Following Clio down the dark streets, Lyre waited for his heart rate to slow. After three blocks, he would’ve figured he’d calm the hell down, but no. Adrenaline still coursed through his veins. Nothing like having a hundred dangerous Overworlders turn on you all at once to give the old heart a workout.

Amusement sparked amid his lingering anxiety and he swallowed another snicker at Clio’s reaction to his prostitute impersonation. He’d been worried her beet-red face would give them away, but he supposed anyone would be embarrassed by such a public reveal of their “indiscretions.” He was tempted to tease her about it more, but she was already in a huff.

Teasing her was just too much fun. He was glad that hadn’t changed. After what those succubi had done, he’d feared Clio would never smile for him again.

Later, he would acknowledge the dark pit of bitter rage and humiliation that burned deep inside him. Later, he would privately expunge the violence clinging to the edges of his mind, the sick desire to twist those succubi into broken corpses. Later, he would quell the simmering hunger that had been sucking at his mind and soul since entering the club.

As soon as they got back to their room, he was going to take the longest, coldest shower of his life.

Clio stalked down the middle of the street ahead of him, her arms wrapped around herself and hands tucked into the sleeves of her jacket as the wind howled between skyscrapers. The first few spatters of rain shone on the black leather. That little plant she’d bought was tucked in the crook of her arm and bobbed with each step.

Lengthening his stride, he fell into step beside her. She glanced at him, her full lips pressed into an annoyed pout. He filled his expression with exaggerated innocence, and those lips twitched as she fought back a smile.

“I was wondering,” he said, keeping his voice low so the wind wouldn’t carry it, “what’s with the plant?”

She glanced at the potted vine. “What about it?”

“Why did you buy it?”

“I thought buying something might soften up Sabir.” She frowned at the plant, then at him. “How did you know flirting with him would get better results?”

“How did you not know?” he asked with a laugh. “He was watching you long before you noticed him.”

Her frown deepened, doubt written all over her face. “Why was he so aloof at the start, then?”

“Because he has zero natural charm and no idea how to talk to women.”

“Hm.” She walked in thoughtful silence. “Did it bother you?”

“Huh?”

“Me flirting with another guy.” Her blue eyes widened in question. “In the club, you asked if I was jealous over you dancing with other girls. Were you jealous of me flirting with Sabir?”

He kept his expression neutral, but a hundred thoughts buzzed in his head, and he warned himself not to read into her question too much. “Nope.”

Was that a flicker of disappointment? She dropped her gaze before he could be sure. “Oh.”

He swung in front of her, forcing her to a stop. “If I’d thought even for a moment he might be competition, I would have been jealous.” Smiling down at her, he brushed his finger across her soft lips. “But I’m not worried about a guy like him stealing you away from me.”

Her eyes widened.

With an extra enthusiastic gust of wind, the clouds opened up. Icy rain swept over them and he grimaced. Lovely. He pulled Clio into the sheltered alcove of a boarded-up doorway. The rain fell in sheets, carried on the sporadic wind.

As she huddled beside him, the vine trembling with her shivers, he was secretly grateful the weather had interrupted him. Where exactly had he been planning to go after the part about not letting anyone steal her away from him? He closed his eyes. Only a few hours had passed since he’d assaulted her in a blind, lust-fueled rage. Why couldn’t he keep his damn mouth shut?

If he kept spouting stupid shit like that, she might think he was pretending to be in love with her or something. And that would only shatter her trust in him—whatever trust might remain—because no one would believe an incubus might be in love. Not even a naïve nymph.

Incubi couldn’t fall in love. Only in lust.

“Lyre? Are you okay?”

His eyes flew open to find her gazing up at him in concern. Shit. What expression had been on his face?

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. When she frowned, unconvinced, he cast around for a change of topic. “You never explained about the plant.”

“Yes, I did. I bought it to butter up Sabir.”

“No, I mean, why that plant? Surely he had something more useful for sale.”

