The bouncers watched me return, unsubtly slipping by while mumbling apologies. Maslow now had a recording of Beck in the private area, a location he would not have found without an escort, and the wraith would sense the change in me. The charge of lust was like a drug I couldn’t quit. All of it made what should have been shallow waters seem endlessly deep.
I could drown here. Or be pulled under. Falling again.
Thankfully, the VIPs had no reason to complain. Darby had covered for me, and after I told him where I’d been, he promised to do the same when Beck came back the next night.
And hedidcome back—again and again. He became a familiar presence in the crowd, a body I hurried to embrace, a hand I held as we slipped out of the club and into the relative quiet of the parking lot.
It became a habit, a high I chased, followed by the lows I endured each time Maslow took his due. While my nights were full of passion and performance, my mornings now started with the wraith lurking in the hall outside our rooms. It was a new routine—unavoidable, enforced, and draining in every sense of the word. Every day, he lined us up and strolled past, siphoning a different flavor of energy from each of us, filling his distended belly.
This morning, we’d been rounded up earlier than usual. Maslow claimed to have “a prior engagement,” and would be gone most of the day. He was here now, though, standing at the end of the corridor in his finest suit. His sparse hair was stuck down with gel, and his gold teeth glinted as he smiled at us. Pleased as he appeared, the bouncers behind him remained stern, standing shoulder to shoulder in a wall of menacing muscle.
“I’ll only be out for a while,” he informed us. “I expect you to behave and be stage-ready by showtime. No slacking off just because the cat’s away.”
After a week of this ritual, some of the dancers had adjusted better than others. You’d think that after five years under the wraith’s thumb, the fight would’ve been wrung out of them, but some still resisted. I couldn’t tell if that made them brave or just stupid.
Oz stood at the front of the line. He was by far the biggest of us, and yet somehow the meekest. Maslow had already taken from him. Now he stood off to the side, broad shoulders slumped, head bowed, looking like a scolded child in Superman pajamas.
Darby stepped up next, and Maslow clasped his hand in a stiff shake. The gesture seemed innocuous until the color bleached from Darby’s dark skin. His glossed lips strained a smile as Maslow beamed.
“Pleasure doing business with you, darling,” the wraith cooed.
“Always,” Darby gritted before he pulled free. Shouldering his shower tote, he strutted toward the bouncers’ barricade with his head held high, albeit a little wobbly.
The hounds parted for his exit, then remerged into the impenetrable barrier as Maslow advanced toward the twins.
Colt stepped out to meet him, cowboy hat tipped askew, wearing nothing but boxers and boots. Before Maslow could extend his hand, Colt seized it, locking him in a white-knuckled grip. The tendons in his forearm pulsed with the effort.
Maslow smirked, clearly entertained by the challenge even as he siphoned Colt’s strength and energy simultaneously. The drain showed in the tightening lines of Colt’s jaw, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he yanked the wraith in close, voice ragged but eyes flashing green fire.
“Take a li’l more, boss. Cal had a bad night.”
Beside him, Callum started to protest, but Maslow moved faster. He slipped free of Colt’s weakening hold and turned, bypassing a handshake to grasp Callum’s shoulder.
“Mmm. You’re right.” Maslow nodded as if weighing the taste of him, then leaned in, bumping Callum with his swollen belly. “Never the popular twin. Must be hard, sharing the spotlight with an attention whore.”
Colt’s jaw flexed hard enough I could have sworn I heard the grind of his teeth.
“You about done?” he growled.
“Of course,” Maslow assured him as Callum began toslump. He backed away, and Colt stepped into the space he left, checking his twin over with a worried pinch to his brow.
“I-I’m all right,” Callum whispered as Colt placed a kiss on his forehead.
Then it was Elliot’s turn.
Directly beside me, the wraith squared himself with the sulky goth. Elliot’s red eyes snapped up, smudged with leftover eyeliner from last night’s show. He didn’t move or speak, just glowered with a fury that could have melted ice.
Maslow’s hand hovered in the air between them while he decided where to touch. “No fight today, hmm?” the wraith mused. “Just gonna let me take it?” His hand shot out and collared Elliot’s throat, driving out an abrupt, choked sound. “That’s a shame. Wrath tastes best when it’s fresh.”
“Hey!” Oz shouted, stirring from his slouch. He started forward, only to be seized by one of the bouncers. For all the blond man’s muscle, he was no match for two hellhounds armed with bladed weapons and threatening glares. The protest died on Oz’s tongue, and he averted his gaze again.
Elliot set his jaw, and the lines of his face hardened, but he didn’t so much as twitch to his own defense while Maslow pulled the power from him. It was so close, and knowing I was next made me want to run. Then I felt guilty because I should have wanted to stay and help. Instead, I did nothing but watch until Maslow released Elliot and turned my way.
Stepping close, he curled his hand around the side of my head, plump fingers raking through my hair. “Baby boy, this is what I’ve wanted for you,” he said. “So vivacious. Simply…” His tongue drew a wet line across his lips. “Brimmingwith lust.”
Did he wonder where I got it? What had changed?
I felt his touch then, like the prick of a needle, preparing to draw.
