Page 49 of Demon’s Temptation

To Brent.

The gallery was lit up behind massive double glass doors, with people—and more than likely a lot of other creatures as well—moving about inside.

This wasn’t her usual scene. She’d never been to an exhibition in her life and had struggled with what to wear. In the end she’d selected the black knee-length pencil skirt her sister had bought her last Christmas, and paired it with her dark green satin corset and a few chunky bracelets.

She needed to look the part.

Grace trusted her to get the job done and wanted details on who was there, who Victor spoke to, and anything else she might be able to find out. Chaya didn’t want to let her down.

She plastered a smile on her face, and the woman at the door did the same as Chaya approached. As promised, Victor had left her name there and she was shown straight in. The room was huge, open, all white with cathedral ceilings. People moved around, champagne flutes in hand, admiring the images suspended from thin wire. They’d been placed strategically to make the place feel less cavernous. Well, she guessed that was the artist’s aim. Besides Victor, she didn’t know who the other artists were. She’d only flipped through the brochure Victor had given her, then lost it somewhere.

She looked around the room and wondered how many people attending were part of the lifestyle. How many were here out of curiosity?

Grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing waitress, she started moving around the room. Victor had to be there somewhere.

Some of the pictures were beautiful, arousing. Some shocking. All were of males and females tied or restrained in some way. She stopped in front of one where a woman was tied with a length of rope. It came around her back, circling each bent leg, forcing her thighs up and open. She was blindfolded, mouth open in a silent scream, but even without seeing her eyes Chaya felt her fear.

She shivered. Something was off about it, something that made her skin crawl. The two times she’d restrained Brent he’d made it clear that he loved every minute of it, but this…

“Chaya, I’m so glad you could come.” She turned to find Victor standing there. He’d moved up beside her and was watching her look at the disturbing piece in front of her. “What do you think?”

She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to piss him off, since he clearly knew the artist, or, God, it was one of his. Telling him what she really thought wouldn’t help her gather information or get closer to his inner circle. “I’m not…I’m not really sure it’s my thing.” She tried to give her opinion as diplomatically as possible. Since she couldn’t lie for shit, she might as well go for a half truth.

His grinned. “No?”

She took a sip of her champagne, needing a moment to gather her thoughts. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. I guess they’re just so…so confronting.”

He chuckled. “Yes. Yes, they are that.” He rested his hand on the small of her back. “Come, I have another I’d like you to see.”

She let him lead her across the gallery. Now she just had to get him talking like she had in the coffee shop. Let him think they were besties and get him to reveal more of his deepest and darkest secrets.

Easy, right?

* * *

Brent walked into his room and stared down at his rumpled sheets. She’d only been there with him one night, but he could still smell her, remember the way she’d looked in his bed. Sitting down, he tagged the pillow and pressed it to his face, groaning when he breathed in her vanilla scent.

Shit.

When she’d sunk her nails and teeth into his skin, when she’d marked him and made him come, without even realizing it, she’d claimed him. He was hers. He was helpless against the hold she had over him.

Throwing the pillow back down, he blew out a frustrated breath and stood. What was the next step? Where did they go from here?

Something caught his eye on the floor. He picked it up. A brochure. The exhibition Chaya was going to. She must have dropped it when she was getting dressed. He flipped it over.

And frowned.

The image on the front told him exactly the subject matter the artist had chosen to photograph. Then he spotted one of the photographers’ names. Victor.

He shot to his feet.

She’d promised not to see that bastard again. She’d lied. Fuck. He didn’t trust that male, not with Chaya. He understood her desire to help Grace and the other demi in this city, but to keep this from him, to put herself at risk like this?

Something ugly curled low in his belly.

Shoving on his jacket, he strode from his apartment, and every step he took, his rage increased along with his fear. His mood hadn’t improved by the time he climbed into his car, and it only got worse as he drove from the lot, and ignoring the speed limit, covered the distance in record time.

The gallery came into view, and he parked out front. The valet intercepted him as he climbed out. “I’ll be five minutes.” He handed over the keys and strode toward the glass-fronted building.