Clio reached the top of the stairs at the same time the incubus appeared at the bottom. She looked over her shoulder as he drew his arm back and threw something. A gemstone hit her in the back just as she shoved through the door into the corridor.

Magic jolted through her body, and all her muscles went limp.

She took one flailing step and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Instantly, she tried to push herself up, but her muscles felt weak, as if she’d run for hours. Arms straining, she rolled onto her back. Golden threads were glued to her arms and legs, a complex weaving that was draining her strength.

She couldn’t see the full shape of the spell to remove it. Desperate, she dug her fingers into her chest and used her magic to rip at the intricate weave. The dragging weakness lifted a fraction.

The incubus stepped into the threshold beyond her feet, blood trickling down the side of his face and a manic grin stretching his gaunt cheeks.

She flung her hand up and cast a band of force. He didn’t bother to counter, trusting his shields to deflect it. But she hadn’t been aiming for him. Her spell hit the open door and hurled it shut—right into his face. The steel slammed closed and a crash followed as the incubus fell down the stairs.

Rolling over, she scrambled to her feet. Her legs shook but she couldn’t stop to remove the weaving that had turned her muscles to jelly. She had to get to the lobby—back to Kassia and Eryx.

She got three staggering steps down the corridor before a group of daemons in lab coats strode into sight. Their conversation died when they saw her. She spun and bolted in the opposite direction. At the first intersection of halls, she wheeled around the corner as the incubus burst out the door again.

She half ran, half staggered down the corridor, recessed doorways flashing by on either side. He was coming. He was coming for her, and she was going the wrong way. She could barely run. Each step shuddered painfully through her weakened muscles, and her legs threatened to buckle.

Another intersection in the labyrinth. She looked back and, far down the hall, saw the incubus striding after her, not even bothering to run, knowing she couldn’t get far. Choosing a direction at random, she whipped around the corner and—

Arms reached out from a recessed doorway and snatched her in mid-step.

She was yanked against a hard body, and panic exploded in her head. She writhed wildly, her enfeebled limbs shaking.

A voice growled in her ear, “Clio.”

She froze in disbelief, then her muscles gave out and she slumped into her captor.

“Lyre?” she whispered.

He pulled her tighter to his chest, his arm strong and unhesitating, and opened the door behind him. He dragged her inside, then shut it and rekeyed the lock spell. She didn’t have the breath to question him, to ask where he’d come from or what he was doing here. He hauled her through a dark, dusty room of library-like shelves filled with small wooden boxes and into the shadowy gap between two shelves.

With an arm around her middle, he dropped to his knees and pulled her down. As she crouched across from him, he reached under the neck of his shirt and pulled out a chain. Colorful gems were attached to the silver links, and a small skeleton key with a ruby embedded in the bit hung in the center like a bizarre pendant. He slid his fingers down the chain and stopped on a pink stone.

The door at the end of the room rattled, then popped open. Light flooded in.

Lyre caught the pink stone in his teeth and broke it off the chain. As footsteps drew closer, he set the stone on the floor and whispered an incantation. A weaving unwound from the stone, visible to her asper but not to anyone else—probably not even to Lyre. Not that he was even looking at it. He was staring intently at the blank wall in the opposite direction. The circles and runes of the weaving shifted, expanding with his voice, guided by unfamiliar words in a language she didn’t know.

The spell flashed outward to fill the gap between the shelves just as her hunter strode into sight.

Clio didn’t dare breathe as the pursuing incubus turned, his dark eyes sliding across the runes, Clio and Lyre in plain sight on the other side. Lyre still stared unblinkingly at the wall with the gemstone under his fingers. His other hand gripped her arm, squeezing warningly as though commanding her not to move or make a sound.

The incubus from the basement kept walking. He checked the other shelves for anyone hiding in the aisles, swore, then stomped back the way he’d come, passing right by Clio and Lyre as though they weren’t there.

The door opened, then swung shut with a bang.

Lyre let out a heavy breath and the weaving flickered and faded. Clio squinted at the spot where it had been, puzzling through its purpose. Something about mirroring … something. She opened her mouth to ask—and instead pitched face-first toward the floor from the strength-draining spell still webbed over her body.

He grabbed her and eased her down, one hand under the back of her head to support her neck.

“A leech ailment,” he muttered. “I can get it off you. Hold on.”

She lay limp, chest heaving as he touched her skin between her collarbones. The room was so dark she could hardly make out his face.

“You hid me from him,” she whispered. “You protected me.”

He grunted, his touch lifting from her throat, then pushed the hem of her shirt up and pressed three fingers to the spot just above her belly button. She squeaked in alarm, weakly pushing her shirt back down. He caught her wrists and pulled them out of the way, her diminished strength useless.

