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The taste of her was intoxicating. When she parted Max’s lips with her tongue, a groan rose in his throat, his cock stiffening in his pants.

By the time he broke the kiss, she was out of breath. “Nothing, hey?” he breathed, the words fanning her mouth. His gaze drifted down her body…

And narrowed at what he saw.

Dallas was fully clothed in tight blue jeans and a black leather jacket that showed her midsection—and the jewel sparkling in her belly button.

Not appropriate attire for a place as dangerous as Angelthene’s black market.

“What are you wearing?” He stepped back and pulled his shirt over his head.

She threw up her hands in confusion. “Jeans and a jacket—what does it look like I’m wearing?”

“That’s not a jacket, that’s a garbage bag you shrunk in the wash.” He didn’t deny that it looked good on her—too good. “You’re not wearing that to the Umbra Forum.”

“Garbage bag?” she spat.

He made for the nightstand and grabbed his wallet and keys.

“Garbage bag?” she said again.

“Put another jacket on or you’re not coming,” Max said. “Those are my conditions.” Anyplace other than the Umbra Forum and he wouldn’t care—would welcome any sexy outfit she put on. But there? No way. Not when he had more important things to do than rip people apart for leering or trying to touch her. Clearly, she had gotten a little too comfortable with going to places like the Umbra Forum, and it was comfort that got you killed.

She mumbled to herself before stomping into the closet and yanking one of Max’s hooded sweatshirts off the hanger.

“Garbage bag,” she said one last time. But she took off the leather jacket and slipped into the baggy sweatshirt instead.

Maximus chuckled and swung open the bedroom door.

“‘It’s Witching Hour Somewhere’,” Dallas read as she and Maximus passed by the many neon signs leading to the Butcher’s office at the Umbra Forum. She snorted a laugh and smiled up at him. “That’s a good one. I’m going to use that on you the next time I want a cocktail at nine a.m.”

Max chuckled. “Then you’ll be getting no sympathy from me when you get knocked on your ass with a wicked hangover.”

They stopped at the Butcher’s closed door, and Max pounded a fist against the chipped wood.

“Who is it?” grumbled a familiar voice.

“Your favorite Devil,” Max crooned.

The Butcher stomped to the door and swung it open. “That’d be Darien, but you’re a close second, Maxy.” He stepped aside and beckoned them in with a large hand. “Have a seat.”

Max stepped into the cramped room that was choked with Boneweed smoke. He angled one of the chairs for Dallas, and she sat down, pushing back her too-long sleeves.

The Butcher smiled in approval. “Chivalry, I like it.” He shut the door, lumbered across the room, and threw himself into the chair on the other side of the desk, nearly snapping it under all seven feet of him. “We waiting for anyone else?” He reached behind him to grab a laptop off a filing cabinet.

“Just Dominic and Blue, but we can start now,” Max said. The Angel and his blue-haired sweetheart had slept for longer than they’d meant to.

The Butcher opened the laptop on the desk, and soon the clicking of keys filled the room.

Max drummed his fingers on the armrests of his chair. “Tell me you found something.”

“Patience, Maxy.” A few clicks more, and the Butcher spun the laptop around so they could see the screen. “Here’s your rental.”

Max leaned forward. “Foxhill Rentals?” he read.

The Butcher opened the left desk drawer, took out a joint, and lit it with a lighter that was shaped like a naked woman. “That’s the one.”

The door opened behind them, and one of the Butcher’s men appeared in the doorway.