When I slept, it was on the floor in Darby’s room because his bed was small and no matter how curved or compressed he began each night, he ended it spreadeagle, arms and legs touching both sides of the mattress. But the floor was better than the room downstairs, and I enjoyed his company, besides.

  Word must have spread about my falling out with Beck because the guys all made gestures in an effort to mend my shattered heart.

  Oz got tofu and prepared an assortment of vegetarian dishes. Elliot made me a paper crane like the ones hanging in his bedroom. Colt and Callum burned a CD with a playlist of country songs about heartache and revenge, and more than one discussing setting fire to someone’s truck.

  Darby came up with the only gift that made me blush: a lacy bra and panties in emerald green. I hadn’t had the nerve or privacy to try them on yet. I wasn’t willing to let Darby show me how to tuck my cock and balls again, so I resolved to figure it out on my own. Eventually.

  On the morning of the fourth day, I received another gift. This one came from Maslow after the daily lineup. He pulled me aside in the upstairs hall, waiting until everyone else had dispersed to shove a large paper bag into my arms.

  I wasn’t deluded enough to think it was a real present. Not from him, and not considering the leering look he gave me after I peeked at the pile of gauzy fabric inside.

  “Get dressed, baby boy,” Maslow said. “I’m taking you out on the town.”

  He must have known I hadn’t been sleeping in the room downstairs. I hadn’t even stepped inside. Maybe this was payback—taking me to earn my keep somewhere else. On a corner. In front of strangers, with no low lights to soften the harsh glare of perception.

  Judging by how sheer everything in the bag was, I wouldn’t have a scrap of modesty left. I bit my lip, trying to keep the worry off my face as I imagined being paraded around or put on display on the street that had seemed wonderful when I was with Beck.

  Now, it felt like a dream teetering into a nightmare.

  Darby crept out of our room with his shower tote, always in a hurry to wash after being subjected to Maslow’s siphoning touch. The wraith stopped him with a snap.

  “Luxe! I’m taking Cherry on a field trip. Do something with his face. You’ve got ten minutes.”

  Darby was suspicious of the wraith’s intent, but considering I knew no more than he did and every probing question left me increasingly emotional, we spent the bulk of our allotted ten minutes in silence.

  I emerged from the bathroom after a rush job of a makeover, wearing the outfit Maslow had provided.

  It wasn’t an outfit, actually. Just pants made of translucent material and cut open on the sides so they billowed around my legs. They cuffed at my ankles and sat low on my hips and thankfully included a pair of underwear to conceal the necessary bits. There were sandals too, that reminded me of my aerial boots. They had solid bottoms to protect against Nevada’s scorching sidewalks, and the tops were made of strips of muslin that wrapped up my ankles.

  I met Maslow at the door, where he provided the finishing touch: a choker necklace with gold chains that swagged across my shoulder to a cuff around my upper arm.

  He’d never dressed me. Never picked clothes or accessories for any of my performances, and it felt like one more piece of my autonomy had been stripped away.

  I was a doll.

  The club’s name suggested as much, but I’d never been as keenly aware of it as when Maslow was in my face with a lit cigar pinned between his lips. He fluffed my hair and tugged on the choker until it sat straight. It was all I could do to cut my gaze aside and breathe.

  Don’t cry; you’ll ruin your makeup.

  We took a car. It was much smaller than Beck’s limo, and I sat in the back seat alone while Maslow rode in front with the driver. They didn’t talk to me and, while I might have benefited from listening to their conversation, I couldn’t make sense of the words.

  My brain was a buzz of panic, and my skin stuck to the leather upholstery. I shifted and squirmed, making the fabric creak until Maslow snapped his fingers at me like he had at Darby.

  “Settle down,” he grunted. “We’re almost there.”

  It was early, and the Strip was filling with tourists. Trapped in the vehicle and desperate for a distraction, I looked at the sights as we passed them, recognizing many from my walking tour with Beck. I hoped to spot the street magician again, but while I was searching for him, the car veered out of the line of traffic and stopped.

