Colette followed at my heels, crisp and composed. She wore a charcoal skirt suit that fit her like tailored armor and a pair of spiked heels that clicked against the stairs. Her sleek ponytail swung like a pendulum with every step. Her face was neutral, but her eyes glittered with mischief.

  Maslow didn’t question her presence. Maybe he considered it payback for his visit to my office with his own muscle in tow. Whatever the case, we crossed the threshold into his office unchallenged.

  Colette and I made our way to the pair of leather guest chairs positioned opposite the desk. She crossed her legs and sat while I remained standing, watching as Maslow made a show of uncorking a chilled bottle of champagne and pouring it into two long-stemmed flutes.

  He offered one to me. I set the folder of documents down on the desk, tempted to refuse the drink. It felt gratuitous to take anything more from him considering how much he was about to lose. Not that he knew it yet.

  When I accepted it, he beamed brightly.

  “A toast to our success!” The wraith pitched forward, belly dragging the desktop as he clinked his glass against mine.

  I gave him a tight smile and tipped the flute just enough to wet my lips. Maslow drained his like it was water, then collapsed into his chair.

  I set my glass aside and nudged the folder across the glossy surface of the desk.

  “I believe you’ll find everything in order,” I said smoothly. “The anonymous bidder withdrew their offer, after which the seller was more than happy to agree to a quick closing.”

  Maslow gave a low, satisfied hum. “Record time, I’d say.”

  “Yes, well, no need to drag our heels about these things. That’s why you paid me.”

  He nodded, smug. “Speaking of payment, I assume you’d like to collect. Shall I call him up here for you?” Pushing out of his chair, he made for the door. “I’ve kept him nice,” he added over his shoulder. “Ready to be sent off the lot with a full tank.”

  He laughed at the joke and paused with one hand on the doorknob. When he looked back, his grin was all teeth. “Unless you’d prefer him empty and crawling to you. I’m happy to oblige.” His eyes gleamed with that predator’s shine, and fury flared hot in my chest. But I kept it banked, cool.

  “Zephyr, yes. I’ll be taking him immediately.” I let the next words fall like lead. “And the rest of them too.”

  Maslow released the knob and turned slowly, squinting. “The rest of whom?”

  “The dancers. All of them.” My tone left no room for misunderstanding. “Consider their debts to you paid and their contracts null and void. Or should I say renegotiated?”

  Maslow barked a sharp laugh. “You can’t do that. The deal was for one dancer.” He held up a thick finger. “The redheaded whore. And frankly, you’re doing me a favor taking him off my hands. Little shit’s done nothing but raise Cain in this place.”

  For a moment, all I could see was Zephyr, curled up in my bed with tears tracking down his cheeks as he whispered, “I don’t want to be a whore.”

  I’d called him that. I’d thought so little of him when all this began. Made him smaller than he was ever meant to be. But I’d meant it when I told him he wasn’t. He never had been. Now, he never would be.

  “There was no cap on the compensation,” I reminded the wraith. “Only that it would be at my discretion. In return for your property on Fairmont, I’m taking these four walls and everything in them. Except for you.”

  Maslow’s face twisted, caught between fury and disbelief.

  I didn’t care. Let him rage.

  He could call Zephyr whatever names he wanted.

  He’d never touch him again.

  The wraith’s features went slack before he began to sputter. “You can’t…” His cheeks splotched angry red. “That’s outlandish. Extortion!”

  Retrieving the folder from the desktop, I flipped to the signed contract, then held it out in the space between us. “It’s all here and signed for. Compensation to be determined upon successful closing.”

  Maslow’s eyes bulged as they scanned the line of text. He blinked, taking it in, then fixed me with a frigid glare. “This isn’t what you said.”

  “I said I wanted entertainment.” I gestured to the glass wall behind him and the stage beyond that. “This is the entertainment industry, is it not?”

  Maslow knocked the folder away, littering the floor with papers. His finger stabbed into my chest, swaying me back as his voice rose to a shout. “We settled for a favor!”

