“Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked.

We stood at the mouth of an underground passageway that would have looked sketchy by the light of day. At night, with no one around, it looked flat-out disreputable. Small shops with windows filled with tourist crap took up most of the corridor, while a sign pointed the way to the Museum of Torture.

“That looks promising,” Rohan deadpanned. He strode into the passageway. “Lolita. It’s over here.”

I blinked at the name, having forgotten about my persona during dinner. It had been so genuinely Rohan and me, instead of Lolita and rock star. Stiffening my spine, I arranged my expression in Lolita’s state of ennui and sashayed after him.

Rohan stopped well before the stairway leading up to the museum, halting next to a nondescript black door with a small sign reading “Chill.”

A hostess met us inside. After verifying that our name was on the list for this thirty minute reservation, she fitted us with thermal jackets. “It’s roughly minus twenty celsius inside,” she informed us. “We’re one of the colder ice bars in the world.”

I put the jacket on over my own coat, glad the thermal one came almost down to my knees. But I was still bare-legged. “I may not manage the entire visit,” I told Rohan quietly. Since Samson had paid for a twenty-minute slot, it would suck to bail and wait outside until they finished up, but frostbite would suck harder.

“Let me know if you need to leave.” He placed a hand on the small of my back. “Ready?” His touch helped steady me against my rush of nerves and off we went.

Chill was pretty small. A couple of booths and standing tables carved from ice in addition to the bar itself. Not the floor though. They’d avoided that potential lawsuit. Purple and green strip lights illuminated the larger ice panels on the walls. Shelves had been carved out to display vodka bottles from around the world.

Drio was already there, chatting with Samson’s buddies. He nodded as we came in but didn’t come over to say hi. Other than them and Samson, I didn’t recognize any of the fifteen or so other people.

“Ro darling,” came a familiar British lilt as a puffy jacketed figure turned. Poppy, the actress from the other night was here, looking less girl-next-door and more blonde bombshell, with big blown out hair, and sexy smoky eyes. “Thank you for returning my scarf.”

Get your own rock star.

“My pleasure,” Rohan replied in a rumbly voice. I barely turned my sputter into a cough.

Samson glanced over at our arrival, saluting Rohan with his glass. “All hail the esteemed Rohan Mitra.”

“What a douche,” Rohan muttered. His smile brightened, his hand slipped from my back, and he crossed over to join the actor. He made it all of ten feet before he was accosted by three men who enthusiastically barked Fugue State Five song titles at him in Czech accents.

Rohan handled them graciously.

I made my way to the bar and ordered a chocolate vodka, shrugging deeper into my double coats. The bartender handed it over saying that drinks were on Samson’s tab. It would have been a point in his favor but if your modus operandi was to make people feel bad about themselves, alcohol was a handy tool to speed things along. As was being rich enough to pay the tab for the common people.

The vodka was served in a frozen shot glass. It was so cold in here, that the alcohol, which tasted like a melted chocolate bar, had thickened to a syrup that slid down my throat like silk. I gave a thumbs-up as I handed the glass back, remarking on the experience, and the bartender explained that the cold removed the normal sting when drinking it. Definitely a plus.

Putting my back to the bar, I checked out the various groups. None of them looked particularly interesting. Other than Samson’s posse, who Drio had covered, I doubted anyone had any information that could help us. I wasn’t there for small talk, so I crossed over to Rohan and Samson.

I moved into place on Rohan’s left in time to see Poppy press a shot into his hand. She maintained physical contact while counting down for them to shoot their drinks back. Snowflake didn’t protest the blatant move, nor did he introduce me. Or seem to notice I existed.

Drink downed, Poppy laughed, catching a drop with her tongue that brought both Samson’s and Rohan’s gaze to her lips. Oh, she was good. Every move she made was calculated to keep their attention on her. Under other circumstances, I’d have bought her a drink in admiration.

I kept my bored look in place, eyes scanning the room as if seeking more interesting climes, while mentally cataloguing all the damage my magic could do to her.

Poppy was even able to keep up with the music discussion the men veered onto. Impressive since they were chatting about some obscure New York band. Since I had nothing to contribute, I did what I did best: objectified the fuck out of the guys. Samson looked smug. He was “on” constantly, a high wattage performance of his cool, funny charm, complete with expansive gestures that were as put on as his perfect tan and artfully tousled hair.

Rohan, on the other hand, with his lazy stance, exuded confidence. His movements came with an economy of motion: a half-grin here, a wry comment there. He upstaged Samson’s showmanship with an understated cool. Rohan was every inch the sexy rock star even in that dumb jacket. This wasn’t bias. More like objective evidence based on the sidelong glances and awestruck stares he was getting.

With one sly sideways glance from Poppy before she gave me the tiniest smirk. The English Rose showing her thorns.

