The ballroom was a stage, and I knew my role well.

  I moved through the crowd as the picture of effortless grace, champagne in hand. My smile was perfectly measured, warm enough to be inviting, sharp enough to remind them who I was. Every movement, every glance, every carefully placed response was deliberate. The guests were trainers, businessmen, fellow members of the Owners Council, all here for the same thing: indulgence and the affirmation of power. And as their host, I had to play along.

  I lifted the glass to my lips, swallowing down the last of the champagne. Of course, it was the expensive kind, the smooth kind, that barely left a trace on its way down. At least the cheap stuff would have stung, given me something to focus on other than the restless energy gnawing at the edges of my patience. My fingers found the rim of the glass, tracing absent patterns in the condensation as I scanned the room. A passing waiter barely had time to pause before I plucked another glass from his tray. Too fast. Again. But the dull warmth wasn’t enough to quiet the simmer beneath my skin.

  Joy’s stage was the fighting ring. She bled for the crowd, danced in the sand under torchlight, and walked away after the performance was done. Mine was here, in my own home, where the act never ended. There were nights I envied her for that. For the simplicity of it.

  I moved through the crowd, laughing at a passing joke, something about a trainer’s latest acquisition, another promising young fighter. The words barely registered. I nodded at the right moments, smirked when expected, my focus already moving elsewhere. A cluster of council members stood nearby, deep in discussion about an upcoming auction. One of them flicked a hand, barely sparing me a glance. “House Velez turns out strong fighters, Jacobi has a way of knowing how to buy them.”

  No mention of Selwyn and the work he does. There never was. No one hunting him down at these events, no one expecting him to stay until all hours of the morning. And I knew, if he’d shown his face already, he was likely gone before the first toast had even finished. The thought twisted in my ribs. The freedom of being overlooked. I sometimes envied him too, more than I cared to admit.

  The ballroom was filled with the quiet hum of conversations weaving between the indulgent displays around the room. A guest ran the tines of a fork along a demon’s bare collarbone, watching for a reaction that never came. Another reached for a grape nestled just above a bare hip, plucking it free. The demon didn’t shudder. Didn’t tense. Another test, a show of control.

  Elsewhere, others stood like statues, posed deliberately, their expressions absent, their bodies unmoving no matter how many fingers trailed over their skin, no matter what was being whispered against their ears. Silent. Controlled. A living testament to their owners’ mastery.

  Demons knelt at the feel of several guests, curled neatly in their designated places. Some leaned against their masters’ legs, idly fed bites of fruit and sips of wine like cherished pets. Others remained statuesque, waiting for permission to move. Lap decorations. Status symbols.

  And yet, they watched me.

  I had built this. Designed it, curated it, make sure every inch of my estate reflected my control. Yet, wasn’t I just as much a performer as Joy?

  A woman in a deep emerald gown caught my arm, her fingers light on my sleeve.

  “Jacobi, always so busy. Tell me, have you saved a dance for me?”

  I smiled, the response coming easily. “For you, my dear, I could always make the time.”

  She laughed, batting her lashes, but I was already slipping away. Not tonight. Not with Marcelo’s demands a weight in the back of my mind. Not with Joy still absent from the floor, holding herself away from the inevitable.

  The hand on my shoulder was heavy, clawed fingers pressing against the fabric of my jacket, nearly indistinguishable from the black velvet.

  “Wynford!” I turned, a genuine smile coming to my face as I clasped the demon’s forearm. The handshake was brief, punctuated by Wynford’s hearty backslap, which I exaggerated with a wince. “Careful. Unlike you, I wasn’t built for this kind of pain.”

  Wynford’s grin was wide, his golden eyes bright with amusement. “Perhaps you should finally step into the ring, Velez. Let’s see how much pain you can actually handle.”

  I chuckled, shaking my head. “I prefer pain to be precise, sharp, and only ever inflicted by me, not on me.”

  Wynford clapped me on the back again with a laugh, “Let me take Joy off your hands, Velez. We both know she was never meant for a leash. She’s a fighter, not a decoration.

  A small crowd had gathered at Wynford’s booming voice. This wasn’t the first time we’d played this game, debating Joy’s fate like a sport, neither of us ever willing to concede. In truth, Wynford was just here for the party, eager to visit the demons at my estate that he rarely saw outside of the fights, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take any opportunity to stir the pot. Wynford always enjoyed a good argument, especially when it came to Joy.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  I tilted my head, as if in deep thought. “Well, the auction at Larrier’s Spring Festival is coming up. Perhaps I should put Joy up for sale, see who here has the heaviest purse.”

  Laughter rippled through the crowd, champagne-clouded eyes alight with the promise of competition. I smiled behind the rim of my glass as I took another slow sip, watching the anticipation spark in their dulled glazes.

  But one man was not laughing.

  The moment I acknowledged him, he stepped forward.

  I had used too many excuses in the past. He wasn’t giving me another chance to slip out of this deal.

  Marcelo’s voice slid through the air like a violin bow drawn taut against the string, thin, cutting, precise. “I do hope you are not speaking in jest, Chairman Velez. Such opportunities should be available to all who can afford them.”