  Fabric rustled and leather creaked as Colette rose to her feet.

  “We settled on my terms,” I replied coolly. “You assumed my price; I didn’t correct you.”

  Maslow’s mouth opened again, probably to yell more nonsense, but this time he hesitated. Colette’s heels struck the floor as she took her position at my side. Her hand rested inside her suit coat on the revolver tucked out of sight.

  I smiled, slow and vicious.

  Maslow’s face twisted with rage, and his hand curled into a fist. “You cheating son of a bitch!”

  He lunged, but despite there being only inches between us, the blow he’d readied never landed. Colette intercepted him, surging into the narrow space while her hand snapped out from her jacket. The gun stayed holstered as she caught Maslow by the wrist, twisted hard, and spun him to the side. He stumbled into the glass wall and struck it with a muffled grunt, his arm pinned behind his back and one knee buckling under the pressure the hellhound applied by digging her stiletto heel into his calf.

  “Easy now,” she crooned near his ear. “I’d hate to see you embarrass yourself in front of your staff.”

  Sure enough, from the ground floor, all six dancers stared up at us. If Darby and the cowpoke twins had thought me shimmying up their sheet ladder was amusing, they must have been rolling over this.

  Maslow snarled, struggling, but it was like watching a rat try to wrestle a wolf. Colette kept him immobilized with ease, her expression flat and amused.

  “But, Coll,” I said mildly. “Don’t you mean my staff?”

  She smiled, crinkling her eyes as they flicked to the floor below. “Mais oui, mon ami.”

  Stepping over the mess of scattered paperwork, I made my way to the door. “Maz, you have one final job as the former owner of this club,” I told the wraith without looking back. “You’re going downstairs to tell those young men their contracts are dissolved. Their debts are forgiven and as of now, I’m in charge.”

  “Absolutely not,” Maslow spat.

  I turned to him, calm as ever. “Then I’ll do it for you.”

  He surged forward again, trying to break free, but Colette yanked his arm higher. He hissed through his teeth, face contorting in pain.

  “Walk,” she said coolly. “Or be dragged.”

  I opened the office door and stepped out onto the landing that overlooked the club floor. Below, the stage lights cycled, and the music throbbed low and steady. The dancers stood in a loose cluster near the stage. Six pairs of wide eyes trained upward.

  Colette shoved Maslow forward, releasing him just enough to send him stumbling out behind me. He staggered, red-faced, fumbling to straighten his jacket like he had any pride left to salvage.

  I descended the steps one at a time, raising my voice above the music as I called across the club.

  “Attention, gentlemen,” I called. “I have an announcement.”

  I reached the ground level and walked toward the stage, stopping just short of the spotlight’s reach. The dancers watched me in silence. Some were wary, some curious, all waiting.

  “Effective immediately, your contracts are void. Your debts are gone. You don’t owe Maslow—or anyone else—anything.”

  A murmur rippled through the small crowd as the demons exchanged looks.

  Zephyr’s gaze never left me.

  “This place doesn’t own you anymore because this place is finished,” I continued, then concluded with a bit of dramatic flair. “The Devil’s Dollhouse is closed.”

  That stirred them, but not in the way I’d expected. Darby’s pale brows knit together. Marvel wrung his hands and shifted from foot to foot. The twins exchanged matching frowns. Even Hemlock, whose usual demeanor was cool and unreadable, let his tail swish nervously behind his legs.

  Zephyr still stared at me, but he looked… puzzled. Disoriented, almost.

  How could he be surprised?

  “You deserve better than this. All of you,” I continued, trying to fill the silence I didn’t understand. “You were dragged into something that fed off your bodies, your energy, your lives, and called it entertainment. No more.”

  I looked around the club at the lights, the stage, the shadows in the rafters, and then back to the assembly. My gaze passed over the performers. “Now you’re free to choose where you go, who you are, and what comes next.”

  Still nothing. No relief, no cheers. Just a rustle of uncomfortable bodies and unreadable stares. Could it be that the weight of autonomy was more than they were prepared to bear?

