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 ofyou.”
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 mademy 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. Soright. 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.