Time for her to learn the pecking order. I placed Rohan’s hand on my ass under my jackets. Samson shot me the briefest glance at that. Rohan didn’t. Didn’t even pause his lyrical waxings about this one particular band. Though he did idly stroke along the base of my spine as he spoke.

I stared Poppy down, my bored expression unchanging, and my position unmovable until she gave up and moved on under the pretense of greeting a new arrival.

Ooh, being that girl was fun.

“Restless Landing opened for you on your last tour, right?” Samson asked. Interesting. Seems he’d researched Rohan.

“Yeah,” Rohan said.

“I know Aaron.”

“Hell of a drummer.” Rohan sipped the beer that one of his three fanboys had pressed into his hand.

I wiggled my toes to keep them from going numb in the cold and pulled my hands up inside my sleeves.

“Not getting much work these days.” Samson fired back another vodka shot. “You’ve been out of the loop so you might not have heard.”

“The girls,” Rohan said, without missing a beat.

Samson gave Rohan an appraising look. Rohan’s bland expression didn’t change. Two sharks circling each other, scenting for first blood. “Yeah. You probably ran into that. Teens looking like they were twenty-five.” Samson spread his hands wide, like what are you gonna do?

“I did. But then again, I was a teen. Even so, I never screwed fifteen-year-olds.” A hot thread of anger laced his voice.

Samson smirked. “You sure? I’m betting you didn’t stop the action to do an ID check.”

“I’m sure.”

Samson clapped Rohan on the back. “Good man.”

My eyes swung to Rohan to see how he’d react to such blatant condescension. All he did was take a swig of his beer.

I wasn’t the only one who’d been watching the exchange, because with perfect timing, Drio showed up. “Ro, I’m freezing my balls off. Let’s find somewhere better, man.” I doubted I’d ever get used to that accent coming out of him.

“He’s right. I’m over the tundra,” Samson announced. “I’ve got just the place.” He gestured to Rohan. “Unless you want to suggest something.”

“Go for it.”

“It’s walkable,” Samson said. There was a flurry of activity as we returned the jackets in addition to the normal leaving-a-bar discussion about who was going to this new venue versus who wanted to head somewhere else.

I stomped my feet, trying to get some feeling back into them while the debates raged. About half the group decided to follow Samson, with Poppy welded to Rohan’s side.

A security detail had appeared the moment we left the bar. Three “don’t fuck with us” men with granite carved jaws and constantly scanning eyes, who fell into a triangular formation around Samson and Rohan. The rest of us were expendable.

The sky was overcast and the wind caused goosebumps on my bare legs, but it was still a lot warmer than the ice bar. I jammed my hands in my pockets, enjoying the lively streets. Everyone high on possibility and good cheer. As for myself, I fell farther and farther back in the group, too busy rubbernecking.

Enough people rubbernecked right back, phones flashing, that Samson, at least, had been recognized, but the bodyguards kept the group moving at a fast clip and no one dared approach.

A group of boisterous Brits celebrating a bachelor party came toward us, singing off-key. The T-shirts they wore marked them as members of “Dave’s Stag!” complete with a grainy photo of Dave flying over Prague Castle. One of the guys knocked into my shoulder as he passed.

I wobbled, my heel snagging on the cobblestone. Drio reached out to steady me under the elbow. Dude tossed out a drunken, “Sorry,” and stumbled after his friends.

“Thanks,” I said to Drio. I lifted up my stiletto. Scratched but not broken. “How’s your night going?”

“It’s already four years of my life I’ll never get back.”

I laughed and Drio grinned at me. Not his sadistic one. I clutched my heart in shock. “Careful, psycho. I might think you like me.”

I wiggled my fingers to lose the residual prickly tingling from Chill.

“Don’t worry. I don’t.” He leaned in, dropping the American accent. “Though I’m very curious about what you’re up to.”

“Pretensions of royalty. Power plays.” I looked up at the sky, in this ancient city spinning out before me and despite the circumstances, felt content. “Ever believe that life was going to work out exactly as you wanted?”

“No.”

“Me neither.” Not for a long time, anyway. I looked up ahead at Rohan and Samson. At their heads, one dark, one blond, as they chatted. “But I think for tonight, I just might.” I flipped a loose curl out of my eyes. “Back to work.”

I picked up the pace, intent on displacing Poppy. Should have brought dynamite.

Samson flicked me an unreadable look as I linked arms with his Douchebag minion. “Why, hello,” I drawled.

“Hey,” Douchebag replied, half his attention on a text.

Samson’s other minion, Jittery shot me a weaselly grin and a chin jerk.

I winked at him, then squeezed Douchebag’s bicep.

“Like what you see?” he leered.

“I bet you do your own stunts, don’t you?” This was said loud enough to carry.