  I forced a smirk, the performer in me moving faster than my dread. “Marcelo,” I greeted smoothly. I’d be damned before I called him by his title. “I didn’t take you for a man so concerned with fairness.”

  Marcelo’s lips twitched at the corners, but never full curved, as if the effort of real amusement was beneath him, or as if I was. “I deal in value, Chairman. And from what I hear, your little pet has quite the reputation. Shame to let something so desirable go to waste.”

  The urge to crush the champagne flute in my grip was overwhelming, but I pushed it down. I forced my fingers to relax. There had to be another way to keep him away from Joy. Another excuse, or delay. I straightened slightly, letting my voice carry over the murmur of the crowd. “Unfortunately, with Joy’s fainting spell earlier, I’m sure you all saw or heard, she may not be in any condition to accompany anyone tonight.”

  Marcelo swirled his glass, watching the slow drag of amber liquid against the crystal. He tilted his head toward one of the other owners, as if including them in a private joke. “Injured? If she’s already weakened, all the better. Less effort for me to break her down tonight. Saves me time, really. More time to make sure she knows what a real owner is like.”

  “You always did prefer taking shortcuts, Marcelo. It’s almost impressive how little patience you have for the finer things in life.”

  “Funny, coming from a man whose ‘quality’ seems to spend more time bleeding on the floor than standing upright.” He took a slow sip of his drink, tilting his head slightly. “But I suppose that’s the real difference between us. I don’t mind a bit of mess, so long as I get what I want.”

  I tightened my grip on the glass, the stem pressing hard against my fingers until—snap. A clean break.

  The stem sheared away in my grasp, but I didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t look down. The expectant silence from the gathered guests, the weight of Marcelo’s smirk, the pulse of my own anger pressing against my ribs, those were the only things that mattered.

  I pressed my thumb into the jagged edge, sharp and precise. This was pain I could measure, control. Marcelo’s words pushed against the surface, trying to sink in, but I didn’t let them. I couldn’t speak, not yet. Not without losing more than just my temper.

  Then, a streak of crimson slipped between the guests, weaving effortlessly through the crowd.

  Ellah.

  The silk of her party dress, the exact dark red of her skin, hugged her petite frame. She barely came up to my shoulder, but she carried herself as if she towered over the entire room. Her red eyes gleamed with amusement, already alight with whatever scheme she was about to pull.

  “There you are, Boss!”

  She twirled her way toward me, silk flaring at her ankles, before dipping into a too-graceful bow.

  “You weren’t going to make me entertain all these lovely guests on my own, were you?”

  I shot her a warning look, but Ellah was nothing if not relentless.

  She turned to the gathering, her voice lifting in a playful hum.

  “I do believe we’re missing our most anticipated guest,” Ellah said smoothly. “Or is she waiting for a grander entrance?”

  She sighed dramatically, placing a hand over her heart.

  “Or did she just decide she had better things to do?”

  She let the words settle, then turned her gaze directly to Marcelo, her red eyes sharp, unreadable.

  “Now that would be scandalous.”

  I clenched my jaw, resisting the urge to rub my temples. Ellah lived for chaos, but I knew what she was doing. Buying me a moment, pulling attention away from Marcelo, giving me the slimmest chance to regain control.

  Before Marcelo could respond, Wynford shifted, stepping between us with an easy, indulgent grin.

  “Now, now, gentlemen. This is a party, not a council meeting. But if we must talk business, let’s at least make it entertaining. Chairman Levanth, I hear you’ve been busy. Tell us about that new stable of yours.”

  He clapped Marcelo on the shoulder, steering him away with the force of presence alone.

  Marcelo’s eyes flicked toward me, irritation creeping beneath his usual smug veneer. He knew exactly what Wynford was doing. So did I.

  Ellah took full advantage of the moment. She looped her arm through mine, a bright smile on her lips, tugging me smoothly away from the gathered guests.

  “Boss, Joy is still upstairs. Stalling, obviously.”

  She led me through the shifting bodies with a practiced ease, making it seem like nothing more than a casual retreat.

  I exhaled sharply, rolling my shoulders, forcing my muscles to loosen, though tension coiled tight beneath the surface. “Of course she is.”

  “Can you blame her? This isn’t exactly her scene, and she’ll have heard Marcelo’s voice.”

  Before I could respond, Ellah’s fingers brushed mine.

  She didn’t longer, just long enough to slip the broken glass pieces from my grasp.

  “Tsk, Boss. It’s dangerous to hold onto things too tightly. Or to hold onto things that are broken.”

  She tucked the shards away without a second glance, just another mess to clean up.

  “Go get her, Ellah. Now.”

  Her red eyes flicked up to mine, a knowing smirk teasing the edges of her lips.

  “On it, Boss. But you owe me for being your best little problem solver tonight.”

  One moment she was beside me, the next she was slipping through the crowd, a flash of silken red, faster than any human could move.

  I pressed my fingers together where I’d held the glass.

  If she stayed upstairs, I wouldn’t have to let her go yet.

  But the choice wasn’t mine anymore.

  This was beyond what either of us wanted now.