  “I can’t give you back what was taken from you here,” I said. “But I can make damn sure nothing else is.” Turning to the second-floor landing, I indicated Maslow before telling Colette, “Get him out of here.”

  “Gladly,” she replied, grabbing Maslow by the back of his shirt collar. He yelped as she marched him down the stairs. There was no protest this time. He knew he’d lost. She dragged him to the front entrance, shoved him out into the sunlit street, and locked the door behind him with a decisive click.

  Still, no one moved. No one spoke.

  I wasn’t sure what I’d expected. Applause, maybe. A sigh of relief. Hell, even a sarcastic comment would’ve been welcome. I’d spent the past forty-eight hours preparing for this, celebrating my triumph in advance. But no one was happy. Instead, they looked almost… mournful.

  Then Zephyr stepped forward.

  He didn’t fling himself into my arms. Didn’t grin, or kiss me, or say thank you. He just came close and looked up at me with those wide, unguarded eyes.

  “We don’t have anywhere else to go,” he said quietly.

  The words hit harder than I was prepared for.

  “You do,” I protested before remembering who else was listening.

  Behind him, Darby crossed his arms over his chest, and his jaw clenched tight. One of the twins—Colt, I thought—dropped onto the edge of the stage and buried his face in his hands. Marvel blinked fast and looked down, picking at the seam of his sweatpants.

  But Zephyr didn’t waver. He forged ahead.

  “I know you mean well; I know you care.” He lifted his eyes to mine. “But this…” He swept a hand around the club: the lights, the stage, the catwalks overhead, the velvet curtains clinging to the rafters. “This wasn’t just Mazzy’s. It was ours too. You can’t just take it away without asking if we’re ready.”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. A long pause stretched between us before I said, “You’re not ready.”

  Zephyr shook his head, and that gesture said more than a monologue. He wasn’t speaking just for himself.

  I looked past him again. Darby’s glare hadn’t softened, the standing twin chewed on his lip, and Hemlock had gained a sort of bitter indifference.

  I’d assumed I was buying the place to sabotage it, to gut it from the inside, then burn it down to the rotten foundation. I didn’t think about what would happen afterward. I certainly didn’t think I’d be standing here, holding the keys to the only home these six young demons had.

  I adjusted my stance, suddenly antsy. It was starting to feel like the walls were looking at me.

  Leaning closer to Zephyr, I lowered my voice. “Beauty, I don’t know the first thing about running a strip club.”

  “I do.” Darby broke his tense pose to step forward. His kitten heels clicked smartly against the stage.

  Zephyr perked up, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “He really does. He makes set lists and choreographs performances. He even does our makeup.” His voice warmed with pride like he was listing off a superhero’s powers.

  I watched as Darby descended the stage with his chin held high.

  “That’s a pretty impressive résumé,” I told him.

  The petite demon’s glossed lips twitched into a smirk. “Not to mention years of experience.”

  He stopped in front of me, the troublemaker whom I credited with starting this entire thing. The pretty boy I’d come looking for when I found my Beauty. An uninvited wingman, to whom I owed thanks.

  “Pay?” I asked him, one brow lifting.

  “Negotiable,” he said smoothly. As if he didn’t know exactly how much he was worth.

  I tilted my head. “And what do you need me to do?”

  Darby glanced back at his compatriots. They’d all recovered from their previously somber moods and now rallied behind their little leader.

  “Keep the lights on,” Darby replied. “We’ll take care of the rest.”

  I huffed a laugh. “Let the Dollhouse belong to its devils.”

  Then came the rumble of approval. Not quite applause and adoration, but close enough. At least Zephyr clapped his hands.

  “You say that like you aren’t one of us,” he teased, then pushed up to kiss my jaw.

  I’d told him I didn’t care much for demons. I didn’t care much for anyone, really. But this little band of misfits watching me like I might just be the thing that kept their world spinning?

  They looked at me like I belonged here.

  And maybe—with equal parts reluctance and relief—I wanted to.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-ONE

  Beck

  “The cruise would have been so much cheaper.”

