Hell was full of incubi; I was only one of a million. And Maslow was a businessman; he could decide, or be persuaded, that I was a bad investment.

  I pinched my lips together in a bid to keep the panic inside, bracing for the moment someone called my name.

  Maybe it wasn’t about me.

  Hopefully.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Beck

  It was never clearer that returning to the Devil’s Dollhouse was a mistake than when I walked into the club and my dick went as stiff as a dowsing rod pointing straight at the incubus.

  There were plenty of others to look at. I’d entered to a pair of dancers mid-brawl, their arms and legs flailing on the stage, but my notice went directly to Cherry and I wondered—I worried—if he was okay. And that was ten different kinds of fucked up.

  Colette had wanted to come inside this time, which gave me all the reason I needed to leave her in the car. I knew her game. She wanted to meet the incubus, size him up, maybe try the same stunt Luxe had pulled in the executive suite. I didn’t need a wingwoman. And I doubted Cherry was suffering for attention.

  But there he was, in a heathered purple tank top and harem pants, and I’d be damned if the billboard didn’t do him a bit of justice.

  Maslow proved a welcome distraction, announcing my arrival while dismissing the dancers with casually crude language that got my hackles up. Not one of them batted an eye, which was telling. They were either unbothered by the name-calling or accustomed to it. Either way, it left a foul taste in my mouth that lingered as I climbed the steps to Maslow’s office and allowed him to close us inside.

  Unlike my dusty cave of a workspace, Maslow’s office was sleek. Velvet and leather furniture matched the aesthetic downstairs, all high-end upholstery with low-end energy. Everything looked expensive, but none of it felt comfortable, like it had been bought to impress but not use.

  A massive desk was the centerpiece. The ebony monolith took up entirely too much real estate for a man who mostly sat behind it, posturing. It screamed overcompensation. Probably came with a matching complex.

  Behind it, a bank of monitors ran silent black-and-white feeds from every corner of the club. Dressing rooms, hallways, executive suites—nothing escaped the all-seeing eye of surveillance. Next to the door we’d entered through, floor-to-ceiling glass offered a view of the main stage so Maslow could watch his performers like a king surveying his court. Or a perv watching a peep show. Either way, it fit.

  Maslow settled on his throne while I slid into one of the guest chairs opposite him. He proceeded to make a show of pulling a plump black portfolio folder from one of the desk drawers and setting it between his splayed palms.

  I’d worried he would drag his heels or stall with undue formalities while setting the stage for his grand proposal, so I was pleasantly surprised when he began straightaway.

  “As I mentioned on the phone, I have a lucrative proposition for you. A new club.” He flipped open the cover of the portfolio and spread its contents across the desktop.

  I scooted to the edge of my seat, scanning the pristine pages. Blueprints, abstracts, elevation drawings… It was a lot to take in.

  “Prime real estate,” Maslow said, snapping a pen he pulled from nowhere against one of the sheets. “Just off Fairmont. Neutral territory. No angelic sigils or demonic claims. It’s virgin soil.”

  Not entirely. It looked to be a gut job. A building currently occupied the space Maslow referred to, but his drawings detailed plans to demolish it and construct a new one in its place.

  The design was bold. Soaring where the Dollhouse was comparatively squat. Five levels were labeled with notes that said things like Ascension Floor, The Font, and Penance Row.

  It looked a bit like a club, but more like a statement. The kind of place that would draw attention like a lightning rod.

  Maslow’s grin turned sharp. “I’m calling it Purgatory,” he said. “What do you think?”

  I thought a lot less about the building or the name than I did about the location.

  The moment demons and angels had revealed themselves to the world, they started carving it up. Las Vegas had become its own battleground for supernatural dominance, but it was a war without a victor. I’d been part of the negotiations when both sides had finally agreed it was better to strike a truce than burn Sin City to the ground. They’d split the Strip down the middle: demons claimed one side, angels took the other.