Samson smirked, but Rohan, bless him, knew exactly what I was up to. He stopped dead in his tracks. “Lolita.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. Rohan dropped Poppy like a hot potato to fetch me. Yes, I’m just that amazing that rock gods fall over themselves to stay in my good graces. It took everything I had not to bust out laughing.

Poppy fell back with her friends, chattering brightly.

As we passed Samson, my place at Rohan’s side cemented, he acknowledged my play with a slow head tilt.

I lifted my chin and sailed on.

Samson’s pick of bar was slick, pretentious, and exclusive. Quelle surprise. I handed off my jacket at the coat check and waltzed inside, Rohan by my side. “Gawd. Too much blue lighting, too many high-gloss surfaces, too many high-gloss people,” I said.

“And here I had you pegged as such a lover of humanity,” Rohan replied.

“Thank you for understanding that when I say I don’t like people, I’m not doing it to make polite conversation.”

“You know that’s not actually considered polite conversation, right?” With a small head shake, he strutted off.

After taking a moment to imprint the image of his tight ass on my retinas, I headed straight to the bar, ordering a shot of vodka from the pouty androgynous bartender. Instinct told me that if Samson didn’t approach me here I’d played my hand wrong. I pushed down my anxiety, imagining myself as an empty vessel, filling with confidence. When that didn’t work, I knocked back my drink. The booze burned sharp and clear down my throat. I liked it better served cold and smooth, but maybe the bite was for the best.

“Get you another?” Samson appeared at my side. He could have graced any magazine cover in his fitted chocolate brown shirt that made his blue eyes pop. It left me cold. He crowded me into the bar with his wide-legged stance.

Your cock doesn’t take up that much room, sugar. I clamped my lips together so I didn’t say that out loud and nodded.

He got the bartender’s attention, pointing at my drink. “Interesting design you got there.” Said casually but his eyes were sharp on my sunburst. “What’s the story?”

Alea iacta est. With a mental finger-cross that this roll didn’t come up snake eyes, I kept my expression impassive, pulling my neckline down a bit more as if to better see the entire design for myself. I traced a finger around the rays, letting it linger a moment on my cleavage.

Samson only had eyes for the design.

“Ever heard of Louis XIV?” I asked.

“Wrestler, right?” He laughed at my dismay. “Kidding. I manage to break up my Hollywood lifestyle of hookers and blow with the occasional book.”

“Phew, because I had no way to politely lead you back from that level of ignorance.”

“Politely?” He sounded dubious.

“You got me. You were going to get a shit-ton of scathing.” Samson grinned at me and my knees went weak. Was I really that relieved that I was finally getting through to him?

“Okay, smartass,” I said, full up on males getting under my skin, “did you know this sunburst was his symbol? Louis was a pioneer in branding.”

The bartender slid my booze to me. Craving more of Samson’s smile, I wrapped my trembling hands around the drink. No mean feat with a shot glass.

“Put it on my tab,” Samson said.

The bartender gave a brusque nod, moving away to help another customer.

Samson leaned an elbow on the bar. “Let me guess,” he said. “You went to Versailles and realized there just wasn’t enough gilt in modern society.”

My heart caught in my throat. Guilt, as in, there needed to be more negativity in our world? No, wait, he meant the other gilt. The gold leaf one. Good catch, self. “Obviously. That and wallpaper. Really busy wallpaper.”

“Preferably covered in self-portraits?”

“See, you get it.”

His expression turned pensive. “I’ve been talking to my interior designer about that exact look for my new place. I’m thinking I’d rock portraiture.”

I laughed, relaxing. “I actually inherited Louis’ innate sense of style, being descended from the guy.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Samson said, motioning the bartender back over, “but I think Marie Antoinette gets the credit for that.”

“Fine, if you’re going to be technical about it.” I took a sip of my vodka. “One thing that was definitely all him, and that I can totally get behind, were his ideas on world domination. Pretty ballsy.”

Samson ordered a scotch for himself. “What’s your definition of world domination? Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition? Or no. You want to act.” He sounded disappointed.

“Dancer, actually. Total stage whore when it comes to performing.” The longing infusing my voice was real. “But that’s not my plan. I like to think of myself as a taste-maker. People want guidance on what to covet, how to be an early adapter to the newest trend in order to feel cool or relevant, and they want a seal of approval from someone they perceive as infinitely cooler.” I gave him a saucy wink. “That’s me.”

Samson clinked his glass to mine. “Got it.”

Bolstered by that small success, I continued. “My job is to show them that I’m the one they want in charge of their tastes and culture.” I shrugged. “I just need a larger platform.”

A boisterous shout of laughter came from across the bar, interrupting us. Rohan captivated a group with some story while Poppy stood as close to him as she could without Crazy Glue to keep her attached.

“Looks like my co-star is interested in following your lead,” King said, jerking his chin at Poppy. Co-star? Fuck me. “Unless of course, she’s there by private invitation.”

