Page 10 of Claimed
I take a long drink from my glass and the alcohol deadens my senses. It’s almost a relief to not feel my power. “Relax, angel boy. We just got into town,” I tell him as I turn and walk to one stiff sofa. I sprawl on the leather. “I haven’t made enough ruckus yet to garner their attention. But I’m working on it.”
He peers at me. “What are you planning? A fucking orgy?”
Glass against my mouth, my lips tug into another smile. “Why, Horan, you read my mind.”
“Are you serious right now?” He rounds on me. “We don’t have time for your demon games.”
A sound knock raps over the door. I look at him and prop my feet on the coffee table. “I wonder who that could be?”
He rolls his eyes and motions for me to stay. “No. Wait. I’ll get it.” His tone is sardonic. Dry.
I recline back in my seat and smirk as he steps into the narrow hallway.
A soft feminine voice answers his sharp question. There is a pause, and high heels click over the marble.
The woman is older with a tight bun and a crisply pressed pant suit. She stops at the sight of me. “Mr. Démone?”
I force myself not to laugh.
I have never held a surname, but to get a license in the infernal human world, I had to have one. The slight play on my last name always tickles me.
“Yes?”
The woman extends a midnight envelope. “This was delivered to the front desk for you.”
Horan slips up beside her and plucks the parcel from her fingertips. She gives him an annoyed look. Clad in his threadbare white tee and old over-washed jeans, he does not scream hired help.
Ruffian or homeless, sure.
“Thank you, sweets,” I tell the woman as I prowl around the coffee table toward them. She flushes. I take the envelope from Horan. “That will be all.”
She inclines her head, turns on her sensible heels and walks out, closing the door behind her.
Horan grumbles, “What is it?”
I open the envelope and pull out a thick sheet of crème cardstock. Rust colored writing curls over the front in a bold hand. I hold the card away as I stare at the time and address.
He peers over my shoulder. “Is that … human blood?”
My lips curl in disgust. “You all wanted to get into the dark market. Not sure what you expected, really.”
He tugs his cell phone from his pocket again. “Least this means you don’t have to throw a stupid party.”
Setting the envelope and card onto the table, I reclaim my drink and raise a brow. “Now why on earth would you think that? I have an image to uphold.” My eyes rake over him, making him stiffen. “And before we enter the auction tomorrow, you will need to match the persona I need to embody.”
His expression sours. “I don’t want to be anything like you.”
I tsk him. “Now, now. None of that. Remember, Markus has given me full leeway on this.” Walking to him, I scour his jeans and the oh so sparse weave of his shirt. Meeting his gaze, I smile. “Tell me, Horan. How do you feel about black?”
By nightfall, the suite is wall to wall with scantily clad men and women. As I stand on the roomy balcony, I let my gaze devour hard muscle, pert breasts, and skin as the humans dance in the main room. Synthesized sex mixes with alternative rock, adding a hunger to every face.
The glass door opens and Horan steps up beside me, his anger flavoring my tongue. Clad in slacks and a ruby-red button up under the new blazer, he could pass for a wealthy businessman. “Your depravity knows no bounds,” he hisses.
I clap him on the shoulder and his glower is scorching. “Oh ye of little faith,” I tell him.
He wrenches from under my touch. “My faith is none of your business.”
I don’t remind him that since he is fallen, he has no faith. Then again, maybe to an angel, faith means something different.