  The adjacent property on Fairmont Street had been left out of the terms entirely.

  I pushed back, shaking my head. “That’s not neutral, Maz. That’s a powder keg. If you build on it, you’re daring someone to light a match.”

  Maslow rolled his pen between his stubby fingers. “Which is why we need to move fast. Quiet. By the time anyone notices, we’ll be too big to burn down.” Turning in his chair, he stretched his hand toward the exterior wall as though we could see Fairmont from here.

  The wraith grinned, flashing his gold-capped teeth. “Picture it: you and me, partners in Purgatory.”

  It sounded like Hell. No, it sounded worse.

  But he was ready for it. He’d shown me everything besides his bank statements to prove how prepared he was to dive into this debacle. I couldn’t help but wonder.

  “Why another club? Is this one not enough for you?

  Maslow’s smile spread. “I have aspirations, Beckett. And product. Young, hungry, and pliable. Straight from Hell. No attachments, no overheads.”

  He paused to swallow the drool that must have been pooling in his mouth, aggressively salivating as he spoke about more pretty boys, and maybe girls too, being marched out of the underworld and put to work baring their bodies for human amusement.

  His enthusiasm peaked as he concluded, “You wouldn’t believe how many eager little things are waiting for their chance topside.”

  “What does that mean? ‘Straight from Hell?’” My brows dipped in a frown. “You running a pipeline now?”

  Maslow chuckled. “I have enough… let’s call them applicants… to staff three more clubs if I wanted.” He was so flippant about it, casual, and unnervingly proprietary. “You could have one of your own,” he added. “A club, I mean. Or a demon if it suits you.” He shrugged.

  My gaze drifted to the grid of monitors on the wall behind the desk, and I located the two broadcasting activity. One showed a kitchen area where the dancers had gathered around a long table to eat. They looked amiable enough, gesturing and chatting, though I couldn’t hear what was being said.

  The other feed that drew my notice was the one trained on the stage. Cherry sat alone with his legs dangling off the stage’s elevated edge. He looked so small.

  I hadn’t considered it, never cared to, but after seeing barred windows and finding the whole troupe onsite with apparently nowhere else to be in the middle of a weekday, the realization struck me like a blow. They lived here, yes. But could they leave here?

  “But don’t mind those pretty bitches downstairs.” Maslow’s flapping hand cut through my view. “Lesser demons are like cattle, Beckett. Easy to move in, easy to move out. They’re not the point.”

  He rolled back from the desk and stood, dwarfed by the gargantuan piece of furniture as he began to pace the floor across from me.

  “What I’m talking about is enterprise,” he said. “Legacy. A foothold off the Strip and the power that comes with it. The Dollhouse was proof of concept. Fairmont is where we scale.”

  I was out.

  I had to be.

  As someone who’d played a part in crafting the treaty that held this town together, I could not be involved in its destruction. And I wasn’t sure I could sit by and watch Maslow do it, either.

  I stayed seated while he walked, clasping my hands and staring at him with all the severity I could muster.

  “If you open a club on Fairmont, you’re not expanding, you’re declaring war. You think the angels will let that slide? You think they won’t see it as a threat?”

  He laughed—the bastard actually laughed—then said, “Let me worry about the angels.”

  “You do that.” My fists tightened, and I wanted to swing one at him. Knock some sense into his thick skull. “I’ve had my fill of those feathered fucks. Enough for two eternities.”

  The wraith tipped his head toward me. His brows waggled with amusement. “The way I heard it, Stefano Rossetti was getting his fill of you.”

  Mother. Fucker.

  “That’s too far,” I growled.

  My warning look and the vein pulsing at my temple proved enough to cow Maslow, who nodded.

  “You’re right, you’re right,” he admitted. “So, let me handle the angels, and you handle Fairmont.”

  I expelled a breath and shoved all the way back in my chair. My retreat spurred the wraith to plant his palms on the desktop and lean in until he was at my eye level.

