Chapter 39
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
Zephyr
I slept in Beck’s bed again, and the next morning, he didn’t kick me out. Quite the opposite, in fact. After what was easily the best sex of my life, we rinsed off and cozied up beneath the covers, then watched the Strip come alive through the window.
We talked a bit more. About my human life and the fragments of memory that were slowly but surely making me feel whole.
We discussed the contract Maslow signed, blind to the fine print.
I’d done the same once, desperate to claw my way out of Hell.
People paid dearly for the things they wanted. Often more than they meant to.
We didn’t bring up love again. The subject felt too tender. I didn’t want to touch it yet, but it pulsed between us, steady and alive.
Near the end of our allotted time, I brought up my return to the club, and the amiable mood of the morning took a dark turn.
“Absolutely not,” Beck said sternly.
We stood at odds across the kitchen island.
I lingered behind a barstool, gripping the top of its curved iron back, while he hovered near the espresso machine.
It whirred and hissed before spewing a stream of dark, foamy brew into the waiting mug.
He wore a suit, as always, but he looked relaxed in it.
Comfortable with high collars and hard lines. Always so buttoned up.
He was less relaxed than he had been, though, arms crossed in a defensive pose and his eyes narrowed with his scowl.
I sighed. “Beck—”
He shook his head. “I’m not sending you back to Maslow’s—” his frown deepened— “torture chamber. You aren’t safe there. Who knows what he’ll do to you?”
“I know,” I replied softly.
I knew it would hurt.
Maslow would be angry about the poker game.
Beck’s interruption had foiled his plans and embarrassed him in front of our heavenly hosts.
He’d lost, and he wasn’t the kind of man to fail gracefully.
Even with Fairmont Street within his grasp, he wouldn’t forget the insult, and he wouldn’t forgive me for being a part of it.
So I would pay for it with a pound of flesh.
Beck held his stance and left the coffee steaming as he argued back. “Well, I won’t allow it. I made you a deal—”
“I don’t remember signing anything.”
His expression tightened, then went soft when he caught the flicker of my smile. I stepped around the island and closed the space between us, slipping my arms under his jacket to press in close. I liked it there, with my face tucked against his shoulder and his arms circling me in return.
“Cute,” he murmured into my hair, his breath warm. “You’re very cute, but I did make you a promise, and throwing you back into that lion’s den would break every bit of it.”
“You aren’t throwing me,” I mumbled against him. “I’m asking.”
I was asking for something that terrified me, trying to be brave while holding on to him like a lifeline. I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to face Maslow’s wrath, but the choice was mine to make. Even if it didn’t feel like much of a choice at all.
Beck grabbed my arms and pushed me back a step so he could catch my gaze.
“Why, Zephyr? We’re so close.”
“That’s why. Mazzy thinks you want me—”
“I do want you,” he cut in.
The statement warmed my insides and bolstered my fragile confidence. “That’s all he thinks,” I said. “And he won’t risk it. If I’m the collateral, he won’t really hurt me.” I hoped. “But if I don’t go back, he’ll be mad, and he might take it out on the other guys.”
Beck swallowed as though ingesting the information, like he had no choice but to take it in. He had no real reason to care about the other dancers Maslow employed, but he seemed to worry along with me. His plan included them too, though it felt impossible to conceive how it would work out.
Strings of fate and scales of judgment and actual magic. My brain could hardly contain it all.
While I marveled, Beck fretted.
“He’ll starve you.” There was a hint of pain in his voice. “He’ll take all this…” His gaze swept over me, and there was so much love in it. That tender care echoed in the brush of his fingers as he swept my bangs out of my eyes. “I hate seeing you like that.”
Turning toward his hand, I placed a kiss on his knuckles. “If Mazzy makes me empty, then you’ll just have to fill me up again.” Dipping my head, I looked up at him, then dragged a fang over my lower lip. “You’ll do that for me, won’t you, Daddy?”
Beck let out a groan and grimaced, and I knew I’d won. “Goddamn it, Zephyr.”
“We’re so close,” I reminded him. “Soon I’ll be free, and I’ll never be hungry again.”
He nodded, jaw tight and eyes cut away. “I’ll take you back. On time. Not a minute before.”
“Thank you.”
With his gaze aside, he had a clear line of sight to the microwave clock. After a moment’s pause, the tension in his features eased, and his mouth curved with something wicked. “Looks like we’ve got a little time to kill.”