“Well … yes, I suppose he did.”

“So why buy that one?”

She looked down at the plant. “I just thought …”

He canted his head, her hesitant tone surprising him. “Thought what?”

“Nothing.” Her shoulders curled inward. “I picked it randomly.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I figured it would be cheap. Would you just drop it?”

He almost did as she asked—but then he saw the pink tinge to her cheeks. She was blushing?

“Why won’t you tell me? Your reason can’t be that bad.”

She shook her head. “It was … just a silly …” She trailed off into an unintelligible mutter, the wrinkle in her forehead deepening.

“A silly what?” he coaxed. “I won’t make fun of you.”

“Yes, you will,” she mumbled.

“I won’t, I promise.”

He waited as the rain poured, filling the streets with dark puddles and washing away the persistent reek of the city. She stared at the ground, clutching the plant as she chewed on her lower lip.

“I picked this plant because …” She tried to start again, stopped, then spoke in a bare whisper. “I thought you might like it.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been that.

“Me?” His voice cracked on the word.

She hunched over the plant, her cheeks glowing. “I thought … I don’t know what things will be like for you after … but you’ll probably be living in cities like this, and they’re ugly with no grass or trees, so I thought … it’s medicinal and you can treat scrapes and cuts with it, and it’s a really hardy plant, so you won’t have to worry about it dying, and it’s small, so you can take it with you and … and I thought, you might have to move around a lot while you figure things out, and it would be comforting to have something familiar to bring with you … something to bring a little life to your … new …”

The rain continued to fall, the gurgling patter filling the silence between them. He stared at her, speechless, unable to form words. Unable to respond. He had no idea what to say.

No idea what to feel.

She peeked at him, then hunched a little more. “I know it’s stupid. You’ll have way too many important things to worry about and carrying a plant around will be a needless burden. It was a silly—”

“You picked it for me?” He hadn’t meant to interrupt her. The question had slipped from him, confusion and disbelief thick in his voice.

She looked at him properly, her brow furrowed. “Yes?”

He focused on the small vine as though seeing it for the first time. Its stem coiled elegantly around the supporting stick and pointed green leaves shimmered blue in the faint light. Small, plain, but with a quiet beauty.

He couldn’t quite take a real breath. Why did his chest hurt? What was this heavy weight rolling through him? She had picked out a plant to give him. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a plant—a living memento, a bit of life and warmth to take with him wherever he went. A gift that was special and meaningful to her and she hoped he would treasure.

Except she had convinced herself he wouldn’t want it, and she watched him with vulnerable eyes and a crease in her forehead, expecting rejection.

It took everything he had to hold still, to keep his hands at his sides, to resist the urge to reach for her. Because he didn’t know what he would do if he touched her. Because he wanted to touch her more than he’d ever wanted to do anything in his life.

He wanted to touch her, but not for his pleasure or hers. He wanted to touch her because something hot and painful had tightened in his chest and it hurt to breathe. He wanted to kiss her slowly, gently, to taste her and know her and forge a connection between them so he could understand this strange pain. He wanted to hold her and never let go.

He wanted her so badly, but in a way he’d never felt before. And he was afraid.

Without his conscious instruction, his hand rose toward her as though drawn by an invisible force—drawn as inexorably as if she could wield aphrodesia and he was caught under her spell.

His fingers brushed across her soft cheek, her skin warm from her blush and splattered with raindrops. His touch trailed lightly across the side of her face and his hand curled around the back of her neck. He ran his thumb along her jaw to the corner of her mouth.

He was going to kiss her. Even though he knew he shouldn’t. Even though it was stupid and dangerous for both of them. He couldn’t stop himself.

Before he could lean in, before he could capture her lips with his, a cold thrill ran down his spine and splintered into shards of ice. He stiffened, his instincts screaming at him.

They weren’t alone.

