Raphael chuckled. “As you’ve pointed out ad nauseam, it’s Kingdom of Chaos. It would actually be stranger for me to be a ‘normal’ demon.”
Nico shrugged. “Fair.”
They moved as a unit through the dim corridors, the roar of the casino swelling and fading as they passed. There was tension in the air—a kind of electric anticipation that made Nico’s skinprickle. Las Vegas was always wound tight, but tonight felt different. Tonight, the city was holding its breath.
They found the women in a private parlor—a trio of them, each looking lost and wary in a room meant for high-stakes deals and dangerous men. Nico felt their uniqueness: human, but Damarian by fate, not by birth. Animi. Not shifters, not shamans, not yet anything at all except potential. He didn’t yet know if their skin was bare of ink to reveal what they might become. Their eyes held the haunted look of those who’d been promised something grand but given only fear.
He offered them a smile that was all reassurance and none of the wildness lurking underneath. “Welcome, ladies. I’m Nico. This is Raphael. We’re here to help you get home—be it the kingdom you will find your mate in, or if you so choose, back to the life you were taken from.”
The youngest, just entering adulthood at maybe twenty or twenty-one, a slim, freckled girl with a stubborn chin and the kind of wariness that came from learning too young that the world was not safe, looked at him with wide, desperate eyes. “You’re not . . . with him? With King Wolfgang?” she asked, her voice slightly accusatory.
“While Iama member of this kingdom, I am not in agreement with the way Wolfgang and his mate run it,” Nico said, his tone gentle. “I am attempting to fix that. As the Kingdom of Chaos shaman, you’re under my protection now. No one will touch you—not with me around.”
One of the others—a tall woman with a streak of blue in her hair and a glare that could cut glass—crossed her arms. “How do we know we can trust you?”
Nico lifted one shoulder. “You don’t.” He made eye contact with each of the three women before he continued. “But we will do our best to earn your trust. First,” he held up a finger, “by telling you all that has taken place in regard to our people, andhow it affects you. Then, I’ll allow you to speak with some other human females via video chat that will hopefully convince you that we are telling the truth.”
He waited to see how they’d respond to his declaration. After at least a minute, the blue streak nodded.
“I’m Morgan,” she said, then pointed to Freckles, “that’s Miryam,” then she pointed to the third female–an Asian woman with long, straight, shiny, black hair, beautiful alabaster skin, deep brown eyes, and a delicate frame. Her gaze was shrewd as she met his eyes. “That’s Akira.”
Nico’s eyes collided with Akira’s, and he froze. As if her stare somehow held him in her orbit, he was captivated not only by her beauty, but by the intelligence he saw in the depths of her brown orbs. He’d always prided himself on reading people quickly, on finding their edges and shadows, but with Akira it was as if he’d stumbled upon something rare—something that refused to be defined or contained.
Her eyes didn’t flinch or dart away. She looked at him as if weighing him against some silent measure, her posture still but not afraid. There was a steadiness in her, an unspoken strength, and for a heartbeat, Nico felt laid bare, as if she could see past the spiked green hair, the silver piercings, the tattoos, and straight to the core of who he was.
He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of every inch of space between them. “It’s good to meet you, Akira,” he said, his voice softer than before, sincerity threading through the usual bravado. “I hope you’ll let us prove ourselves to you.”
Akira’s lips curved into the barest hint of a smile, the kind that was gone so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined it. “And if I don’t?”
Her question wasn’t a challenge, but an honest curiosity, and Nico found himself wanting—no, needing—to give her a reasonto believe. He took a breath, steadying himself against the pull he felt toward her.
“Then we’ll still get you out of here,” he promised quietly. “Trust isn’t a requirement for rescue.”
For a moment, the room faded—the tension, the uncertainty, even Raphael’s subtle fidgeting beside him. It was just Nico and Akira, two souls on opposite sides of chaos, drawn together by something neither could name.
He realized then that he didn’t just want to save her. He wanted to know her story, to earn that steadiness she carried, to see if the way she’d looked at him just now could one day turn into something more.
And Akira, her gaze lingering on him a moment longer, seemed to see something she recognized in him. Maybe it was the chaos, or maybe it was the promise beneath it. Either way, Nico knew he was changed, and there was no going back.
He tore his eyes away, just long enough to glance at Raphael, who was watching Miryam with a rare, genuine softness.
“Your name isn’t one that’s heard often in this generation,” Raphael pointed out. There was an interest in his gaze that surprised Nico.
Freckles shrugged. “Guess my parents were old fashioned.”
“How is it spelled?” Raphael asked. Nico wondered why his friend was worried about how it was spelled.
Miryam looked as confused as Nico felt. “In the traditional Hebrew way.”
Raphael’s brow furrowed as his body tensed. “Then it’s the Hebrew form of the name Mary. The very name of the female who, according to the human Bible, was ‘favored by the Lord’, and brought the only sinless man to ever live, into this world.” Raphael let out a huff of laughter that sounded more sarcastic than humorous. Then muttered, “How ironic is that.” It wasn’ta question, and Nico knew his friend well enough that what Raphael had just said wasn’t just a history lesson.
“A demon who knows the Bible?” Morgan asked, her eyes skeptical.
Raphael looked at her, “Wouldn’t you think it was important to know what history said about your kind?”
Morgan pressed her lips together as she made a sound of agreement, then added, “Fair point.”
Nico cleared his throat and gestured for them to sit. He forced himself not to stare at Akira, even though every cell in his body was attuned to her. He and Raphael took the armchairs across from the trio, a low table between them littered with half-empty cups and the remains of what might have been a fruit tray—Las Vegas excess at its finest, gone stale around the edges.
