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"I'm just saying—"

"Out."

He leaves, but not before laughing and yanking me toward him. The coarse feel of his hands on my body lights me on fire.

Another attempt happens the next morning, and this time, we summon a cloud. I don't know how it happens. One second, I'm whispering the incantation. The next, a gargoyle-shaped cloud materializes above the pentagram, complete with wings and a scowl.

It looks directly at Ekon and says, in a voice that sounds like grinding stone, "Dumbass."

Then it dissipates like it was never there.

Ekon stares at the empty space where the cloud was. "Did that thing just insult me?"

"Yes."

"Through your spell?"

"Apparently."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then he starts laughing so hard he has to brace himself against the couch. The sound is so unguarded I find myself giggling too. On the fifth day, when we start our next try, I use a locator potion.

It's supposed to change color based on proximity to the target. I explain to Ekon the different colors it can turn. It'll go red for far, blue for close, and black for no luck. I pour Ekon's blood into the mixture, whisper the incantation, and watch as the potion turns a deep, vibrant purple.

That shit isn't even an option. I stare at it, then Ekon clears his throat. The potion bubbles once, but the purple doesn't fade. With a snarl, I toss the shit over the iron balcony.

That evening at Midnight Embers, I'm exhausted.

My magic feels stretched thin, like I've been pulling on a thread that's about to snap. I'm at my post by the door, checking IDs on autopilot, when the music shifts. DJ Tide announces Maverick, and the crowd erupts.

I don't look at the stage. I refuse to look at the stage.

But I can feel him. The air changes when Ekon performs. It's sharper and charged with the kind of energy that makes my skin prickle. The bass thrums through the floor, and the crowd screams as he works the pole. I focus on the next group of guests. A trio of women, all dressed in black leather. I check their IDs and wave them through.

When I go inside the club after shutting down the front door, Ekon is watching me from the stage.

He locks onto me across the crowded floor, and for a second, the rest of the club disappears. He's shirtless, sweat gleaming on his chest, his wings half-manifested in a ripple of stone and shadow. Then he turns back to the pole, and the moment breaks.

My hands are shaking by the time Ekon's set ends.

He doesn't go to the dressing room. He comes straight to me at the bar. "You need a break," he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

"I'm fine."

"You're not." He sets a bottle of water on my table, then a protein bar. "When's the last time you ate?"

"I don't need you to—"

"Yue," he starts, his gray eyes carrying no trace of arrogance. "You've been running yourself into the ground trying to fix my problem. Let me help."

I want to argue. Hell, I want to tell him to leave me alone. But the sincerity in his voice makes my chest tighten in a way I don't know how to handle.

"Fine," I mutter, grabbing the water.

He doesn't gloat. He just nods, stands, and walks over to one of the bouncers. I watch as he says something I can't hear, and the bouncer nods. Then Ekon disappears into the crowd.

Ten minutes later, the bouncer takes over my post.

"Maverick said you needed a break," he says with a grin.