  Maslow’s door opened and shut as I scanned the side of the street we’d parked on. Ahead on the right, jets of water plumed up in staggering, misty sprays. Maslow tugged my door open, and I poked my head out to look around.

  It wasn’t a street corner, which would have come as a relief if I hadn’t had an entirely new cause for concern. The building we had stopped beside was the same one Beck pointed out to me. The casino owned by angels.

  Antonella Rossetti.

  Running me out on a rail.

  Beck said there was a dividing line down the middle of Las Vegas Boulevard, and I was on the wrong side of it.

  “We shouldn’t be here,” I whispered as Maslow’s offered hand seized me in a grab.

  I was hauled from the car into the midday glare, where I swayed while taking in the spectacle before me. The name I hadn’t known before was spelled out in an arch above the entrance.

  The Basilica. Golden wings flanked the words.

  It didn’t look ominous. Quite the opposite. It was white, grand, and glorious, with massive panes of glass that sparkled in the sunlight. When I compared it to the structures on the opposite side of the street, I immediately noticed the disparity. Good versus evil. Light versus dark.

  I didn’t belong here, but part of me wanted to.

  Maslow kept hold of my hand, his grip tight but slick with sweat. He passed the driver a few folded bills, then led me toward the alabaster steps into the building.

  “We shouldn’t be here,” I repeated, this time so the wraith could hear.

  “Nonsense.” Maslow scoffed. “I’m an honored guest in this place, and you’re just the accessory I needed to complete this look.”

  He gestured to his suit, accented with a pocket square made of the same gauzy material as my pants. His shirt was red to match my hair, and gold chains tasseled off the shoulders of his jacket. When he squeezed my hand, the gem-studded rings that bedecked his chubby fingers grated against my knuckles.

  We reached the landing, and Maslow pulled me in to hiss in my ear. “Smile, sweetheart. The people wanna see you pretty.”

  “What people?”

  All the people. Every one of them. Because the casino was packed.

  The hotel check-in desk lined one wall, cluttered with guests arriving and departing. Bellhops zipped past pushing golden luggage carts, and tourists loitered in clumps, necks craned to take in the domed ceiling adorned with shimmering frescoes. Cameras flashed. Waiters ferried trays of champagne. Laughter bounced off the walls.

  I smiled because I’d been told to.

  Because I had to.

  As anxious as I’d been at the Crowndell about getting separated from the group, now I found myself wishing for a little distance from Maslow. If he lost track of me… maybe I could wander. But where would I go?

  Half naked, with only the vaguest sense of direction, I’d get lost in no time. Maybe I’d stumble into the care of someone kinder than the wraith—but there were worse things than Maslow in the world. I could just as easily fall prey to a bigger, hungrier predator.

  So, I let Maslow lead me, tagging along as closely as if I were on a leash.

  Conditioned air swept across my bare chest and cut through the sheer material of my pants, raising goosebumps everywhere it touched. My footsteps were cushioned by the velvet carpet that stretched across the tile like rivers of spilled wine.

  On the gaming floor, dealers wearing crisp white button-downs worked card tables. Overhead, a chandelier dripped crystals like teardrops, and the soft strains of a string quartet piped in over hidden speakers.

  Maslow and I moved with a sense of purpose, weaving through the crowd that suddenly parted. The path was not made for us, but for the tall male figure about twenty feet away.

  The moment I saw him, everything else dropped out of focus.

  With porcelain-pale skin and white hair cut to the contour of his jaw, he had a distinct aura. Ghostly. Inhuman. Or holy.

  He wasn’t dressed like a priest or a saint. His suit was sleek and dark with the jacket slitted open up the back so a massive pair of wings could emerge. The white-feathered things arched above his shoulders, glittering with powdered gold. My attention roamed from those to his face, made of features so fine and smooth they might have been carved.

  I’d never seen anything so perfect.

  When he turned toward us, I braced for the affront. The order to leave. The confirmation of what I’d known from the start: I was not welcome here.

