Samson let the champagne bottle fall to the floor. It was just about empty, but a few drops settled onto the lush backseat carpet, staining it. “You’ve gotten awfully quiet, Lolita. In my experience that means that women are thinking about me in all the wrong ways.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I’m positive that is not one of the many adjectives applied to me.”

“This oughta be good. Please. Enlighten me.” I tipped back the rest of my drink.

“Charming. Gorgeous. Witty. Insanely talented.”

I gasped. “You read your fan sites. I knew it.”

He covered his face with one hand. The other one, still holding the champagne glass, he raised in the air. “Guilty as charged.”

I’d intended to blind Samson by my light but I was remembering why we mere mortals weren’t supposed to fly too close to the sun. Even this brief exposure to his undivided attention had left me dizzy, with feverish chills. First-degree emotional sunburn.

Still, that didn’t conclusively make him a demon because I suspected that near proximity to Theo James, especially if he spoke in his normal British accent would have the same effect.

Brickie opened the door, revealing a swank-looking steak house. I welcomed the rush of cool night air as I stepped onto the sidewalk.

Samson pressed a hand to my cheek. “Looking a little flushed.”

I swallowed, scrambling to pull myself together. “Don’t try to distract me. I’m pondering your terrible tastes so that I may rescue you from yourself.”

He spread his arms wide as if daring me to try.

“Black silk sheets.” I pointed at him. “No. Satin. With mirrored ceiling tiles.” I clattered up the walk to the steak house.

“Wow. You think that I–Wow.” He held the door open for me. With a smirk, I ducked inside the restaurant that he had booked expressly for our private use. Chandeliers cast warm light over dark wood and crisp white linens.

Our waiter took our coats, pulled out my chair, and brought us more champagne all with perfect aplomb. Just as I was thinking that I needed good help like that, he placed my meal before me. The meal I hadn’t yet ordered.

“I was thinking I’d start by seeing a menu,” I joked.

“I ordered for you.” Samson unfurled his napkin. “Châteaubriand in case you mistakenly slummed it with T-bone.”

Subtle. I pressed my hand to my heart. “Now who wounds?” I slugged back another glass of champagne in order to muster up an appropriate level of enthusiasm for the bloody hunk of meat on my plate, topped with two dollops of green foam.

It looked like a demon kill, not dinner.

Samson dug into his steak with relish. “I wasn’t wrong about your tastes, was I?”

“Not at all.” I eyed the offensive slab, finding a less raw edge to saw at. “Only the best for me.”

“Glad to hear it because if you sign with my management company, we’ll have some spin to do on your image.”

“Such as?”

He laid down his knife. “I’m gonna be blunt. Being Rohan’s groupie is not going to inspire anyone to follow you.”

I snapped a breadstick in half. “Oh?”

“Is that a touchy subject? I heard you two had a fight. And, well,” he placed his hand on mine. “It’s worse if you’re only his former groupie. We have a lot of work cut out for us.”

My face turned hot and tight. Poppy sure knew how to use that mouth of hers. “Not sure where you got your information, but Rohan and I are fine.” Other than me wanting to smack him upside the head. “Also, you’re wrong.” Without even looking the waiter’s way, I held up my champagne glass, expecting it to be refilled. “I’m not his groupie.”

Samson leaned back, a look of pity on his face.

I took a ladylike sip, enjoying the sensation of cold fizzy liquid. “I’m lightning girl.”

“I don’t understand.”

“‘Toccata and Fugue.’”

“Rohan’s first hit,” Samson said. I raised an eyebrow and waited for him to make the connection. “He wrote it about you?”

“Ask him.”

“Oh, I will.” There was something cruel in his smile.

Sweat broke out along the back of my neck.

There was no bill to settle up. Samson threw his napkin down and the meal was over. Still unnerved, I was about to make some excuse to end the evening when he said, “Wait,” busy typing a text.

“We’re meeting up with Rohan.” He stood up.