  “Think about the leverage,” he said. “The influence. We’d have both sides of the Strip begging to kiss our boots. They may even want to invest.” He tugged on his shirt, every bit a peacock preening. “Not to blow my own horn, but this place is profitable.”

  I snorted. “You’ll have to offer more than money if you want me to walk into a firing line, Maz.”

  The conversation was over. I couldn’t think of a damned thing that would persuade me to commit career—and potentially literal—suicide. I stood, but Maslow stopped me before I reached the door.

  “I can offer more,” he purred in a way that made my lip curl. “Carnal pleasure, perhaps? Has your cock grown cold without your angelic lover to keep it warm?”

  Disgust carved my face with hard, snarling lines. “We’re done here.” Grabbing the knob, I yanked the door open.

  Maslow staggered back while squinting in disdain. “You’ve changed, Beckett,” he said.

  I felt that. Daily. A kind of malaise that had grown with every passing decade. It started with Stefano Rossetti. I wasn’t sure where it would end.

  Maslow’s words settled across my shoulders like a yoke. Or maybe it had always been there, and I was only just now aware of the weight. Either way, I couldn’t shake it.

  Still, I straightened, met his gaze, and said, “Don’t do this, Maslow. You’d be lucky not to live long enough to regret it.”

  Exiting the office, I made my way down the staircase at a rapid clip, training my gaze ahead to avoid glimpsing Cherry, who I imagined to still be perched on the edge of the stage. But as I rounded the last turn of the spiraling stairs, I was faced with reality in the form of the rosy-cheeked redhead blocking the landing.

  With Maslow behind me and Cherry before me, I was well and truly trapped.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  Zephyr

  Having Beck in my proximity was a heady feeling. It was his smell, the memory of his taste, and the surging need to step into his space and press my body against his. All of it sparked a hunger so raw and ravenous it felt like my stomach might claw its way up my throat and emerge as a beast ready to devour him whole.

  He stared at me, looking none too pleased, and I didn’t open my mouth for fear I would roar like some savage thing. Or sink my fangs into him and tear a hole I could reach inside, find the core of what it was about him that felt so necessary. So right. It was feral and frightening, and I shivered as every ounce of my conviction dissolved into mindless panic.

  “Excuse me.” He pushed past, spinning me with the bump of his shoulder.

  I pursued, trotting across the floor and staying right on his heels.

  “What did he say to you?”

  I’d been worrying since he’d gone into Maslow’s office. Nothing good happened in that room. The other dancers were called up there to “pay rent.” I had been exempt until my last encounter with Beck made me full enough to be emptied.

  Beck didn’t slow in his stride, cutting a swift path toward the exit. “I’ll tell you when you’re older,” he muttered.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “Nothing. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  He drew closer to the threshold I couldn’t cross, the gateway to the world outside. The hellhounds who guarded the doors controlled admittance and exit, and they had explicit instructions: no dancers left the club. So unless I was prepared to meet the business end of their infernal weapons, I had to stay inside.

  But Beck… he had to stay too. To give me answers because I wanted them, but also because I wanted… I just wanted.

  My hand shot out and caught his arm, squeezing tight. “If it was about me, I have a right to know.”

  He could have brushed me off but instead, he stopped. A deep breath made his broad chest swell before he replied, “It wasn’t.”

  “Then what was⁠—”

  Beck whirled around and my lips fell apart, eager to let him into any part of me. Then he said, “Listen, kid…” And my jaw clamped shut instead. “It’s business,” he said. “Mine, not yours. Okay?”

  I released him with a frown. “I’m not a kid.”

  “All right, junior.”

  “I mean it,” I insisted, and Beck’s forehead creased.

  “I said all right.”

  The needy, lustful feelings lessened, overpowered by annoyance. I felt small enough in this place. Weak and fragile. I didn’t need to feel young too. I was plenty grown, and I’d been grown in my life before. But black splotched my memories of the time and person who preceded this one, leaving only bright spots of recollection. Happier times basked in the spotlight like I did onstage. It was where I felt most complete.

