Askai woke slowly, the luxurious silk sheets a tangle around his legs, the scent of expensive soap and Vance clinging to his skin. His mind, usually a fortress of cold logic, was softened, pleasantly blurred by the passionate excess of the afternoon. He was tucked securely against Vance’s chest, the powerful arm draped possessively over his waist. The warmth was immediate, encompassing, and utterly treacherous.

  He felt the heavy, creeping weight of the guilt—now no longer a tiny sliver, but a massive, throbbing ache that reminded him of his effortless surrender to his primal desires. He had traded his freedom for a moment of exquisite, self-indulgent oblivion.

  He should have put up a better fight, maybe should have tried to convince him more to let him go or should have looked for ways to escape the monstrosity standing outside the door.

  Jordan’s assessment of this place as a safe haven was a massive lapse in his judgment. He didn't know how sparks flew every time they came into each other’s vicinity. If he stayed here any longer, there were definitely gonna be many more such wild afternoons and nights.

  The closer they became, the closer they would come to knowing each other’s secrets. Something he could not afford.

  He knew what Vance thought of him, yet he had chosen to maintain his silence over his past. He had no doubts that tomorrow if his affiliations to the West came to light, his silence alone would be treated as betrayal and foul play.

  He gently shifted, pulling away from the magnetic heat of Vance’s body. Vance groaned softly, his grip tightening instinctively. Askai looked at the chiseled, relaxed perfection of Vance’s face—the man who held his freedom hostage—and held his life quivering in his palm.

  He had to use the aftermath to secure his immediate release somehow. Dirty move but needed.

  He pressed a lingering, tender kiss just below Vance's ear, then whispered, his voice low and persuasive, "Vance. Wake up."

  Vance only pulled him closer, burying his face in Askai’s hair. “Five more minutes, sweet threat. The world can wait.”

  "It can't," Askai insisted, his tone suddenly firm. He twisted slightly to face him, gazing into Vance's heavy-lidded, drowsy eyes. "I need to move around, Vance. This confinement is driving me insane. I won't run, I promise, but if you keep me locked in this room, you will have a very angry, very bored disaster on your hands."

  Vance sighed, a sound of pampered annoyance. He knew Askai meant it; the wild spirit in him was already starting to chafe. "And if I relent? You won't try anything stupid?"

  Askai offered a soft, utterly convincing smile—the same smile he used when negotiating a truce with a rival gang. "Just let me explore the house at least. You probably have a dozen more men watching its parameter. I can’t miraculously disappear, you know? Besides," he added, trailing his fingers lightly over Vance's bare, muscular chest, "I'm worried your men will think I've gone mad from solitude and you’ll lose your newest… friend, I guess?"

  Vance’s lips lifted into a smile at those words. He saw the logic; a controlled, placated Askai was better than a trapped, frantic one.

  "Fine," Vance conceded, a slight grimace back on his face, "but only the main floor and the gardens. And you'll have supervision."

  Askai gave a small, internal cheer.

  It was some progress.

  It was almost late evening, the light slanting golden and long through the windows, when a sharp, authoritative knock broke the lingering silence.

  "Enter!" Vance called out, already sitting up.

  The door swung open, and the giant man from the morning filled the frame. He was a colossal wall of muscle with eyes that seemed permanently set to 'suspicious.'

  "Sir," the giant grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Visitors."

  Vance’s easy, post-coital mood vanished. The tiredness returned, hardening his features. He glanced at Askai. "Tell them I'll be down in fifteen minutes."

  "Understood." The giant gave Askai one final, long, assessing stare before retreating.

  Vance turned back to Askai, regret clouding his face. He leaned down and delivered a deep, passionate farewell kiss, a promise of a swift return that Askai felt in his bones. "Duty calls, sweetheart. Behave yourself. I'll see you later tonight." And with that, he was gone.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Askai dressed quickly, his clothes now smelling faintly of the East End, of wealth and confinement. He slipped out of the room, fully intending to start his exploration, only to find the giant waiting patiently by the door.

  “And you are?” Askai asked, trying for aloof princely boredom.

  “Kyrion,” the man stated, his expression unchanging, a granite monument in a hideous blue shirt. “And I’m your shadow. Main floor and gardens only, per the boss's orders."

  Askai mentally groaned. This was going to be fun.