“Stop that. I’m trying to remove the spell.”

She dropped her hands to her sides. His attention was fixed on her middle, his fingers lightly prodding her. Soft washes of magic tingled over her skin.

“How did you find me?” she murmured.

“Madrigal was looking for you.”

“But … how did you know I would be here?”

“I asked myself, ‘If I was a nymph with a death wish, where would I go?’”

She flinched. “I didn’t … I mean, I—”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses.”

His flat tone cut right through her. She cringed, trying to ignore his fingertips sliding from her middle to her left hip. In the darkness, his expression was invisible and not even his eyes gleamed bright amber like usual.

Her blood chilled as she realized his eyes weren’t amber at all. They were as dark as the shadows. His temper was burning hot and he was one small slip away from losing control.

“You know this area is restricted,” he continued harshly. “If you’re caught here, they’ll kill you. If I’m caught helping you, my fate won’t be much better.”

Her blood went from moderately chilled to arctic ice. “But they—they wouldn’t kill an envoy, would they? The political consequences—”

“They’d call it an accident,” he snapped. “Lots of apologies, a few expensive ‘so sorry’ gifts, and everyone would move right on with their greed and ambition. But you’d be dead.”

His hand shifted across to her other hip, gentle and careful despite his anger. “Did anyone besides Dulcet see you?”

“Dulcet?” she mumbled.

“The incubus chasing you.” He touched her left knee, then her right one.

“Just a few daemons in lab coats coming into the corridor, but they barely spotted me before I ran away.”

As he lifted his hand from her knees, warmth and strength flowed back into the limbs. He pushed her sleeve above her elbow and moved his fingers to her inner wrist. She focused her asper and watched in amazement as the tangle of glowing threads spun apart beneath his touch, the runes dissolving one by one. He slid his fingers up her arm, the weave pulling apart obediently beneath his guidance. When he reached the crook of her elbow, the rest of the spell on her limb faded to nothing.

He reached across her and pulled her other arm closer. She mentally tried to counteract her increasing heart rate as his gentle touch drifted across her skin.

Another section of the spell dissolved, and he reached for her face. She held her breath as he touched her jaw beneath one ear, then the other, then pressed each temple.

“Hold on,” he muttered. “He’s woven something else into this.”

She froze as he leaned over her and ran a fingertip over her cheekbone. She knew he was tracing a line of the spell. She knew that, but her skin still tingled and her heartbeat stuttered at the intimate touch.

He brushed his fingers across her other cheek, a whisper of magic trailing in their wake, then sat back on his heels and frowned down at her. His eyes were dark, but closer to bronze now than black. “There’s still something there, but it will take too long to unravel right now.”

Alarm flashed through her and she pushed up on her elbows. “What is it?”

“I can’t tell without more study. It’s dormant, so he would have to activate it himself. Nothing to worry about if you stay away from him. It’ll fade in a cycle or two on its own.”

After pocketing the used lodestone and tucking his chain back under his shirt, he rose and held out a hand. She took it, enjoying the warmth and strength of his grip more than she should have. He pulled her up, and she regained her feet for all of two seconds before her knees buckled.

She grabbed his shoulders at the same time he pulled her into his arms. How many times was she going to fall into his embrace? It was becoming a habit.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Did I miss part of the weaving?”

“I’m fine,” she stammered in embarrassment, clutching him as he took most of her weight off her trembling legs. “Just … just too much adrenaline.”

She leaned against him, carefully testing her strength. His body felt so good. His arms felt so good around her. She wanted to touch him more. She wanted to run her hands over him.

She squeezed her eyes shut and pushed those thoughts away.

“Did he hurt you?”

His question was quiet, almost wary, as though he feared her answer—or perhaps his reaction to her answer.

“No,” she whispered, though it wasn’t quite true. Dulcet, as Lyre had called the incubus, had thrown her around a bit. “He terrified me though.”

She didn’t realize how tense Lyre was until she felt him relax—his body shifting subtly against hers and sending another blush raging into her cheeks.

“Dulcet terrifies me too sometimes,” he admitted.

“Who is he?” she asked in bewilderment, forcing herself to step back. This time her legs supported her, but she didn’t quite manage to let go of him, still gripping his upper arms. “Why are there so many incubi here who look like you?”

“I wouldn’t say they look like me. We all look like our father.”

Their … father? She blinked dumbly, then the realization struck her like a splash of water to the face.

“Brothers?” she wheezed. “You’re all brothers?”

“Not every incubus here is my brother. But we’re all related.”

“How many brothers do you have?”

“Six.”