  But as he approached, his polished black shoes striking the ground with marked precision, I had a second thought.

  What if he could help me?

  Since Beck’s rejection, I’d all but given up on the idea of rescue. The Dollhouse was my home, and this was my life. I was nearly resigned, but not completely because my traitorous heart drummed at the prospect of a divine savior.

  Angels were good. Maybe this one would be good to me.

  He arrived before us, towering overhead by several inches. Everything about him was overwhelming, overpowering, and I shied away from his inspection.

  Pale gray eyes flicked up and down my form, seeing everything on display.

  My smile faltered, so I tried again, pressing my lips together and thinking so hard about my expression that I was certain it came out wrong.

  “Narcissus,” Maslow greeted. “Come down to say hello?”

  The angel—Narcissus—frowned at Maslow before motioning toward me. “Just making sure you brought it.”

  It?

  I glanced over one shoulder then the other, searching for the object in question. But there was nothing, and Maslow’s hands were empty save for the one curled like a vise around my wrist.

  It.

  Did he mean me?

  “How could I forget?” Maslow replied with a wide grin. “A salesman should never leave the house without his sample.”

  The casino’s hum dulled around us. The clink of chips, the melodic ding of slot machines—none of it touched the space we stood in. Passing people parted around the angel like fish swimming downstream. A few turned their heads or slowed to gawk at Narcissus, but most kept moving.

  Narcissus looked at me again, slower this time. I shivered despite the heat of the lights and the blood Maslow’s grip forced to my fingertips. If I weren’t tethered, I might have wrapped my arms across my chest, tried to cover up. Not that it would’ve helped. I got the feeling Narcissus’s icy eyes would have stripped me down regardless of how much clothing I had on.

  “Do they all look like this?” The angel waved his long, pale fingers in my direction.

  Maslow cocked his head to consider. “There’s a variety. Something for every taste, I’d say.”

  I looked down at myself, at the mesh swathing over long stretches of skin, the painted nails, and the golden collar. I looked, and I tried not to curl inward. Every word and gesture being exchanged pushed me further toward that invisible shelf where I could be tagged, priced, and posed.

  A doll.

  A toy.

  An object.

  That point was being driven straight into my chest. Deeper still when Narcissus gave a curt nod.

  “Good,” he said. “We maintain a particular aesthetic here, and that red is garish.”

  My free hand moved to the scarlet locks resting against my collarbone. My fingertips felt foreign as they brushed my skin. Not at all the way Beck touched me.

  He’d liked my hair, hadn’t he?

  He said I was beautiful. Not garish.

  “You could dye it,” Maslow replied, and the angel sneered.

  “You could.”

  The two men faced each other, impossibly different but somehow the same. I was wrong about Narcissus saving me. He was stunning but scornful, and I saw now that his colorless eyes were devoid of anything but cold calculation.

  Maslow smirked at the angel, likely feeling in good company with someone as wicked as he was. “Where’s your uncle?”

  “Upstairs,” Narcissus replied.

  “Best not to keep him waiting, don’t you think?”

  Narcissus huffed and tossed his head. A reluctant concession. Before taking a step, he held his hand out toward me. “I’ll take it,” he said.

  It.

  Maslow released my wrist, then nudged me toward the angel. I struggled to free my feet from what felt like a sucking mire. It wasn’t the tile or carpet that bound me, but a profound sense of unease. I was unsure of what we were doing here, who this angel and his uncle were, and why I had been brought to meet them.

  After crossing the casino floor, we boarded an express elevator with two options for floors: twenty and twenty-one. Not as high as Beck’s suite at the Grecian but still guaranteed to offer an enviable view of the city. I couldn’t enjoy the thought. Couldn’t feel anything but queasy and confused as I snuck glances at the angel beside me.

  His face was fixed forward, posture rigid, so I couldn’t see much besides his jawline and the upturned tip of his nose.

  The elevator door showed the blur of our reflection like the one at Beck’s hotel had. I’d liked what I saw then: Beck standing behind me with his arms curled around, shielding me from the world.