Awesome. I shoved my chair back.

Brickie once again drove us to our destination. So far, I’d seen no sign of Samson’s security detail. Maybe Brickie was deterrent enough since the restaurant had been empty save for the staff.

This time, there was no chit chat on the ride. Samson watched music videos and I stared out the window into the night, breathing my way through the remnants of feeling humiliated and trying not to dwell on Rohan’s potential reaction when he heard what I’d said.

A sign on the cigar bar that we pulled up to announced the establishment closed due to a private party. I had no idea how Rohan had found this gathering but having seen Samson’s choice of party last night, I prayed this was more sedate. If not, I’d stick with Drio and–Hell was officially freezing over if that was my upside.

Two hipsters at the front of the line were haggling with the bouncer. “This is shite,” one pronounced in a thick Irish accent. “Poppy assured us we were on the guest list. Check again.”

Poppy? This was her party? I didn’t think my eyebrows could rise any higher.

“Mr. Mitra set the guest list,” the bouncer told him.

Nope. My eyebrows climbed another inch. This was Rohan’s party.

Hipster number two laughed. “Knowing Pops, she’s calling the shots. Check again, man. My bollocks are freezing off.”

I shoved past the pair, finding myself momentarily blocked by the muscle in Tom Ford. He could cross his arms all he wanted. No one was stopping me from getting inside. Pointedly I swung my head between him and Samson.

A beat, then recognition crossed over the bouncer’s features and he scrambled to let us through.

I sailed in, head held high.

“That Poppy,” Samson chuckled from behind me, loud enough to hear over the Latin jazz pumping out through the speakers.

As I glanced back at him, I’d swear his eyes twinkled. My fingers dug into my clutch.

From the mismatched leather vintage furniture to abstract silver flash art stenciled on the walls and the neon-illuminated cigar collection taking up one wall, it was a pretty cool space. The crowd was boisterous, bright eyed, and hammered. Lots of loud laughter, lots of touching.

I couldn’t wait to find Poppy and Rohan and make my night complete. I tossed my coat on a chair as someone grabbed my elbow. I tensed thinking it was Rohan, but it was Drio, an uncharacteristic edginess in his stance.

“Oh good, it’s you,” I said, beyond caring that this was totally weird. He wasn’t Samson and he wasn’t Rohan and that was good enough for me.

“Whatever happens tonight,” he said, “understand that–”

“My man.” Samson joined us, fist bumping Drio.

My fellow Rasha snapped back into his laconic persona. “Dude, we can finally get the party started. Come on. Ro’s back here.” He barreled into the crowd, Samson and I right behind him.

The sight of Rohan, flushed and sitting on a high barstool under a funky glass lighting fixture holding a highball of whiskey, sent my pulse into overdrive.

The sight of Poppy’s fingers messing his hair up made me see red. I could have accepted this from Lily. But her? If a blowjob came with personal property rights then I owned every acre of him by now, and there was no such thing as squatter’s rights in this universe.

Rohan grinned at Samson’s appearance. “All hail the esteemed Samson King.” Rohan held up a glass in salutation. He shot the booze back, slamming the glass on the table where it joined a half dozen others, then swaggered off his chair, a flash of something I couldn’t name in the brief glance he spared me.

“Sit down, love,” Poppy said.

Rohan grabbed her around the waist, speaking low into her ear.

My mouth fell open.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have come,” Samson murmured. Demon or psychopath, the son-of-a-bitch was getting off on my discomfort. Or, more accurately, the hateful thoughts I directed his way for having brought me here. The more I seethed, the more he relaxed. The more space he took up. It was like he was inflating right before my very eyes. Not in a physical way, more on a psychic or subconscious level. His eyes had an extra sparkle; his skin glowed with vitality. The release of my bitterness worked on him like a spa treatment.