With his hand still cradling Clio’s neck, he strained his senses. The dark street stretched away on either side of them, obscured by the downpour, the irregular streetlights reflecting off the water and further obscuring his vision.

“Lyre?” Clio whispered, alarm sharpening her voice.

Focused on finding the threat, he didn’t answer. Fear skittered through him, growing stronger, edging into panic. He scanned the street again, searching for a sign of danger.

Then he saw it. Not hidden, but in plain view. Watching. Waiting.

At the end of the street, just within his reduced visibility, a dark figure stood. Feet set wide, the silhouette of weapons bulking his form, arms folded. Rain cascaded around the shadowed watcher, but he didn’t flinch. Waiting.

Waiting to be noticed.

Lyre’s heart hammered against his ribs. That silhouette was unmistakable, as was the arctic fear chilling his body.

Ash.

Ash had found them.

When Lyre’s attention fixed on him, the draconian assassin moved. He reached over his shoulder and drew a long, curved sword. Faint light gleamed across the blade as the daemon brought it to his side in a ready position. And waited.

Lyre’s fear cracked, crumbling away as his survival instincts took over.

Why was Ash waiting? Why reveal himself? Why sacrifice the element of surprise? If he’d attacked instead, he could have killed Lyre and Clio in a single strike without any risk to himself.

Why, Ash? He wanted to shout the words across the distance between them. He knew it wasn’t an invitation to talk or a truce—the drawn sword made that clear. Revealing himself wasn’t a meaningless gesture, nor was it misguided chivalry driving him to outwardly challenge Lyre instead of ambushing him.

There was no such thing as a fair fight for those who had learned to do battle in Hades’s training grounds. So what, then?

“Lyre?” Clio whispered again and started to turn.

Ash’s sword shifted, light flashing on the blade.

Lyre tightened his hand on Clio, holding her in place as cold understanding cut through him.

“Why do you need to find her?”

“Everything here is foul. This town. The daemons in it. Us. We’re black with the filth of this place. But she isn’t. And I can’t let them ruin her. I don’t want to see her end up like us.”

In his mind’s eye, Lyre could see the dark rooftop where they had exchanged those words just days ago. He remembered every word, every moment, and he knew Ash did too.

He and Ash harbored souls blackened by Asphodel’s darkness. But Clio didn’t.

Tightening his hold on Clio, Lyre steeled himself for the coming betrayal. He had no choice. He wouldn’t waste the chance Ash was giving him. Casting his weak emotions aside, he let instinct rule him. Sharp, calculating aggression swept through him.

He dropped his glamour.

As shimmers rippled over his body, Clio gasped. He caught her face with both hands, palms pressed to her cheeks. Touch.

He locked his eyes on hers. Eye contact.

“Clio,” he purred, using the hypnotic tones of his full incubus form. Voice.

And then he unleashed the full scope of his seduction magic.

She arched, mouth gaping open, pupils dilating. Touch, eyes, voice—the three conduits that heightened the power of his aphrodesia to their maximum level. His magic swept away her conscious will, leaving her helpless to his command.

“Run,” he ordered, power thrumming through his voice, his eyes, his touch. “Run straight to the metro station. Don’t stop. Don’t come back.”

She stared at him blankly, quaking beneath his magic.

He released her and stepped back. “Go!”

The flowerpot fell from her hands and shattered on the pavement. She launched into a breakneck run back down the street. She didn’t pause, didn’t look back, and in moments, she vanished around a corner, fleeing toward the metro station and the relative safety of the smugglers market.

Lyre exhaled slowly. He had told Clio that Ash would show no mercy, but this … this was his mercy. He had given Lyre a chance to save Clio.

Lyre glanced once at the vine, flattened by the rain, its broken pot scattered across the pavement and the downpour already washing the dirt away. He didn’t allow himself to feel, to hurt, to regret. He didn’t wonder if Clio would ever forgive him.

In all likelihood, he’d be dead before his aphrodesia wore off enough for her to realize what he’d done—and why.