“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 worldnarrowed 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. “Twodays. 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 myapproach. 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 wasneverthis 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 wasmyworld. 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 offear 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.
Closest to me stood Darby, fists balled on his hips and chin inclined, radiating righteous indignation in Maslow’s direction. The wraith’s cheeks were puffed out like bellows, and his belly heaved as he unleashed his fury in a throaty tirade. Spittle flew. His rage came in gusts, loud and theatrical, but Darby didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked smug.
For a moment, I stood there, taking in the scattered bodies, the broken furniture, the tension between fury and farce.
