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Turning away from the canvas propped up against the breakroom wall, Tobe smiled at her, his blue eyes twinkling. “It’s amazing. Moody. Striking. An absolutely perfect replica. Take a fucking bow.”

Naomi Chamberlain felt her lips curve up. “I already did. Twice.” She shrugged at the three imps in front of her, adding, “I’m humble that way.”

Chugging down more of her coffee, she cast the landscape painting a quick look. The artist of the original was on the level of Monet and Picasso, but Naomi had always had a knack for re-creating any drawing or painting she laid eyes on—even as a child.

“No art appraiser would ever guess that this wasn’t an original,” Ciaran declared. “Not that any will ever see it. This is for a client’s personal collection.”

“I don’t know why he collects fakes,” said Lachlan, scratching at his salt-and-pepper hair. “Most people hire us to steal originals.”

“He has no genuine art in his collection, only fakes,” Tobe told the older imp. “He keeps it all in a vault in his basement.”

Alarm bells going off in her head, Naomi tipped it to the side. “And how would you know?”

Lachlan leaned into Tobe, his tall figure towering over him by a few inches. “Don’t answer that,” he muttered.

She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t break into it, did you?”

“Don’t answer that either,” Lachlan told him.

Tobe shot her a disbelieving look, managing to appear offended by her question. He folded his toned arms over his equally defined chest. “Do you honestly think that I’d consider breaking into not only the home but the vault of a human honest-to-God mobster?”

“Yep, totally,” she replied, under no illusions about him.

Tobe could be described as many things—including a thief, liar, card shark, embezzler, seller of counterfeit art, and master of breaking and entering . . . which didn’t make him much different from most imps in their lair.

“Tell me you at least didn’t steal anything from the guy,” she pressed.

Lachlan leaned into Tobe again. “ Definitely don’t answer that.”

Naomi sighed, and her inner demon rolled its eyes.

Honestly, having imps in your life could give anyone an ulcer.

She was a siren like her mother, but most of their lair were imps.

They tended to disregard all laws, not to mention their own safety.

The latter particularly drove her crazy when it came to Tobe—as psi-mates, they were very close.

All their kind had a predestined psi-mate.

An anchor in the storm that was a demon’s existence due to their struggle to maintain supremacy over their psychopathic inner entity.

Forming a mental link with your anchor ended that struggle, though a person’s inner entity still surfaced as and when it pleased for what were usually brief pockets of time.

“Once the client coughs up the cash, I’ll get it to you,” Tobe said to her.

She nodded and took another mouthful of her coffee. As the aforementioned client was a repeat customer, she wasn’t worried that the deal would go bad—they’d always gone smoothly in the past.

“I’ll be doing the handover on the same day I take the abstract painting to that annoying harbinger who keeps pushing to meet his artist . Like you’re his own personal pet painter,” Tobe added, scraping an agitated hand through his deep-brown hair.

The harbinger was truly becoming a pain in the padded ass.

“If he does it again, tell him I’m done and that he’ll need to find another painter.

” Naomi preferred to remain anonymous. Stefan Brandt wasn’t the first client to request that she meet them face to face, but unlike him, the others had accepted her refusal with grace.

Imps came in handy if you needed to operate in the shadows.

Take Tobe, for example. He acted as a middleman for people looking for commissioned art from ghost artists.

Kind of like a ghost writer, Naomi produced and sold work that others could take personal credit for.

Then there were clients who wanted replicas of classic pieces, or fake “lost paintings” by famous artists that then often ended up in art galleries and museums.

She also acted as hostess part-time here at her stepfather’s pizzeria. It meant people didn’t question how she made money, because she’d only trusted a few with the knowledge that she was a ghost artist.

Naomi wasn’t a fan of the spotlight. Being a siren, she was a sexual magnet of sorts, and had attracted attention all her life. So much whistling, ogling, staring, and heckling. She was constantly hit on, constantly oversexualized, constantly underestimated.

People outside her lair often assumed that she was dumb, superficial, and up for a good time.

They didn’t expect her to have talents, or be a hard worker, or have any real substance .

And there seemed to be this societal attitude that since she was beautiful, she had no right to complain about anything.

It rankled with her inner entity something fierce.

“Naomi?”

She blinked, refocusing on Tobe. “What?”

“I lost you again, huh?”