  In contrast, Narcissus stood aside, frigid and distant. His fingertips bored painfully into my bicep.

  “You know,” Maslow drawled from behind us. “I find the red rather striking. It’s half the reason I picked him. He blends right in at the Dollhouse.”

  Narcissus didn’t bother turning around. “Yes. Quite the fixture for your den of sin, I’m sure.”

  “You should come by sometime,” Maslow continued, casual despite the angel’s contempt. “Meet the other boys.”

  “Are they incubi as well?” Narcissus asked.

  “No,” Maslow replied. “Cherry here is a one-off. For now.”

  The elevator dinged our arrival on the twenty-first floor, and the door slid aside. A wave of perfumed air drifted in, sharp and floral, but undercut with something metallic. Narcissus moved ahead, tugging me into the room.

  It wasn’t like anything downstairs. The casino floor had glimmered with gold and showmanship, lights and movement and noise designed to distract and dazzle. But this was hush and hush money. This was the seat of power.

  The floor beneath my sandals was veined marble, polished to a mirror shine. The tray ceiling overhead was framed and lit to showcase paintings of cherubs in sapphire robes, flitting between lush white clouds.

  At the center of the room sat a sprawling poker table carved from dark wood and covered in ivory felt. Around it lounged five men holding cigars and cocktail glasses. Three seats remained empty, one at the head of the table and one to the right of that. The third was farther down, separated distinctly enough that I got the feeling it was reserved for guests.

  Along the wall, attendants stood like shadows—a mix of humans and angels—all wearing ivory uniforms with gleaming brass buttons and expressionless faces.

  Maslow veered off without ceremony, angling toward the refreshments in the corner. A round table boasted a tower of crystal flutes, trays of sliced fruit and sugared nuts, and puff pastries studded with edible flowers and flecked with gold.

  Narcissus remained beside me, statuesque. When he spoke, his voice was low but commanding.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “A little diversion to elevate the afternoon.”

  Five sets of eyes lifted in unison.

  Their attention wasn’t hungry. They weren’t loud with their lust like the crowds at the Dollhouse, but I sensed their interest all the same. Their gazes moved across my frame the way a jeweler might inspect a gem—checking the cut, seeking out flaws.

  Narcissus released me, but I remained fixed in place by his words. “I present to you a rare specimen. New to the city. Singular in nature. Handpicked for tonight’s enjoyment.”

  He said it as if I were an exotic bottle being uncorked. Something imported, expensive, and ultimately disposable.

  Fear spread from my core, taking command of my body. I’d always thought the choices when reacting to danger were to fight or flee, but I found myself locked in a third option: freeze.

  The man closest to us leaned back in his chair. A cigar fumed between his fingers. “This is the incubus?”

  Narcissus inclined his head. “A young one.”

  That mattered, apparently. The second man at the table made a sound, a hum like the purr of an engine warming up.

  The third man, wearing a pinstriped suit and a pair of sunglasses, bridged his fingers. “Interesting,” he said.

  A younger version of Narcissus sat to the left of the empty chair at the head. He had spiky blond hair and pale eyes that pinched as he muttered, “He looks like a harem boy.”

  The fifth man said nothing, just watched me with a wolfish tilt to his mouth, clearly imagining something I would rather not.

  I stood where Narcissus had placed me. Shoulders back. Chin up. Expression schooled into the kind of practiced serenity that could read as confidence if you didn’t look too closely.

  But they were looking closely. All of them.

  I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move.

  Because this wasn’t a room full of rich men.

  This was a room full of predators, and I’d been thrown in like bait.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-TWO

  Beck

  Half a week was longer than I wanted to wait to make things right with Zephyr. But if I was going to ask his forgiveness, I needed to give something in exchange. Information about his human life would have been a worthy peace offering, but Colette’s search came up dry. It turned out not knowing his real name, dates of birth or death, or any specific location made sifting through the library’s microfiche of obituaries a fruitless effort.