“Holy crap.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “Wait, who’s number six? There’s the two from the spell shop on Earth—”

“Ariose and Reed,” he supplied.

“The younger one from my tour—”

“That was Viol.”

“Dulcet the Psycho, and Madrigal the Rapist—”

Lyre snarled, his eyes flashing to black. “He didn’t—”

She shook her head quickly. “No, he didn’t—he didn’t do … that. But I think he was planning to … do … something.”

He bared his teeth.

“So who’s your sixth brother?” she hurriedly asked.

Lyre took a deep breath and his irises lightened back to bronze. “Andante, the oldest. You’d be better off not meeting him.”

She shivered and let him go so she could wrap her arms around herself. “I’d like to not meet anyone else.” She swallowed hard. “What will happen now that Dulcet caught me in the basement?”

“Does he know who you are?”

“No … I don’t think so.”

“I doubt he’ll report you. He hates paperwork, and frankly, he doesn’t care about anything beyond his experiments. As long as you stick to the meeting rooms and lobby, and don’t wander around, you won’t see him again.”

She bit her lip. With no chance of finding the prototypes, she was stuck waiting for her custom weaving. And that meant facing Madrigal again. “Lyre, will you … will you do my commission?”

“No.”

She winced at his flat tone. “But Madrigal … I don’t want to … I can’t …” Unwanted tears welled in her eyes. “I couldn’t stop him.”

At her choked words, Lyre’s irises flashed right back to inky black. Rage slid across his features, and he strode away from her. Afraid to move, she watched him storm back and forth, hissing profanity and fighting for control with each step.

Where was the easygoing, teasing incubus from their last meeting? What had pushed him so close to savagery? The longer he hung on that edge, the more slippery his self-restraint would become.

He stopped and faced her. “Don’t look into his eyes. Stay focused. Pain is a good counter, so pinch yourself if you get distracted. Get angry—stay angry. Awareness of what he’s doing will keep your head clear, and you’re already naturally resistant to his aphrodesia. He shouldn’t be able to influence your will unless you let your guard down.”

“I’m naturally resistant?” she repeated. “Why?”

“You’re …” He raked a hand through his hair, gaze darting away as though he didn’t want to answer. “Aphrodesia doesn’t work as well on virgins.”

She gasped, her face flaming. “I—how—how did you—”

He grimaced. “It’s fairly obvious to incubi.”

“How?” she demanded, humiliated and wishing she could crawl into a hole and die.

“Inexperienced women react differently to us. It’s hard to explain.”

She pressed her hands to her face, groaning quietly. Had all of them been able to tell? All six incubi she’d encountered? Was she essentially walking around with a big flashing “virgin” sign above her head? Ugh.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Lyre said softly. “It’s your best defense.”

She shook her head. Her lack of experience in the bedroom had never bothered her before—it was tough to find datable guys while in hiding on Earth amidst a horde of unappealing human males—but being exposed as a virgin to a bunch of the most sensual and attractive daemons she’d ever seen was mortifying.

Lyre took her wrists and pulled her hands away from her face. She looked up at him in surprise, her stomach swooping toward the floor.

“If experience in bed is what you want, I’d be happy to help you out before you leave.” His dark eyes burned through her, stealing the air from her lungs. “For now, though, let’s get you out of here before anyone else sees you.”

Her heart lodged itself in her throat and she choked. He started toward the door, warm fingers still around her wrist. She staggered after him, dizzy from her conflicting emotions. How could she feel apprehensive, exhilarated, disappointed, and scared all at once?

They slipped out of the storage room. Lyre led her with slow, cautious steps, pausing every now and then to listen before continuing. Luckily, the corridors were deserted. He waited almost a minute at the last intersection before the final stretch to the lobby—the same hall with the door into the forbidden basement level.

Clio stood beside him. His grip on her wrist had shifted down, and she held his hand tightly as she stared at the wrinkle of concentration between his brows. She couldn’t believe he had risked his own safety to help her. She hadn’t asked him why. She hadn’t even thanked him.

He started forward at a brisk pace. She trotted after him, nerves clanging at the open stretch lined with recessed doorways. Her gaze fixed on the basement door, safely closed, and she hoped desperately it would stay that way.

She was so focused she didn’t notice the other danger until Lyre’s fingers clamped around hers. He yanked her sideways into the nearest alcove just as a pair of daemons appeared from the lobby, discussing a large schematic that one carried. There was no time to open the door beside them and nowhere to hide.

Lyre spun her around and pushed her back into the wall, bracing one arm beside her head. Then he pressed his body hard into hers.

She gasped, pushing him away, but he didn’t budge. His mouth pressed into her ear, soft lips moving in a whisper. “Don’t move.”

