn’t looked smug or guilty when I confronted him—just blindsided. Like he couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong. His pretty eyes had gone all wide and wet, lower lip trembling like he’d break apart if I raised my voice again. And I had. I’d shouted and raged and made him listen to every word.

  He hadn’t fought back. He’d only said it wasn’t true. That he didn’t know. And I wanted to believe him. I’d been drawn to him in the first place because he didn’t wear deceit the way so many people did. He was genuine. Honest.

  And I’d punished him anyway.

  I’d sent him back to the Dollhouse. Back to Maslow.

  My chest went tight. Whatever I’d done, Maz would do worse. He’d displayed enough cruelty in front of me that I couldn’t help but cringe at what might go on behind closed doors.

  “I shouldn’t have sent him back there,” I said.

  The confession felt revelatory, but Colette barely blinked.

  “Non. You should not.”

  “It’s worse than you know,” I continued. “Maz is using the Dollhouse dancers for their energy. That’s why Zephyr’s hungry all the time. Maz is feeding from him. From all of them. I don’t know for how long. Or why.”

  Colette’s brow furrowed, and her fingers tightened around mine. “So, your incubus is food? For the wraith?”

  “Something like that.”

  I braced for another slap, which would have been deserved. But this time it was the crack of Colette’s voice and not her palm that stung me.

  “You made me complicit, you bastard!” She rose from the couch and flung her hands in the air. “And after he told me I remind him of his mother!”

  “He said that?” I asked quietly.

  “Yes!” Colette exclaimed. “Because she was French, and so is he.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He understands me,” she replied. “You may not have noticed, but there aren’t many people in this city who do. What do you know about him?”

  In a short drive across town, she’d learned more about Zephyr than I had walking the Strip with him all day.

  “Not much,” I admitted. “He prefers to talk about me.”

  Colette smirked. “You must enjoy that.”

  Her words were lost in the clamor of my thoughts.

  “He doesn’t even know his real name,” I murmured.

  “Something to add to the list of things you said you would fix.”

  I looked toward the window and the boulevard below. Problems were mounting, and I didn’t have solutions for any of them. I didn’t know the terms of Zephyr’s deal, didn’t know what Maslow had on him or how deep the hooks went. I had nothing to offer in trade—no leverage beyond my reputation, which the wraith was already eager to exploit.

  The last thing I wanted was to get dragged into Dollhouse politics. I was a contract demon, not a crusader. And if Maslow called me to the table, it wouldn’t be about Zephyr. It would be about the Fairmont Street deal. That was the beginning and end of whatever he had in mind, and I wouldn’t touch that contract with a ten-foot pitchfork.

  But I’d made promises, and Zephyr was at the center of every one.

  Colette spoke again, gentler now. “You care for Zephyr. It’s a rare thing, and he must be a rare breed because he clearly cares for you too.” Stepping forward, she laid a hand on my shoulder. “Rob yourself of this if you must, but don’t leave him to suffer. Get him out of that place. Help him find himself. And then you can move on.”

  Releasing me, she walked around the couch and out of my line of sight. I heard her scuffling, exhaling as she bent, then the hiss of the minibar fridge opening. A beat later came the rustle of plastic packaging.

  When she reentered my field of view, she was pouring from a bag of peanut M&M’s into her palm. My weary look went unnoticed as she dumped the candies into her mouth, then cheeked them to speak.

  “You work on your apology. I’ll find out about Zephyr. Where he comes from and what his life was. I think he’d like to know.”

  “I think you’re right.” The words caught a little in my throat.

  “Bien sûr. I am,” Colette said while chewing loudly. “About all of it.”

  She padded past me while munching her way through a second handful. When she reached the door, she tugged it open, then paused on the threshold. “And, Lucas? When you talk to the boy, try not to let your pride speak louder than your heart.”

  The door clicked shut behind her, and silence filled the room.

  I stayed put, staring at the place where she’d stood. My chest was too tight. My thoughts and yes, my pride too loud. Damn demonic vices.

  Apology. The word lingered.

  I’d shouted at Zephyr, frightened him, then returned him to the clutches of someone who saw him as fuel rather than flesh.

  Maslow wouldn’t miss him if he disappeared, but I would.

  I already did.

  I dragged a hand down my face and exhaled, slow and bitter.

  Colette was right. About all of it.

  I owed Zephyr more than silence.

  I owed him forgiveness. A modicum of trust. A goddamn lifeline.

  And I needed to find the words to say before he was no longer willing to hear them.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-ONE

  Zephyr

  Days passed, and I settled into my new normal: working every night, practicing every day.

  I didn’t go back to VIP.

  I was on stage, in my silks or on my hoop, and I was content. My routines had become increasingly ambitious, though more easily imagined than executed after Maslow’s daily withdrawals.

  I was weak. Hungry. Often dizzy. And what should have been dazzling became dangerous. On the third night, I blacked out only to come to a split second later, suspended by the silks wound around my leg. No one noticed, and I didn’t confess. Just kept pushing, rehearsing, and taking my place in the spotlight over and over again.