But she hadn’t come empty-handed.
Hidden in one of her tall boots was a small vial of Nephilim magic. The black market potion had cost her nearly a full year’s wages—all of her savings, gone. She could always make more money. Gran’s time, however, was limited. And Ashayla’s mission to bring her some peace before she passed had run up against a very stubborn, uncompromising roadblock named Sorin of Ebarron.
So, she had traded her savings for a single dose of magic that promised to render her invisible—completely incorporeal—for eight full minutes on demon soil. Not even the strongest Incubus security spell could prevent her from entering Ebarron’s treasure room.
Now all she had to do was slip away by herself to find it, swallow the elixir and step inside the vault like a ghost.
Then hope to hell she could find Gran’s pendant and hightail it out of the casino without getting spotted by Ebarron’s Watchmen or anyone else.
All in under eight minutes.
The plan had seemed reasonable enough all the times she’d played it through in her mind. Risky as fuck, but doable. Now, she felt a niggle of fear slide up her neck.
If she failed to find the pendant? If she got caught…
She didn’t want to consider either of those scenarios.
And the further she delayed in getting started, the worse the chances that her companion or someone else at the table was going to notice she’d been gone for too long.
Steeling herself for what she had to do, Ashayla dried off and stepped out to the hall. Instead of heading back to the roulette room, she went the opposite direction, deeper into the sprawling corridors and sumptuous antechambers of the place.
Research and rumors both speculated that the House of Ebarron kept their treasure secreted somewhere beneath the grand casino. Ashayla strolled nonchalantly, but with purpose, pausing to admire some of the priceless masterworks framed on the walls while surreptitiously taking note of the dozens of dark-suited Watchmen posted all over the casino.
She drifted farther along a promenade of elegant arches and vaulted ceilings, bypassing a trio of pretty little Monet paintings with barely a blink of notice as she concentrated on the positions of Ebarron’s guards. They were everywhere. Big, muscular Incubi whose shrewd eyes scanned the crowds like vigilant hawks.
As she strolled deeper into the corridor, toward the casino’s private salons, the challenge of what she was up against really began to sink in. Every ornate door and passageway seemed to have its own dedicated security detail.
Dammit.
There would be no slipping past any of Ebarron’s Watchmen without their notice.
Which meant she’d have to use the dose of magic even before she located the treasure room, leaving less time to retrieve the pendant and make her esc— “Are you lost?”
The deep, unrushed voice halted her in her tracks. Shit. Speaking of Watchmen keeping an eye over every corner…
Ashayla forced a smile and slowly pivoted her head to look at the guard. “I was just, ah…”
Good lord, he was gorgeous. Standing well over six feet tall, he was golden-haired, tawny-skinned, and had a breathtakingly handsome face that would have seemed more suited to an angel than a demon-spawned Incubus.
Ashayla’s throat went suddenly dry. The rest of her started a slow, heated melt as she stared at him, her female body responding of its own volition to the sex demon’s presence. Her pulse sped toward a gallop. Heat climbed up her throat, simultaneously spreading lower, over her breasts and down to the core of her body.
She tried to ignore the carnal awareness that ran up her limbs and into her blood, but his allure was startlingly powerful.
And she could tell that he wasn’t even trying to affect her. If this was his sexual pull at rest, what would he be capable of with the added strength of his thrall?
She damned well didn’t want to find out.
Like all Incubi, his age was impossible to pinpoint. Outwardly the Watchman in his black suit and crisp white shirt appeared to be in his thirties. In truth, she knew he could be much, much older.
When she seemed incapable of speaking, he folded his arms over his muscled chest, piercing her with a suspicious, topaz-colored stare. “I asked you a question. What are you doing out here?”
He spoke with an air of total authority. And that low rumble of a voice was made even more arresting by the hint of a Romanian accent, which rolled off his tongue like dark, red wine.
Ashayla summoned her composure enough to make up a feasible excuse. As anxious as she was to get away from him, she also didn’t want to give him reason to think she had anything to hide. Nervously, she licked her lips.