She clenched fistfuls of his shirt. Footsteps sounded, drawing closer—drawing level with them.

The conversation broke off, then as the daemons walked by, one of them snorted.

“Those incubi,” he muttered, sounding equal parts exasperated and admiring. “Nailing women right in the damn halls now.”

Clio didn’t move as the daemons passed. Lyre’s arm was beside her head, his face against her cheek—blocking her from view. The men could see only that she was female and wearing a lab coat, but nothing else that could identify her as a trespasser.

Lyre held as still as her, waiting as the footsteps receded toward the junction. He exhaled, his breath warm against her ear.

“Hey!”

She and Lyre tensed, but the hailing call was directed toward the other two daemons. Somewhere near the intersection, a third voice joined the original pair, and the trio began chatting about something in a rumble of conversation that wasn’t moving anymore.

“Shit,” Lyre muttered.

“Will they see us if we try to leave?”

“Probably.”

Meaning they had to wait here until the coast was clear. Lyre knew it too, and he shifted his weight uneasily—which shifted the press of his body against hers.

It was stupid. It was ridiculously inappropriate. But suddenly she wasn’t so worried about the daemons only a dozen paces away. Suddenly her heart was pounding loudly and her breath was coming quick. Suddenly she couldn’t ignore the heat of his body, the spicy cherry scent filling her nose, the feel of him against her.

His hand closed over her hip, fingers digging in—but not in a painful way. In a way that made her blood race even faster.

“Clio,” he hissed, her name heavy with warning.

“What?” she whispered, alarmed.

“You … need … to stop that.” It sounded like he was gritting his teeth.

She blinked in bewilderment. “Stop what?”

He pressed into her even harder, every line of his body molding against hers. And then his mouth caught her earlobe, hot and wet. Her eyes widened, her gasp dangerously loud.

“Stop being so goddamn irresistible,” he growled softly.

“I—I’m not—”

His hand glided over her hip, his other arm still braced beside her head. She clutched his shirt, her mind empty. Should she be pushing him away? Should she be telling him to back off? Should she be doing something?

Down the hall, someone barked a laugh. She hardly noticed.

His lips brushed against the side of her neck and she shivered from head to toe. He made a soft noise that sent heat diving through her, then his mouth closed over her skin. She automatically arched her head back, and of their own accord, her hands slid up to his shoulders and curled over strong, sculpted muscle.

His mouth moved down her neck, then back up to the edge of her jaw, his tongue teasing her sensitive skin. She shuddered, unable to form a single coherent thought.

“Lyre?” She had no idea what she was asking.

His teeth grazed her jaw, then he pulled back enough so she could see his face—and his eyes.

Black, hungry, dangerous eyes.

His fingers slid into her hair, tilting her head back, and he leaned down, stopping with only a whisper of space between their lips. She couldn’t move, locked in place, heat spiraling deeper and deeper through her center.

“Clio,” he breathed. “Tell me to stop.”

“W-what?”

“I can’t …” His hand on the small of her back tightened, pulling her hips hard into him, and his voice roughened. “Tell me to stop. Make me.”

Those midnight-black irises … he’d lost control. He’d been too close to the edge already, and even though he knew he needed to step back—to restrain himself—he couldn’t do it.

She was trapped. He had her—a hand in her hair, another behind her back, holding her against him. His body pinned her to the wall, too strong and heavy to shift. A shiver ran through him and she knew what little willpower he retained was weakening. What would happen if he lost it completely? What would he do?

Part of her really wanted to find out.

His breath warmed her lips an instant before his mouth brushed across hers—a taste, a test. A promise of more. She almost moaned, her lips parting in anticipation. She slid her hands from his shoulders to his chest, fingers splayed over hard muscle beneath that silky soft shirt.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Then she slammed him with a magic-fueled shove.

The blunt blow threw him backward, and he hit the opposite side of the alcove. She glanced once into his black eyes burning with fiery hunger, then bolted from the doorway.

He didn’t follow her.

The intersection was empty, the chatty daemons having departed. She flew down the corridor, yanking the lab coat off as she ran. She dropped it behind her, leaving it for Lyre or someone else to collect, and didn’t slow until she’d reached the end of the hall.

She took a moment to compose herself, then strode into the bright lobby. It was empty except for the receptionists, who didn’t look up from their work.

Clio headed toward Kassia and Eryx, trying to calm the tremble in her limbs and hoping the flush in her face wasn’t too obvious. Halfway to them, she paused, simultaneously hopeful and worried that Lyre would appear.

He didn’t.

She exhaled shakily and touched her lips—the lips he had almost, almost kissed. And she reluctantly admitted that her relief wasn’t nearly as strong as her disappointment.