  The clunky all-in-one computer looked like a museum relic perched on Maslow’s onyx slab of a desk. I closed the browser tab with my latest bank statement and swiveled away to scan the room. Everything in my new office was on the list to be replaced, along with other trappings of the wraith’s regime.

  The dressing room needed a brush-up, the boys’ bedrooms and shared bathroom were slated for major renovations, and the former “Private Area” downstairs was being turned into a game room. Or a movie theater. Or some combination. I was still waiting for the results of the final vote.

  But some changes were already well underway, according to Zephyr. Every night back at our suite, he bragged that morale had never been higher. I didn’t doubt it. I heard the whoops and Tarzan yells echoing up from the stage each afternoon as the boys “practiced.” Mostly swinging from the hanging apparatus and breaking into chaotic group dances. It looked like monkey business to me.

  But when it came to showtime, they delivered. Crowds poured in night after night, and Colette was run ragged as our sole bouncer. I’d already added “hire more security” to my ever-growing to-do list.

  Darby was a revelation. He managed my newly acquired circus of demons with grace and a smile. They listened to him like unruly kids to their mother, and things got done. It didn’t erase all my stress, but I was starting to settle in.

  And I definitely wasn’t bored.

  With Colette so tied up manning the door each evening, she hadn’t made much headway on recovering Zephyr’s lost past. That was still a gift I wanted to give him, so I picked up the search myself.

  After almost a week juggling club management with trips to the library and phone calls to a few of the contacts I’d made over the years, I had answers. It might have been prudent to wait until Zephyr and I were home at the Grecian tomorrow morning, but seeing that my Beauty had been due this information since his return to Earth, I didn’t want to make him wait another minute.

  It wasn’t entirely good news. A young death was hardly a happy ending, but there was a lot of life before that. Family, and love, and a sense of self I would not deny him. So I’d called him for a meeting.

  The office door swung open, and Zephyr bounded in like a shot of sunshine. I would never tire of seeing him like this: flushed from rehearsal, hair tied back, eyes bright. Without a word or pause, he rounded the desk and dropped into my lap, where he settled with a sigh.

  “You asked to see me, boss?”

  That was his newest thing. Though rumors had already circulated about his preferred pet name—“Daddy”—I’d somehow landed myself the additional titles of “Becky” and “Club Daddy,” both of which I responded to with alarming ease. Strange new world I was living in.

  “I did, in fact,” I said, sliding my arms around him as I reached for the nearest desk drawer. “I have something to show you.”

  The drawer creaked open, revealing a single page resting atop a plastic organizer tray. It was the size of a printer sheet but heavier, glossier—archival print stock. I pinched the corner and pulled it free, then laid it flat on the desktop.

  Zephyr wriggled across my thighs, turning so his back was pressed to my chest. He leaned forward to get a better look.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  I let him take it in.

  It was a reprint of an old circus poster, dated somewhere around 1900. Ornate, loud, and full of flair, it advertised a traveling acrobat troupe: The Magnificent Montclairs. They were a family act, consisting of a father, mother, and their three sons: Émile, Benoît, and Julien.

  I peered over Zephyr’s shoulder at the faces I’d studied for the better part of half an hour before I’d worked up the nerve to call him in.

  Beneath the grand lettering—“Direct from Paris! The Greatest Show Ever Suspended in Mid-Air!”—were five oval-framed portraits. The father and two older boys had dark hair and strong, chiseled features, but the youngest, Julien, had flaming red locks and the same delicate nose and jaw as his mother.

  Even then, he was beautiful.

  The quiet that followed my reveal was thick and heavy. Zephyr must have recognized himself, but his focus lingered on the others. His slim fingers drifted across the page, tracing the images with reverent care. A soft smile touched his lips.

  “Tous ensemble,” he murmured.

  I didn’t understand, and I wasn’t sure what to say in response, so I stared along with him, studying the silhouettes of costumed figures mid-flight, clinging to trapeze bars and suspended from strips of silk.