And now there’s a room in Des’s home just waiting for me.

I feel like a fly caught in the Bargainer’s web. I’m playing right into his hand.

I went from a controlling man to a scheming one.

Des’s jaw tightens. “Callie—”

“Do you do this for all your clients? Force them to break ties with their boyfriends? Furnish a room in your house just for them?”

He steps up to me, his eyes bright with life. “I’m not doing this with you. Not tonight.”

“No, you won’t, will you?” I challenge. There’s fire in my veins, fire that’s been building from the moment Des reentered my life. “You’ll just run like you always do.”

He catches my face. “Does it look like I’m running, Callie? Does it look like I’m trying to leave your side?”

“But you will,” I say fervently.

How did this conversation become me airing my own insecurities?

“You want to speak truths,” he says hotly, “here’s one for you: this isn’t about the dog, this is about us.”

“Will you stop calling Eli that?” I say.

The Bargainer releases my face and squints down at me. “You defend him even now?”

“He still means something to me.” And I hurt him. Deeply.

A muscle in Des’s cheek feathers.

The Bargainer steps in close, his lips curling up in a sardonic smile. “You have over three hundred favors to repay me. By the time we’re done, you will realize that Eli and all those other men were just a dissatisfying dream. That this, and only this, is real.”

Chapter 11

January, seven years ago

I lay back on my bed and play with my bracelet. “Do all your clients get bracelets?” ask the Bargainer. I smirk at the thought of some criminal with his dainty string of black beads.

Leaning his back against the foot of my bed, Des flips through the Magic & Science magazine he picked up from my bedside table.

“Nope.”

I hold my wrist up to the light, twisting it this way and that, trying to get my overhead light to reflect against the polished beads; it seems instead like the beads absorb the light deep into them.

“What do your other clients get?” I ask.

Des flips another page. “Tats.”

I sit up. “Tats? They get tats?” Absently my eyes move to the two Venetian masks hanging on my wall that Des and I picked out in Venice—one with the beaked bill of a plague doctor and the other with the painted face of a harlequin.

“Why didn’t I get a tattoo?” I ask. The bracelet that a moment ago I thought was so cool now seems like a lame substitute.

The Bargainer closes the magazine and set it aside. “Do you want a tattoo instead?”

“Of course,” I say absently, missing the warning note in his voice.

A tattoo would be so much edgier than a flimsy bead.

Des turns himself so that he’s facing me at the foot of my bed.

And then he climbs onto it.

The Bargainer is prowling up my bed—and up me while he’s at it.

I can’t breathe. I legit don’t think I can breathe.

The dangerous look in his eyes shuts down all coherent thought. This might be the moment when our relationship goes from a strange sort of friendship to something more.

I’m so frightened of that possibility. I’m so eager for it.

He straddles my waist, his powerful, leather-clad thighs trapping me between him. Leaning down, he takes my hand, the one that isn’t wearing the bracelet.

My heart’s going to escape my chest. It’s galloping away like crazy. I’ve never been this close to Des. And now I’m pretty sure I’m never going to be satisfied until it’s natural to be this close with him.

My skin begins to glow, and Des is kind enough to ignore the fact that I’m pretty much turned way the hell on.

He runs a palm along my wrist and my forearm. Beneath his touch, inked tally marks appear on my skin, rows and rows of them. “You would rather have this than beads?” he asks.

I drag my attention away from Des to get a better look at the markings.

They’re … ugly. Vile in a way I’ve never considered a tattoo to be.

“You can wear my ink on your skin,” he says, his voice coaxing. “Just say the word, and I’ll transfer it all over. It won’t even cost you a bead.”

Des waits for me to answer. When I don’t, the markings fade until they disappear altogether.

“That’s what I thought.” He releases my hand and pivots himself off of me. Resituating himself against the foot of my bed once more, he picks up the magazine and resumes flipping through it. “I’m not going to mark you up like some common criminal,” he says over his shoulder, “and you shouldn’t want that anyway. The Politia looks for that kind of thing. They’d have an aneurism if they saw a teenage girl with over a hundred marks.”

“Why?” I ask, holding the wrist he just touched. “Is that unusual?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment, but I can tell by his stillness that he’s no longer reading.

Finally, he tosses the magazine aside and stands. He runs a hand through his hair, avoiding my eyes. “I need to go.”

That’s all the warning I get before he turns on his heel and heads to my door.

“Wait!” I scramble to my feet and grab his arm. As usual, a small thrill runs through me at the contact. “Don’t go, please.” Without meaning to, I’ve begun to glow in earnest now, my glamour accidentally slipping into my voice.