The music pumped out of a couple dozen six-foot-high speakers, loud and drum-heavy; the bass was loud enough to shake the walls. The lights pulsed—all the colors of the rainbow plus blinding white, over and over—throwing the room into complete darkness for just a beat every thirty seconds or so. On the dance floor, a throng of people writhed and bumped, alone or together in twos and threes. The air smelled of sweat and booze, with an undertone of something Gabriel knew only he could smell: brimstone.

Leaning back against the bar, keeping to himself as he watched the dancers, Gabriel pretended not to see the goth princess scoping him out from across the room. She’d been standing on the edge of the dance floor for half an hour, waist-length black hair catching the flashing lights, looking at him like she was thirsty and he was a mirage. He’d been making bets with himself about whether she would come over.

He thought she was just about ready.

Sighing, he turned around and circled his finger over his empty glass. Rob pulled the bottle of Glenlivet down from the top shelf and poured an inch, then another when Gabriel merely raised an eyebrow.

“Everything okay?”

Gabriel shrugged and drained the glass with two swallows. “Okay as it ever is,” he said, and turned back to the dance floor.

Dancing, if one thought about it, was an awful lot like having sex—at least if you were doing it right. The palpable energy coming from the direction of the dance floor wasn’t as potent as what he might get from having a partner—dance or otherwise—but it fed a baseline need in him. It made it easy to resist the occasional overture from any woman who happened to get past the not-interested vibe he was very intentionally putting out.

And the vibe was sincere. He wasn’t interested in trolling for women—and if he were, he wouldn’t do it here, in his own place. Even a year ago, when he hadn’t known what he was, he’d known better than that.

And now? Unthinkable. It would call attention to his club, which would call attention to him.

His long-lost—and now, regrettably, found—mother would have relished whatever attention she could get; that was her way. But he wasn’t like Vivienne, and had no desire to be.

She’d swept into his life like a hurricane eighteen months before, and explained who and what he was. After that, he’d had as little to do with the opposite sex as he could manage … which was a lot harder than he’d expected. He was virtually irresistible to them, but it had nothing to do with him, with the Gabriel he’d been for almost all his life.

Since then, he took a woman on occasion, when nothing else would slake the need. But there was little joy in it beyond the momentary release. The thrill, as the saying went, was gone.

He missed it—that thrill—very much.

Speaking of women, the goth princess had finally worked up the courage to approach. She strolled across the floor toward him, trying to look casual. Even when he was projecting Leave me alone as hard as he could … they couldn’t.

“Hi,” she said. “How come you’re not dancing?”

He could tell she was pitching her voice low on purpose—trying to sound sexy, he supposed. And she was quite lovely, by any objective standard.

But so what?

He shrugged. “Don’t feel like it.”

She stepped closer, into his personal space. She wasn’t touching him yet, but if he didn’t stop her she would. “What do you feel like?”

He layered frost over his voice. “Nothing you’re selling,” he said.

She smiled slowly and lifted her eyes to his. There was real desire there; that pissed him off most of all.

“Oh,” she said, reaching out to trail a finger down the front of his shirt, “I’m not selling. Call it a gift.”

He caught her hand. “No, thanks.”

Her brow wrinkled. He thought she probably wasn’t used to being told no, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings over something she couldn’t possibly help. But in that moment, he just couldn’t stomach it anymore.

A handful of insults came to mind, cutting things he could say that would send her back out to the dance floor—maybe even out of the club—hurt or outraged.

But he couldn’t do it. She couldn’t help being drawn to him like a moth any more than he could help being the flame. It just was.

Weary of it, just suddenly so damn tired of it all, he turned his back on her and signaled Rob for another drink.

He could feel her, feel the emotions roll off of her. Shock, confusion, anger. Threaded through it all, a bright and shining streak of lust.

He’d calculated correctly, though, and after a few moments he felt her retreat back to the dance floor. When he could no longer sense her, he drained his drink and turned back around to resume watching the dancers.

She wouldn’t make another overture, and anyone who’d seen what had happened would steer clear as well. And he’d go home alone. Again.

Which was just what he wanted. Better to be alone than to live the lie he’d lived until a year ago.

So why did it make him feel so lost?