Chapter 10
CHAPTER
TEN
Zephyr
Life carried on as though nothing had changed, which was surreal because I felt certain that everything had changed.
Thankfully, Maslow didn’t check in with me, and I assumed Darby was responsible for that.
The reprieve from the wraith’s attention helped me breathe a little easier and gave me space to think.
I needed to come up with an excuse for why I disobeyed his instructions, and it couldn’t be because I thought myself wiser than he was or that I wasn’t grateful for the elaborate lengths he had gone to in providing for my…
needs. And they were needs. I couldn’t deny that.
Days later, the effects of my tryst with Beck lingered. I felt better than ever.
Every night, I followed Darby on his VIP rounds, which was an education all its own. There were plenty of men like Ewing Livingston, with hungry hands and stares that stripped me bare, but none like Lucas Beckett—I’d learned his full name—who were willing to sweep to my rescue.
I managed not to take anyone to the sex room or my bedroom, but I found myself handing out other kinds of physical attention like favors at a party.
By the third day, I had been so thoroughly handled that it felt like fingerprints were stamped into my skin, and I was ready to retreat.
To my silks. To the sky. To something above it all.
But first, yoga.
I’d put it off and would have continued to do so if Darby hadn’t insisted on making a production of it.
He was the ringleader this morning—“morning” being a relative term to a band of creatures who rarely roused before noon—ushering the lot of us toward the stage.
“Hope everyone’s limbered up,” he said. “If not, you’re about to be. We aren’t leaving this room until everyone can at least touch their toes.” He winked over at Oz. “I’m looking at you, buddy.”
Most often, we spent our days practicing routines or working out. Today, I had been introduced like a guest speaker, positioned at the front of the group where all eyes fell on me. None of them looked particularly enthused.
Darby appeared most prepared in a white satin Louis Vuitton tracksuit, and Oz was fit enough in his gym shorts and a plain white tee.
Callum had on sweatpants and a tank top, but Colt hadn’t dressed at all.
Shirtless and wearing only plaid flannel pants tucked into his boots, he tromped across the stage to find a spot to sprawl out as I urged everyone to sit.
Elliot lurked at the back of the group with his face shadowed by his black hoodie, but his red eyes glowed from the cover of darkness, so I knew he was paying attention.
For as raucous as the club was during business hours, it was markedly different when closed.
It had an eerie, almost sentient presence, like the walls were watching along with the cameras.
The few windows were tinted so dark they absorbed light rather than admitting it, and they blocked any view in or out.
The room was a sum of black upon black upon black with infrequent flashes of crimson red.
It felt foreboding, like we were in the belly of a slumbering beast, trapped in the quiet and endless dark.
I stood, feeling targeted from all angles and terribly conspicuous. It was like the other dancers could see through me, sense what I’d given away, or perhaps what I’d gained. I wondered if they cared. We were all doing our jobs, after all. Mine was just a bit different from theirs.
Regardless of what they thought or knew about my loss of virginity, right now they were likely wondering how long I was going to stand and stall, so I inhaled and began.
“Hey, uh, I’ve never actually taught anyone, so you’ll have to bear with me.
But I wanna say that yoga isn’t about being super flexible or getting everything perfect.
It’s about moving your body in a way that feels good and learning to connect with your breath.
If something feels weird or uncomfortable, you can always adjust or take a break. Okay?”
Five heads nodded, and five tails curled lazily as I dropped onto the mat I’d rolled out and sat cross-legged with my spine straight and arms loose.
“All right,” I said. “Start by sitting however feels natural to you. Take a deep breath in and out. Get settled, and we’ll go from there.”
Watching them get adjusted was amusing but also gratifying.
Darby was clearly invested in the process, shifting his hips and letting his white-lashed eyes fall shut as he relaxed.
Oz moved as awkwardly as expected. He had more bulk than grace, and I imagined Darby was right about the toe-touching. We could work on that if he wanted to.
Callum obediently slumped into a loose posture, while Colt crossed his legs then pitched back to lean on his braced arms. His boots thunked on the floor.
At the back, Elliot surprised me by perfectly mimicking my pose. On second thought, it shouldn’t have surprised me at all. He was limber, and his workout routine was based on body resistance. He was probably more flexible and aware of his physical limits than most.
“Now, we’re gonna do some neck rolls,” I instructed. “Drop your chin to your chest, then roll your head from one side to the other. If anything feels tight, just pause and breathe into it.”
I completed the motions as I described them, and the tension began to leave my body.
“Let’s come up onto our hands and knees in a tabletop position. Put your hands under your shoulders and your knees under your hips.” I situated myself demonstratively as laughter rippled through my would-be students.
“That’s what I’m talking about, Cherry,” Colt teased. “Maybe the hippies are onto something. Got Cal looking fine as hell.”
“Can it, Colt,” his brother snapped.
A grimace twisted my lips as I carried on with the instructions. “Spread your fingers wide for support…”
This time, Colt gave an audible snort. “Brace yourselves, boys. This is a fuckboy workout. Get on all fours and spread ’em.”
He popped up from the floor and wandered around to sit on Callum’s back, where he kicked one booted foot over the other. “Feels sturdy to me.” He wiggled his hips before grinning at me. “Nice job, teach.”
I wanted to tell him to go back to his spot, but Elliot beat me to it.
“Move your ass, cowboy,” he grunted, his tail thrashing angrily. “I can’t fucking see.”
Colt stood and whirled around. “Move my ass?” he echoed. “You want me to shake it too? Try not to get jealous, since we all know you’re stuck on that stick up yours.” He raised his arms and set his feet for a dramatic dip and draw up, flexing muscles hidden by the folds of his PJ pants.
