More fingers touched him. More hands fondled him. Beau leaned in, lips coming to Ricky’s, chuckling when Ricky tensed. Beau kissed him. Ricky let him. He parted his lips, and when Beau’s tongue slid in, he chomped down. Beau screamed. It wasn’t a man’s scream—not even a human scream. It sounded like the wail of some creature flying overhead.

Beau fell back, but Ricky didn’t let him go, just kept biting down. Beau flailed and shrieked, his eyes rounding and bugging. Blood filled Ricky’s mouth and he kept biting down until, at last, Beau pulled free, and Ricky spat out the bit of flesh in his mouth.

“Arawn,” one of the women whispered. “He is Arawn.”

“Lord of the Underworld?” Beau snarled, his face barely human now, barely bothering to keep it human, blood dripping from his mouth, spattering as he spoke. “No. This is a boy. A foolish, stupid boy. Not a king. Not even a prince. Page of the Underworld. A pretty page boy, suited only for getting on his knees and wrapping his pretty lips—”

Ricky grabbed Beau, again by the throat. There was no rage in it. No surprise. Just cold resolve. His fingers wrapped around Beau’s throat, and he concentrated on holding on to him, willing him to stay where he was, not to disappear. And he did. Beau hung there, suspended by the throat, eyes rolling. Then whatever held him broke, and he flashed away, gasping and growling like a wounded animal.

Beau railed at Ricky, his insults tinged with fear now, coming fast and hard. The women cooed and flattered him, whispering in his ears, stroking him, fingers everywhere.

Distracting me. Whatever works. Insults or fawning. Threats or come-ons. Distracting me from finding Liv. From . . .

He tensed and looked around.

Distracting me from figuring out what the hell is going on. From realizing she’s not gone—I am.

He looked around the clearing. He couldn’t tell whether it was where they’d fallen asleep. When he’d caught Liv, he’d been so intent on claiming his reward that they could have been in an ice-cold stream and he wouldn’t have noticed. Not before. Certainly not during. And even afterward, when he’d collapsed beside her, thinking of nothing but her and them, and how good it felt being with her.

He hadn’t even taken a look around before dropping into sleep. But one thing was certain: when he’d caught her, he’d still been dressed. In his jeans, at least, the jacket and shirt coming off as he’d gotten close, not wanting to waste a second once he had her. But his jeans and boxers should be here. And they were not. Which meant he hadn’t woken up to find her gone. He’d sleepwalked away from her, lost in his dream.

Lured away.

“Liv!” he shouted, as loud as he could. “Olivia!”