“Mine is at the end of the hall, on the left. You are welcome to come there whenever you wish.”

He shivered, and his gaze fell across the dark monitor panel on the wall.

Returning the Martin to its case, he went over to the panel and turned it on. After a few minutes’ exploration he figured out the interface and scrolled through the feeds.

Kitchen: empty. Gym, foyer, dining room, music room, staircase, all empty. Office: Oberon was there, sitting at his big desk. There was a volume knob on the control panel: so the rooms had mikes, as well as cameras. Ángel switched it on, and from hidden speakers he could hear the music that Oberon was listening to. Perez Prado, probably from Ángel’s phone.

Ángel, uncomfortable watching Oberon, rapidly flipped to the next feed, which was his own bedroom. And there he was, live, watching himself on the monitor.

He turned around, trying to see the camera. It must be in the crown molding over the purple armchair.

He looked back at the monitor. It displayed a nice clear picture of the top of his head, his bare back and arms, hair tucked behind an ear and curling over his shoulders. He snapped his fingers, heard the crisp snap on the speakers.

The camera gave a good view of the center of the bed.

Unacceptable. The thought of that camera on him in bed—of the security team, of Oberon, watching him while he slept—made his blood run cold with fear and anger.

There was no way this level of surveillance was required for security. This was just wrong. Was there a camera in the bathroom too? He was afraid to find out.

He was shivering again. He thought about going down to the office and demanding that Oberon disable the surveillance in this room. But honestly, after the day he’d had, he felt too edgy for another conversation with Oberon.

I can’t deal with this right now.

He turned off the monitor. Gathering up a pillow and the gleaming peacock comforter, he crawled under the bed. He stripped to his underwear and wrapped himself up in the comforter. Like a rabbit in a dusty hole, he curled up tight against the wall at the head of the bed. But though he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, his mind was whirling with questions.

Why was there so much surveillance in this house?

Oberon said he couldn’t read minds. What kind of magic could he do?

Why had he touched Ángel? Why had he invited him to his room? Was he going to watch Ángel all the time?

What did he really want?

It was a long time before Ángel was able to sleep.

Chapter 6

Ángel stumbled downstairs the next morning as rain tapped on the windows, in search of coffee. Lily found him hunting through the cabinets.

“Coffee?” he mumbled.

“We have tea.”

“No coffee?” He stared at her blearily.