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A light blaring sound filled the room a week later, slashing right through Naomi’s concentration. She blinked, taking a mental step back from her work. Cell phone alarm , she realized.

Whenever she let her creative side free, she lost all sense of time. Loud-ass alarms were essential or she’d struggle to snap out of her zone. In this instance, it was a reminder that she needed to get ready for her shift at the pizzeria.

Grimacing in disappointment, she set down her paint palette and brush. The tarp spread out over the hardwood floor made a crackling sound beneath her feet as she walked over to where her phone rested on the windowsill. She tapped the screen, switching off the alarm.

Her arm a little tired, she rolled her stiff shoulder with a low groan. Though she’d much rather keep painting, it was likely best that she was forced to take a break.

She was never glad to leave this particular room.

She loved her workspace. There was ample lighting—both natural and artificial—and a tip-top ventilation system.

She’d brought things into the room that inspired her—carvings, vases, small sculptures, and also framed paintings of various artists, which she’d hung on the walls.

The plentiful scents were both comforting and inspiring: oil paints, pine canvases, turpentine, and linseed oil.

Her corner storage area held a cabinet, drawers, and cubby shelves with baskets for all her supplies and tools. But plenty of those objects ended up in places they shouldn’t, like vases or jars or old coffee tins, because organization wasn’t really her jam.

No one could call the room tidy. It was chaos at its finest. Blobs and streaks of paint were just about everywhere.

Empty mugs, discarded water bottles, old paint rags, and granola bar wrappers had managed to find homes in places they shouldn’t.

An overflowing trash can sat beneath the utility sink near her small coffee/tea station.

Her work spot was right in the center of the room, her large easel angled in a way that caught the natural light streaming through the window. Though the room was cluttered, she had enough space around her spot that she could inch back from the easel and view her work from every angle.

Other easels of different sizes were propped against a wall alongside her paintings – some finished, some unfinished—as well as bare canvases.

Many other objects were also pushed against the walls, including a stepladder, buckets, crates, a small refrigerator, stool, drawing table, and workbench.

There was also a bookcase, which held reference and art books.

After washing her brush in the utility sink and scrubbing her hands with mint soap, she nabbed a mango smoothie from her mini refrigerator and swiftly knocked it back.

It wasn’t until right then that she realized just how thirsty she’d been.

When in her zone, there was no guarantee that hunger, thirst, or even the need to pee would penetrate.

Not wanting to interrupt her unnecessarily while she worked, her loved ones only ever reached out to her if they needed to make contact. Not Luka, though, as he had no idea about her main profession. Hence his earlier I’ll be at your place no later than nine telepathic shoutout.

Not wanting to tread excess paint through the house, Naomi kicked off her sneakers before leaving her workspace. She then locked the door with the key that she typically kept on the top of the frame. She always kept it secured shut. If Luka wondered why, he hadn’t asked.

Though he tossed some personal questions her way, they were never too personal, and his intention was usually only to change the path of the conversation.

She pulled the same verbal stunt if he approached a topic that she didn’t like to cover.

And so they often went around in circles, only revealing snatches of this and that to each other.

Even if what they had wasn’t simple and shallow, she wouldn’t have easily told him about her real source of income. Luka wouldn’t frown upon the illegal elements of her career path—he didn’t exactly show much respect for the law—but she preferred to keep it private.

It occurred to her that if he were to uncover it, he mightn’t be comfortable with the idea.

Luka seemed to be protective by nature. While there was no danger in being a ghost artist, there were risks.

Risks that she’d be caught painting replicas or creating fake lost paintings, or that she’d be hounded by clients like Stefan.

The mere thought of that idiot made her demon’s mouth tighten. At least it seemed that Stefan had given up on trying to sniff out her identity. She hadn’t seen or heard anything more from the PI, and Tobe hadn’t been contacted by him either. A good sign.

Mentally setting the subject aside, Naomi made her way into her bedroom and through to the en suite bathroom, where she shucked her paint-streaked clothes.

She hadn’t yet informed Tobe or anyone else about her involvement with Luka.

As she’d told him, it was none of their business.