I gave a dismissive flap of my hand, refraining from pointing out that he was the one who’d pushed her into Rohan’s path to begin with. “Boys will be boys, and rock stars are definitely boys.” I felt like a traitor to my gender even uttering such inane bullshit.

Rohan caught my eye at that moment. I winked at him and he grinned back. Poppy went pinchy-faced.

“Like I said,” I told Samson with a smirk, “show them I’m the one they want in charge of their tastes.”

“Why Lolita,” Samson gasped, “and here I thought you were such a good girl.”

“Oh baby, I’m very good. You just don’t know me.” I put my back to him and knocked back my shot.

Samson pressed up behind me, speaking into my ear. “I stand corrected.”

I suppressed my shudder at the feel of his hard-on against my spine. Turning to face him, I pushed him back a few steps, tsking him.

“Maybe Rohan’s not the guy for you,” he said.

I arched an eyebrow.

“He turned his back on stardom. I find that kind of extreme behavior boring. So black and white when shades of gray make a much more interesting playground.”

I willed my racing pulse to slow. Did Samson suspect? Was this a veiled threat against all Rasha or a blatant erotica reference? I got nothing from his expression. Making sure not to let my apprehension show, I shrugged. “I’m not with him for his worldview.”

“What’s he been up to anyway?” He sipped his scotch, his casual expression at odds with his unwavering gaze. If Rohan hadn’t told me that he figured he was being set up, I’d have been insulted by Samson’s continued interest in Snowflake instead of me. “I know he said he took a break, did some traveling, but he was on top. You don’t walk away from that without a good reason or a scandal.” Samson leaned in conspiratorially. “I’ll take either.”

His reason had been becoming Rasha. Although, I agreed that Rohan shouldn’t have walked away from making music. I was so glad that even under duress and the fact this was a mission that he was connecting with his creative side again.

I could have tossed out that Rohan and I didn’t do a lot of talking and I didn’t know his reasons, but there was a weight behind the way Samson waited for my answer. “Fame fucked him up.” If he thought any less of Rohan for it, so be it. Snowflake had nothing to prove.

All the vodka after the wine with dinner was starting to make me wonky, and this verbal sparring without any solid lead was giving me a headache.

He tapped his finger twice on the bar. “Well, I only came over to tell you how much I liked your sun.”

“Thanks.” Pouring myself a glass of water from a carafe, I winked at him. “Shows you have good taste.”

He ran a hand over himself like a show model. “Obviously. But I also appreciate a good ball of flame.” He unbuttoned his cuff, rolling up his sleeve to reveal the tattoo on the inside of his elbow.

I gripped my water glass, excitement coursing through me. I’d seen Samson’s tattoos. Drio and Rohan had photos of them. They’d studied them trying to connect the designs with any known mythology, demon or otherwise. The designs they’d shown me were pretty generic. But what I was looking at now? A solid black circle sat in the middle of two concentric black rings. The outer ring acted as a frame for the twelve jagged spokes emanating from the center.

“That’s a sun? It looks like a swastika with too many arms,” I said, because that was true, too. It convinced me further this was a clue. Hitler had been fascinated with the occult and this stylized black sun fit the bill.

Samson stroked it. “I have no time for Nazis.” He sounded genuinely disgusted, but his phrasing was odd. As if they’d personally done something to offend him. Was Samson tied to both Louis XIV and Hitler? Too much guesswork, not enough hard proof. “Just got it done.”

I was so focused on committing the design to memory so I could tell Drio and Rohan about it, that I missed what he said next. “Sorry?”

He held his hand out to me. In his palm was a small red pill with a happy face on it.

“I don’t take candy from strangers.” I finished my water.

Samson pressed a hand to his heart with an exaggerated wince. “Strangers? After our chat? Our shared taste in home decorating? You wound me.”

“Poor baby. I’m not about to take a random pill that allows you to do God knows what to me.”

He broke it in half and popped one piece in his mouth. “Not to. With.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right. So I take the red pill and see how far the rabbit hole goes?”

He shot me a crooked grin. “More MDMA, less Matrix. Let’s see if you’ve got what it takes to intrigue.”

Ecstasy, huh? Leo and I had done our fair share. I wasn’t crazy about the touchy-feelies it would induce around him, but Rohan had said that some demons might reveal themselves under extreme emotion. The drug was brilliant for lowering inhibitions and creating intense emotional bonds with whoever you did it with. Plus, if I did intrigue, maybe I’d get to spend more time with him one-on-one.

It sucked that Rasha couldn’t communicate via a psychic hotline. I looked over at Rohan, willing him to sense my dilemma, but he was busy holding court, Poppy’s hand clamped on his arm like a wheel boot on a tire.

“Go big or go home, kitten.”

“Don’t call me ‘kitten.’” I swiped the other half and swallowed it.