Sliding his hands under my thighs, he scooped me up and set me on the counter beside the espresso machine. A firm shove at my knees spread them, and he stepped between them quickly enough to steal a gasp from my lips.
His mouth stayed on mine in a kiss that started sweet, then turned demanding. I broke away and tipped my head back. My giggles echoed off the tile.
“Careful,” I warned, hanging on to the lapels of his jacket. “Or I’ll forget I have to leave.”
“Good.” Beck ghosted his lips down the side of my neck. “Forget.”
He palmed my ass, and I hooked my legs around him in a tight squeeze. For a moment, it was just us—his breath at my ear, my body arching toward his, the whole world narrowed down to heat and need and the ache of wanting more time.
I let myself forget, but only for a little while.
The ride back was quiet. Beck drove the limo himself, which made the journey feel more personal. More like he was escorting me into battle, and less like dropping off a package he didn’t want.
Every time we hit a red light, his grip flexed on the steering wheel, and his jaw clenched tight with things he wasn’t saying. I kept stealing glances at him, studying the way he looked in the daylight. Sharp and dangerous in his tailored suit but rife with concern he couldn’t hide.
The closer we got to the Dollhouse, the heavier it all felt. Like we were breaking through an invisible barrier. Like a choke chain was tightening around my neck.
When we pulled up to the entrance, Beck didn’t move. Neither did I.
“I’ll come for you,” he said finally, his voice low. “No matter what. If something happens—”
“I’ll be okay,” I interrupted, not quite believing it but needing us both to hear the words. “Just a few more days.”
His eyes cut to me, dazzling gold in the sun. “Two days. That’s all Maz gave me, and it’s all I’m giving him.”
I nodded. “Two days.”
He took my hand, brought it to his mouth, and pressed a kiss to the inside of my wrist. The brush of his lips on that tender skin made me blush.
“Love you,” I murmured, and suddenly we were both a little pink.
Then I slipped out, tugged my hoodie over my hair, and headed toward the black-stained double doors of the Dollhouse.
The bouncers stationed at entry monitored my approach.
One gave a sharp nod as he stepped aside to usher me in.
The other offered a glance that lingered a little too long, like he knew what I was walking into.
Dread balled in my throat as I nodded back, then slipped past them and into the shadows of the club.
Inside, it was as cool and dark as ever.
The door closed behind me with a heavy thunk, and I squinted into the gloom.
At this hour, the main room was usually alive with rehearsal—someone on stage, music looping endlessly, bodies in motion.
But instead of the twins two-stepping to “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” or Elliot hanging off the pole by just his tail, it was vacant.
Having the space to myself might have tempted me to practice. I felt great, despite the nerves wriggling in my stomach like worms, and I relished the opportunity to climb up in my hoop and repose. But the silence gnawed at me.
It was never this quiet.
Something was wrong.
Weaving between tables and chairs, I searched the sound booth for Darby and peeked around corners for Oz. Nada. Even the dressing room was abandoned, and the emptiness filled me with panic.
I thought of turning back. Bolt outside and past the bouncers and hope Beck was still in the lot. But this was my world. My problem. My family potentially in danger. I couldn’t run from that.
Hastening my steps, I headed for the stairs, but a noise from the hall prompted me to alter my course. Not just sound, voices. Specifically, Maslow’s bellowing roar.
I broke into a sprint, racing toward the ruckus. The hallway had a single destination: the room I’d made a habit of avoiding. It felt strange to run toward it now, not out of fear for myself, but with my heart hammering over what might be happening to someone else.
I saw it before I arrived: the clutter at the threshold, chaos on pause. All five dancers plus Maslow hovered, some spilling into the hall, others crowded inside.
The twins stood like sentries on either side of the doorway. Colt had removed his hat and was mopping his brow with a kerchief. His green eyes gleamed with merriment. Callum looked similarly pleased. The corner of his mouth curved upward as he observed the scene.
Elliot stood further inside with a riding crop balanced against his shoulder like a royal scepter.
His tail lashed lazily behind him, betraying his amusement.
Beside him, Oz was knee-deep in wreckage—scraps of wood, shattered acrylic, what looked like the splintered frame of a chaise lounge.
He didn’t appear hurt, but he looked distinctly overwhelmed, wide-eyed and red-cheeked with his blond locks plastered to his forehead.