  Across from me, Beck looked exasperated and ready to leave. I wondered why he didn’t. I wasn’t holding him here, and neither were the hounds. But as long as he would listen, I would speak.

  “Don’t call me kid,” I said again. “Call me by my name.”

  He heaved a noisy sigh. “All right, Cherry⁠—”

  I shook my head. “My real name.”

  “I thought that kind of thing was a trade secret.”

  It usually was.

  Darby had been the first to call me Cherry, claiming I needed something to wear. Considering his penchant for fashion, I thought he meant it literally, but over the past few weeks, I’d learned differently.

  Cherry belonged to the Dollhouse. He was a costume I could put on and take off. A barrier between the world and me.

  But Beck had broken that barrier. He’d seen me laid utterly bare, and the idea that we’d shared something so intimate while he didn’t truly know me, gnawed at me. I didn’t want to feel like strangers anymore.

  “It’s Zephyr,” I said.

  Beck arched an eyebrow as if surprised I’d actually told him. “All right. Zephyr what?”

  “Just Zephyr.”

  His features pinched. “They didn’t give you another name?”

  Who? The demons in Hell? Maslow?

  No. I chose Zephyr because it was air, lightness, and freedom. Everything I wanted to have and be. And what was a name if not a wish?

  I shook my head, and Beck leaned back.

  “Well,” he said, “you might want to come up with something. Here on Earth, most people have a first and last name.”

  The disparagement in his voice made me feel small in a way that was both humbling and terrifying. Of course he could do that; he was vast. Not just in size, but in presence. He was a force like gravity, pulling everything toward him and reshaping the room just by being in it.

  I waited, eyes on my bare feet, wondering again why he hadn’t walked away.

  And then he spoke.

  “Listen, Zephyr⁠—”

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” I blurted, then blanched.

  Had I said that?

  Out loud?

  My face went slack as I looked up at him. What did he make of my misstep? A pitiful bid to make myself matter, a tentative step out from behind the curtain. Beck’s yellow eyes gleamed as they caught mine, and I breathed through my next statement.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”

  “I didn’t plan to,” he replied, but his tone lacked the expected bite.

  “But you did.”

  I ventured closer, emboldened as the stage seemed to open before me. Inches away, I could smell the fragrance that had perfumed my dreams for days. The warmth radiating through his designer suit coat was the comfort I’d craved on long, lonely nights.

  He shied back, but only barely, staying close enough I could have touched him. Or he could have touched me.

  Please.

  “I already said that had nothing to do with you.” Beck angled his gaze toward the upper level. We were out of view of Maslow’s office, worryingly near the club’s entrance, in an alcove that allowed for privacy in case the other guys came back to use the stage for practice.

  My eyes followed his, recalling the panic I felt while they had convened out of sight. “You really didn’t tell him?” I asked.

  “About the other night?” Beck verified, as if I could have meant anything else. “Why would I?”

  I should have been grateful. I’d been spared unpleasant consequences. Granted undue mercy. But it felt like another dismissal, a reminder of how desperately I wanted to belong to someone who could erase me so easily.

  “You asked me not to,” Beck reminded me.

  “I did.” I took an unsteady step backward. “Yeah.”

  Beck mimicked my retreat with his own, then his nose scrunched.

  “Hey, look…” He glanced toward Maslow’s office once more. “That was my business, and I don’t mean to tell you how to do yours, but… this may not be the best place for you.”

  The change of topic threw me, and I settled on my heels as he continued.

  “Maz is…” His brows drew down. “There are other places you could work. You could do something else. Work somewhere else.”

  He gestured to the closed doors a few feet away. The Las Vegas Strip lay beyond them as the wide, bright world I’d seen through my bedroom window. It seemed vast, crowded with people and lights and an endless stream of traffic ferrying visitors and residents in and out of sight.