It would be fair to say that she had a habit of mentally drifting. Her brain would follow rabbit trails, and she’d end up zoning out. “What did I miss?”

“I asked what time Belinsky’s supposed to show up for his sit-down with Jolene.”

The mention of the male Prime made her pulse stutter. Luka Belinsky might be the boss of an underground demonic crime syndicate, but he was also sex on a stick. “Any minute now, unless he plans on being fashionably late.”

“Do we think he’ll step in and help with the Iain situation?” asked Ciaran, setting his hands on his trim hips.

Naomi shrugged. She didn’t know the guy; had only met him on the three occasions he’d eaten at the pizzeria over the past couple of months.

Each time, he’d watched her in a way that made her feel hunted—the sheer boldness of it intrigued her entity.

But despite the sparks of sexual tension that bounced between them, he’d never made a move on her or given her any indication that he would.

Lachlan rubbed at his bristly jaw. “It’s hard to say. Belinsky is a cold son of a bitch. Mean as a snake and as ruthless as they come.” Respect coated every word.

“So I’ve heard.” Luka’s reputation certainly proceeded him. “But you don’t successfully manage a lair that doubles as an overly large crime family by being ‘nice’,” Naomi pointed out.

The criminal underworld was a dark place. The demonic criminal underbelly was a thousand times uglier. Nonetheless, Luka kept his alliances strong, ensured his businesses thrived, persistently held back enemies, and maintained peace with other lairs. That would require a certain mercilessness.

“I know his anchor a little,” said Ciaran.

“Ella spoke to me about him a couple of times; said that though he has a twisted kind of code that can change by the minute—a code he won’t always listen to—he’s not a bad guy.

Don’t know how accurate that is, but I know he’s very protective of her and her daughter. ”

“It’s well known that he runs a tight ship and doesn’t let his demons get away with any bullshit,” Tobe added, “so my gut says he’s unlikely to ignore the fact that Iain won’t leave you alone. Hopefully he’ll have a word with him and that’ll be that.”

Lachlan pulled a face, doubt gleaming in his dark-blue gaze. “I’m not sure it’ll be that simple for Iain to let go. He’s in the firm grip of a full-on obsession.”

Which could be blamed on the good ole siren song. Its notes weren’t audible; they were more like predatory vibes that sought to bewitch their prey. Naomi had no control over that. It was just as much a part of her as the blood in her veins.

When it came to dating, she was careful to choose men who were mentally tough and had their shit together. They were less likely to fall victim to a siren song. But it wasn’t always a guarantee—case in point.

“You know, we could just kill Iain,” Lachlan threw out with a casual shrug. “I’d make it quick.”

Tobe gave a mocking snort. “No you wouldn’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Lachlan pursed his lips, his brows sliding together. “Don’t know why I even said that.”

“I do,” claimed Tobe. “You’re a fucking liar.”

Lachlan looked appropriately offended. “I resent that implication.”

“It was a statement, not an implication.”

“I only edit the truth when it’s necessary.”

Tobe frowned. “How was it necessary to tell me that you only edit the truth when it’s necessary? Because that was a lie, too.”

Lachlan turned to fully face him, studying him closely. “You’re not really bothered about that, are you? You’re still mad at me for stealing your uncle’s watch. That’s what this is about.”

Tobe’s mouth tightened. “Well, it was disrespectful.”

“How? He’s dead, what could he possibly do with it?”

“My aunt wanted him to be buried with it. You took it off his wrist while he was in his damn casket. A casket you dug up . You also took his shoes.”

“My own were muddy from all the digging.”

Unable to bite back a smile, Naomi exchanged an amused look with Ciaran . . . which was right when her stepfather’s mind bumped against hers. A black town car just pulled up outside , Alfie telepathed. Pretty sure it’s Belinsky.

Her belly did a slow roll. Knowing that Jolene wanted her to greet him at the hostess station, she replied, I’ll be right out .

Refocusing on the imps in front of her, she said, “Luka seems to have arrived, so I’m gonna get moving. I’ll leave you three to get the painting ready to be transported.”

After rinsing her empty cup, Naomi placed it on the drainer and then exited the breakroom.

By nature, she wasn’t a person who was easily rattled—especially by something as simple as sexual tension.

But there wasn’t anything simple about the tension that existed between her and Luka.

It was too visceral, too oppressive. Hence the butterflies in her stomach.