“Alone?”
The Watchman shook his head. “No, he’s with a female companion. A Nephilim.”
Sorin’s anger flared, spiking toward outrage. “You don’t mean he’s come back here with—”
“No. Not her.” Milo’s quick reply spared Sorin from uttering the faithless bitch’s name.
Although it had been five years, the betrayal by his former friend, with the woman Sorin might have taken as his mate one day, still sat on his tongue like acid.
Not that he’d ever take Greta back. After learning she’d allowed Korda to seduce her, Sorin had raged more at his own stupidity for letting the Nephilim into his life, than he had out of any kind of emotional pain that she was gone. She’d made a fool of him, squandered his trust.
And he gave no one the chance to do it twice.
As for Korda Marakel, friendship across House lines was a sometimes tenuous thing in the Incubi realm, but especially when one of those Houses was that of the current Sovereign. Not to say there weren’t a few honorable males among the Marakels, but treachery seemed to run deep in that bunch of demons.
The same could be said of their arrogance.
If Korda thought he could walk back onto Sorin’s turf with impunity, he could think again. “Who’s the female with him?”
“Never seen her before, sir.”
“You’re certain?”
“Positive.” A smirk tugged at the corners of Milo’s mouth. “She’s not the kind of woman a man is likely to forget.”
“Show me.” Irritated now, and not a little curious, Sorin gestured to the sulking playthings left behind in his office. “Have one of your men escort the ladies out after they’ve dressed and collected their things.”
Milo gave him a nod. “Consider it done.”
The captain of the Watchmen made the call while Sorin and he strode the length of the lavish corridor toward the penthouse elevator. They stepped into the glass lift and descended through the heart of the elegant Ebarron building, toward the casino twelve floors down at ground level.
Built into the side of a mountain nestled deep in the Carpathians of Romania, Ebarron’s casino and family fortress was exclusive in the extreme.
Incubus magic protected the place better than any amount of security, rendering it impossible to find on any map or GPS coordinates. Even if outsiders did learn the precise location of the stronghold, unless they could teleport, the terrain itself would keep them away.
As such, the casino catered mostly to Incubi and other, lesser-ranking demonkind, and it was rare that patrons arrived—or stayed—without the Master of Ebarron’s knowledge and approval.
Milo stopped the elevator on the broad, balconied second floor, whose galleries overlooked the grand playing halls and gaming salons below. Sorin didn’t wait for his Watchman to show him to the balcony poised over the roulette room. He prowled there in irritation, across the hand-loomed Persian rugs and sleek, veined-marble floors, to the edge of the balcony.
Down below, standing among a small, glittering crowd gathered around the green table of the high-stakes wheel, was Korda Marakel.
The tuxedoed, dark-haired Incubus had just lost a bet on the wheel and was scowling as a pile of his chips were swept away by the croupier. By rough estimation, Marakel had just surrendered more than ten thousand euros to Ebarron’s bank.
Sorin could hardly contain his smile. He didn’t need the money, but the satisfaction of taking something from his old rival was its own reward.
He stared as Korda snapped impatient fingers at one of the cocktail servers carrying a tray of filled champagne flutes. The demon grabbed one in each hand, and when he turned to offer one to the woman beside him, Sorin’s gaze followed too.
Damn. Milo was right when he said the Nephilim was something to see.
Tall, long-limbed, with ample curves in all the right places, the platinum blond stood beside Korda Marakel in form-hugging black pants and a matching long-sleeved top sliced far between her breasts in a generous vee. Stiletto-heeled black leather boots rode up her calves and just over her knees. Her long, pale white hair was gathered off her face in a sleek ponytail that gleamed like gossamer silk under the casino’s soft lights.
Milo strode up to the balustrade next to Sorin and slanted him a knowing grin. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen this Nephilim before either?”
“No,” Sorin replied. And what a damned shame that was.
Even from the floor above, he could see that she was beautiful—arrestingly so. Creamy skin, full pink lips, and a dark-lashed gaze that moved over her surroundings with an unmistakable confidence and intellect.
Where the other Nephilim and human females in the casino wore bright colors, sparkling gowns, and expensive jewels just screaming for notice, this woman in body-skimming black needed no embellishments to draw the eye of every man in the place.