How annoyed would Rohan and Drio be if I ended him right now? Except, I couldn’t even bring myself to do that. I had this low grade urge to keep giving to him. My gut screamed at me that this was all the proof we needed, but I steeled myself to play it smart. This could simply be a master manipulator at work, in which case this was head games, my buttons being pushed by a pro, and proof of shit. Much as I burned to blast Samson and see what happened, I couldn’t take the chance I’d be killing a human.

“I’m here to enjoy myself,” I assured Samson.

“Celebrate with me.” Rohan threw an unsteady hand over King’s shoulder. Snowflake was smashed and I didn’t think he was faking this time.

Samson laughed and any mild hold on me snapped. “What are we celebrating?” He plucked a couple of highballs off a tray, handing a glass back to me.

I slugged back half its contents in one go before passing it off to another waiter.

“I’m signing with you.” Leading Samson back to the table with a swagger, Rohan snapped his fingers at Drio.

I tensed, waiting for Drio to punch his Royal Imperiousness but he produced two cigars, tips already cut, which he handed over along with a lighter.

Rohan patted his cheek.

Samson took the proffered cigar. “Glad to hear it. You’ll be on top of the world again in no time.”

I had to warn Rohan about that, about everything Samson was up to, but Rohan’s new-found posse closed in on him, leaving me on the outside. I elbowed a couple of men aside and shoved my way into the inner circle.

Samson held out a hand to me, puffing away, and I joined him. Lazy circles of spicy-sweet smoke drifted upward.

Poppy and I eyed each other. She smirked like she knew I’d rather switch places with her, then made herself comfortable on Rohan’s lap. He didn’t push her onto the ground in a quivering heap. Nope, he ran his hand over her arm in long, lazy strokes as he chatted with Samson about record ideas.

Rapid-acting syphilis. It had to be eating away at his brain because What. The. Hell. Rohan would never let anger and control games endanger a mission and whatever was going on here tonight was so off our game plan I felt blindsided.

His fury over the photos hadn’t been an act. Was he using that as an excuse to publicly ostracize me as a way for me to get closer to Samson or had I really been banished on both a personal and Rasha level?

If it was the latter scenario, he wasn’t going to sideline me that easily.

“Share?” I batted my eyelashes at Samson and he handed the cigar over for me to take a puff. There was one herb I liked smoking and this fell far short, but it was a great way to call attention to my mouth.

Poppy narrowed her eyes and I could tell she wished she’d thought of that move.

Both guys watched my slow suck. Head tilted up, I looked skyward through half-lidded eyes, as if focused on the pleasure of this moment. The angle actually allowed me to see both Samson and Rohan. Samson looked amused.

Rohan brushed Poppy’s hair aside to whisper into her ear. She laughed.

Exhaling a perfect smoke ring, I handed the cigar back to Samson. My coy smile hid my teeth grinding.

Samson patted my ass.

“Looks cozy,” Rohan joked.

I examined my nails like they were the most fascinating sight in the world, willing my magic to quit crackling under my skin before it erupted.

Samson took a deep puff, his hand still resting on my butt. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Rohan shrugged. “Plenty more.” He winked at three women standing nearby, who preened under his attention. “Like shooting fish in a barrel.”

“That’s rather rude,” Poppy said.

Rohan raised his eyebrows. “No one’s forcing you to stick around.”

T-Roy, on Rohan’s left, laughed and tried to fist bump him, but Rohan left him hanging. The normally jittery minion pulled up his pants with the first show of swagger I’d seen from him. “Gettin’ a drink.” He hunched his shoulders and scurried off.

Poppy swallowed any feminist objections and stayed put. Big surprise.

Rohan’s behavior was so excessive, and so unlike him, that it had to be an act. But as soon as I convinced myself of that, my inner devil’s advocate argued that he was drunk. Cue the lowered inhibitions and bad tendencies. What if he’d fallen back into the worst of his rock star ways? I glanced at his heart tattoo, its edge visible on his left bicep under his shirt sleeve. His reminder of what fame had done to him and who he’d become. The knives were coming out and maybe he was lost to them.