“In these clothes?” I stretched out my arms to reference the shiny satin PJs.
I worried, fleetingly, that Colette might ask for them back. They weren’t mine, after all. And while I should’ve been eager to shed them, along with everything that had happened since I woke up, they offered a small amount of comfort.
The hellhound snorted and referenced her own sleepwear. I hadn’t noticed her bunny slippers until she kicked up one leg and bobbed her foot at me. “We could also waste a bit of Lucas’s money,” she teased. “He owes you a new outfit. And shoes.”
I forced a thin smile. “I’m okay.”
I wasn’t. Not even a little, but it would do no good to tell her that. This wasn’t a problem she could fix, despite her good intentions.
Straightening, I reached for the door handle, but Colette caught me with a tap on the shoulder. I glanced back at her. Without the makeup giving her features a polish, she looked softer, more approachable, and so genuine. There was a sense of care in the crease between her brows that I could not overlook. And I didn’t want to.
“Prends bien soin de toi, mon petitfrançais,” she said. “Until we meet again.”
She hooked her fingers around my shoulder and pulled me in so she could press her cheek to mine and make a kissing sound. Once on my left and once on my right. The gesture was so familiar it made my aching eyes leak anew.
When she leaned back, I blinked, scattering droplets from my lashes. “I think you remind me of my mom,” I said before realizing how strange it sounded.
Stranger still that I’d had no thoughts of family or friends outside the Dollhouse in my entire time on Earth. My memory remained a blank space, but it was a little brighter while recalling another French woman, older than Colette but equally charming. Affectionate. Loving.
The hellhound flushed lightly pink, and her lips fell apart, speechless for a moment.
“Sorry,” I offered, but she shook her head.
“No, it’s…” Her smile returned with a vigor that made an odd contrast to the mist in her warm brown eyes. “Merci,” she said. “You’re very kind.”
I stepped out of the limo into a parking lot and made my way toward the entrance. The hellhounds on duty gave silent nods and let me pass without question. Inside, the club was dark and still. The others wouldn’t be up yet, and I planned to slip up to my room and vanish for a few hours—just long enough for the spin in my head to settle and the ache in my chest to ease. Though I had a feeling that would take more time than I had to spare.
I crossed the club floor, weaving between scattered tables and booths toward the dressing room door. As I reached for it, the door swung open to reveal my boss standing in the frame. Maslow blinked in surprise, then grinned wide, sharp teeth flashing in the gloom.
“Baby boy, you’re back early.” He stepped forward while glancing around as though he expectedto find Beck nearby. The absence amused Maslow while making me ache all the more.
“I hope Beckett isn’t angling for a refund.” He clapped a meaty hand on my back, knocking the breath out of my lungs. “And I hope you didn’t think your little sleepover exempted you from roll call.”
The cheeky phrase hit me like a slap. Roll call. No, I hadn’t thought about it—hadn’t missed it either. But the moment he said it, dread coiled like a viper in my gut.
He meant the morning feeding. The lineup. The inspection where we stood shoulder to shoulder like show animals before a judge, waiting to be pawed over and scored. He liked to draw it out, sensing the way our energy shifted as he approached, savoring the taste of fear and resentment in the air.
I’d woken up today without that weight pressing down on me, but it was crushing now.
“No…” My reply was a squeak, better suited for a mouse than a man. A pathetic protest.
I’d been stripped down to borrowed clothes and bare feet, but at least I was full. I had something to show for yesterday’s wonder, for being cared for and guided through the city like I belonged in it, not just some sideshow curiosity. My hunger was gone because Beck fed me.
Then I lost him—we were through—and the thought of losing the last piece of him still with me…
Maslow’s eyes danced with mirth.
“Please, I can… I’ll…”
I wrung my brain dry trying to come up with a proposition he would accept. Something I could offer besides the energy he intended to drain. I could think of only one thing, and it rankled me, but with everything else gone, I had nothing more to give.
Breaking free of Maslow’s touch, I turned and dropped. I meant to lower myself gracefully, maybe seductively, but no. This was a collapse. I got on my knees before the man who’d first asked to see me that way, then looked up at him through lashes clumped with tears.
It wasn’t what he wanted, but perhaps he would take it. Maybe if he got his own pleasure, he would leave me with mine.
I knelt there, broken and begging, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch him. Or to offer in words what I invited with my posture.
Then, the wraith laughed. His belly bounced uproariously, and my burden of apprehension was coupled with devastating shame. I had become everything he wanted, forced into the mold made for me, and he thought it was funny.