Why tell them only to have them attempt to talk her into exiting what was proving to be a very enjoyable arrangement?

Due to how busy he was, she hadn’t seen Luka every night over the past week.

When she did have him here, he was often called away at some point to deal with this or that.

It was only to be expected, considering he was a Prime who also ran an actual demonic criminal empire.

It didn’t at all bother her that so much of his time was taken up, because it gave her the space and privacy she needed to paint.

In sum, things were going as well as she’d hoped.

After showering, styling her hair, and slapping on a little makeup, Naomi pulled on one of the black dresses she considered work attire. Finally ready to leave, she dropped her cell into her purse, activated her alarm system, and then exited the house.

The multi-lane traffic was calmer than it tended to be during daytime hours, as was the area itself.

Not many pedestrians could be seen strolling along the sidewalk.

But she spotted some of her neighbors pottering around.

One was taking out the trash, another was unloading shopping bags from her car, and a third was walking his Labrador.

This particular street was home to several of her lair, as were many of the ones nearby. Demons didn’t have territories, but they often grouped together. It gave them better protection.

As she crossed the road, an itch built between her shoulder blades, giving her that familiar feeling of being watched. Frustration tightened her jaw.

Without breaking stride, she peeked over her shoulder. There didn’t appear to be anyone around, but she didn’t think her imagination was simply going wild. Someone was definitely watching her—her demon felt equally certain of it.

Iain, maybe? Or that damn PI she’d just been thinking had left the picture?

Her lips thinning, she faced forward again and shook her head. Whoever it was, they’d better keep out of sight or they were going to end up with her foot up their ass.

Arriving at the pizzeria, she pushed open the door and breezed inside. “Hey, all. Sorry I’m late.” The place wasn’t yet open—wouldn’t open for another five minutes—but she should have gotten here earlier.

Alfie looked up from behind the open kitchen. “Girl, I’ll swear you are blind to the passing of time.”

Well . . . yeah. That fit.

Naomi hurried to her locker in the breakroom, locked her purse away, and then took up position at the hostess station.

Donna sidled up to her with a pretty smile. “So, are you going to show me your new tattoo or what?”

“Not right here—it’s high up on my thigh. I’ll show you later, when we’re alone.”

“I’m thinking of getting one myself, but something small. At least the first time.”

“The girls at Urban Ink have a waiting list, so get on it as soon as you can.” Hearing the door creak open, Naomi looked over . . . and felt every muscle in her face freeze.

Iain gave her a tremulous smile as he entered. “Naomi,” he whispered, so much reverence in his tone that nausea gripped her gut.

Fuck.

Ignoring the low curses coming from Alfie and Donna, Naomi watched the psi-demon carefully as he took slow, shuffling steps toward her—his eyes hazy, his skin clammy, his cheeks red and blotchy.

Her demon gritted its teeth, exasperated beyond belief with this guy. The entity wasn’t familiar with empathy, so it gave not one measly shit that he was in the grasp of a siren song.

“I did it,” he said with a proud smile.

Naomi felt her brow crease. “Did what?”

“Stayed away for a whole week. My feelings haven’t changed, though. That means they’re real,” he insisted. “This is proof that they’re real.”

Conscious that people would begin piling inside at any moment, she suggested, “Why don’t we talk in the breakroom?” There would otherwise be a public scene for sure.

Sending him away wouldn’t work. Threatening him wouldn’t work. Nothing ever worked.

He considered her suggestion for a moment. “Privacy would be best.”

Heading for the breakroom, she exchanged a brief look with her stepfather as she telepathed him. Don’t worry, I’ll handle this.

No, sweetheart, Belinsky needs to be the one to handle it , said Alfie. You can take care of yourself, I know, but Iain isn’t going to listen to you — not while he’s caught up in your song. Nothing you say will penetrate.

He was right on that. Iain had disobeyed his Prime, yes, but he would leave if ordered to do so by Luka.

She could toss as many orders and threats at him as she liked; could even set the guy on fire—none of it would make a difference.

He was determined to prove that he loved her.

Plus, she’d assured Luka that she’d call out to him if such a scenario occurred, hadn’t she?