“Gentlemen,” Darby cut in sharply. “Zephyr has some skills here, and he is taking a moment of his day to share them with you. So shut up and sit down. And not on your fucking brother’s back, Colt.”
The hornless twin scuffed his boot heels across the floor as he returned to his place and sat. Not in the position he should have been, but instead cross-legged with his elbow on one knee and his chin in his hand. That was fine, though. I could deal with a single dissenter.
“Okay, um… hands and knees,” I reminded myself as much as everyone else. “On your inhale, drop your belly, lift your chest, and look forward… this is Cow Pose. As you exhale, round your spine, tuck your chin, and push the ground away… this is Cat Pose.”
“You guys see this shit, right?” Colt’s green eyes gained a devilish glint as they flicked toward me. “Is this yoga for bottoms? Because you oughta know, Cherry, I only top.” He snaked his tongue across his lips, and I cringed.
Darby sat up and glared at the troublemaking twin. “Colt, go.” He stabbed a finger toward the dressing room entrance. “Take your obnoxious ass elsewhere.”
Colt flashed a cocky smirk. “It was a joke, princess. And it was funny.”
Darby’s tail writhed. “Then why is no one laughing?”
The two men lingered in a stare-down until Colt lurched to his feet.
“Whatever. You bitches have fun prepping to get mounted. I got better shit to do.” He spun, not looking before taking a step directly into Elliot, who was fixed in a flawless Cat Pose.
The two demons collided in a tangle that had Elliot spitting curse words as he shoved Colt away.
“Get the fuck off me, rodeo clown,” Elliot hissed. His hood had slid back in the scuffle, revealing his curved gray horns.
His crimson eyes flashed a warning that should have put an end to the scuffle, but I got the feeling Colt was seeing red all his own as he threw himself at Elliot.
Shouts of “Break it up!” and “Knock it off!” failed to stop the tussle as the two of them combined again.
Their roll across the stage floor sounded like a peal of thunder.
Fists flew, and tails thrashed. It might have alarmed me if this had been the first time I’d witnessed a fight between my roommates, but half the people here were begging for a reason to punch Colt in the mouth, and Elliot didn’t tolerate anybody invading his personal space.
I tumbled back while the other guys closed in on the commotion. Elliot got Colt pinned with his fist poised to deliver a bone-cracking punch and his tail looped around Colt’s neck.
Colt grinned, showing teeth filmed with blood from one of the hits Elliot had landed. His cowboy hat had been lost in the scuffle, leaving his brown hair mussed and sticking up in every direction.
“You gonna actually hit me, Scary Spice, or just keep on tickling?” Colt taunted.
Elliot bared his teeth in a snarl. He looked ready to cut loose with not one blow, but a full-on barrage, when Oz hooked his arm around the smaller man’s middle and hoisted him into the air. Elliot thrashed, and his tail cinched around Colt’s throat as Oz dragged him backward.
“Boys!” Maslow’s voice rang out, and my body went rigid.
The wraith stood near the entrance, where the double doors were just beginning to swing shut. I hadn’t heard them open or noticed the flash of daylight—but I saw it now, shrinking to a narrow sliver that cast a long shadow around the frame of a second man.
Someone vaguely familiar.
The interruption gave a start to more than just me. Elliot hung limp in Oz’s grasp, and his tail slithered loose, allowing Colt to roll onto his belly to peer at the new arrival.
Maslow motioned to the newcomer and announced, “We have a guest.”
As the sun was shut out, my eyes adjusted rapidly, searching from the stranger’s feet to his tapered waist, up past his strong shoulders to his face. The sight of his visage—chiseled jaw dotted with stubble and yellow eyes bright in the shadow of his brow—made my heart stutter.
He came back.
For me?
Chuckling, Maslow walked over and clasped Beck’s hand in a shake. Beck smiled, but the expression never made it past his lips as Maslow spoke to him in quiet words I couldn’t discern. After another tight smile and nod from Beck, Maslow turned toward us.
“Mister Beckett and I are going to talk shop, and you little cunts are gonna keep your shit down. Understood?”
It wasn’t the kind of question that merited a response, so none of us gave one as Maslow led Beck away.
My heart gave another ragged flutter, and I sniffed the air, wondering if I could smell Beck’s cologne from here. I had yet to wash my sheets, having decided I liked sleeping with the scent of him. I craved him in ways I couldn’t explain, and now he was back. Why?
I wasn’t sure he’d even noticed me. Compared to the scene Colt and Elliot had made, I was a background character. Whether he had or not, his focus was on Maslow now as he and the wraith ascended the iron staircase that spiraled toward Maslow’s second-floor office.
Once they were both inside, Oz let Elliot drop with a thunk onto the stage. Colt collected his displaced hat, then worked his way to standing while I stood by, wringing my hands.
The others filed out, likely going to the kitchen to scrounge up some breakfast, but my stomach was too unsettled to be tempted with food.
“Talk shop” sounded innocuous enough, and not necessarily about me.
But what if it was?
After three days apart, I foolishly, fleetingly, hoped Beck had returned to see me, but he could just as easily have come back to report me. Tell Maslow all about our dalliance in my bedroom, the one that ended with my teeth grinding against his finger bones and his blood in my mouth.
My pulse skittered as I waited, left behind while the other dancers completed a swift evacuation.
I couldn’t hear anything from the office.
No shouting. No footsteps storming back down. Just silence.
And that was worse.
My hands trembled as I wiped them on my thighs, trying not to imagine Beck’s voice, cold and clipped, saying he wanted me gone. Then trying not to envision Maslow nodding like it was no big deal, just a minor correction. Return to sender.
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.