  Askai tried to shake him off immediately. He walked fast, then stopped suddenly by a statue. Kyrion, despite his bulk, stopped with surprising agility, planting himself three feet away.

  Askai tried the charm offensive, almost turning into an East End babe for a minute. “Kyrion, old boy. Why don’t you relax? The house is huge. I could get you a coffee. Or maybe a scone? I heard the pastry chef here is divine.The breakfast was exquisite.”

  He almost puked while listening to himself but Kyrion only squinted down at him, his brow furrowed as if Askai were speaking in ancient Sumerian. “Orders are to remain within six feet.”

  “Ah, but are the orders to remain within six feet silently?” Askai pressed, batting his eyelashes dramatically. “You're a terrible company, Kyrion. Tell me about your life. Do you have a small dog named Princess? Do you knit?”

  Kyrion’s voice was utterly flat. “I have a rottweiler named Carnage. I do not knit. Walk, please.”

  Realizing he was dealing with a creature impervious to wit or irony, Askai resorted to stealth and quickness of his feet. There were a few in this infuriating world that could challenge Askai when it came to dexterity of his hand and swiftness of his moves.

  He wanted to walk? Let’s walk!

  He took a sudden, rapid succession of turns—through the library, down a service corridor, and around a massive suit of armor—before finally disappearing behind a heavy velvet curtain.

  Kyrion, momentarily disoriented by the abrupt change in pace, was shaken off. He stepped into the corridor and looked around, trying to figure which way he took off. Finding not a sign of him, he finally walked down an empty hall and Askai breathed a sigh of relief.

  Free at last!

  Askai wandered through the colossal mansion, noting the absolute absence of clutter. The place was vast, impressive, but eerily bare of any personal touch—no family photographs, no children's scribbles, no sign of a lived life. Yet, Askai knew this had to be Vance's primary home, not some property he occasionally visited. The sheer weight of security and the bespoke tailoring of the space spoke of permanent residence.

  Askai pulled aside the velvet curtain, his fingertips lingering on the heavy fabric. The window overlooked the sprawling lawn, silvered beneath indifferent moonlight. What he saw drove the breath from his lungs.

  Far worse than he had imagined.

  The grounds teemed with men in sharply pressed black suits—silent predators with grim purpose stitched into every seam. They moved with mechanical precision, each step a threat sharpened by training. Not bodyguards. Not mere hired muscle. Creatures of purpose and violence, shadow-bound and merciless. They had always trailed after Vance like a dark omen, but tonight he saw them truly—saw the menace in their poise, the ruthlessness coiled in their gloved hands.

  And the city…oh, the city had been overrun by their kind lately. Black suits in the East, in the West—slick smiles hiding hideous purpose and loyalties Askai couldn’t begin to untangle.

  Where were they coming from?

  And what did they want?

  He waited, every muscle strung tight beneath his skin. A man cut across the lawn—features stern, stride purposeful. Askai checked his battered wristwatch, counting the seconds with the soldier's discipline. Ten minutes later, another passed the exact same path, a ghostly repetition. But this time, a tiny, almost imperceptible detail snared Askai’s intense gaze: an insignia stitched onto the sleeve.

  It was a delicate, white threadwork. He held his breath, waiting for the next pass, which came with the clockwork precision of the first—exactly ten minutes later. As the figure drew nearer, the embroidered symbol sharpened into terrifying focus: a crown, not worn, but draped across the back of an austere, high-backed chair, like a ring carelessly tossed aside. Strange. That was definitively not the Regale family crest, a fact Askai knew from his own meticulous, if unwelcome, research into the dynasty.

  Were they mere hired muscle, then, a highly specialized security agency?

  His thoughts were violently interrupted by the softest whisper of approaching footsteps—light as a feather, utterly lacking the heavy, grounded tread of Kyrion.

  Instinct roared through him. He slipped through the hall, heart pounding in his throat, and found refuge in a smaller drawing room—a quieter corner of the mansion smothered in opulence.

  The fireplace drew his attention first—carved with a craftsman’s reverence. But above it hung portraits that made Askai’s skin prickle. Vance stared out from every one—ageless and severe, power cut into the angles of his cheekbones. Not a smile dared touch his lips. The frames glinted like warning signs.

  But what caught Askai’s soul like a hook was the silver-framed photograph beside them.

  A younger Vance—laughing.

  A genuine laughter full of light and warmth.

  The sight was so shocking that Askai actually stepped closer, searching that rare expression for lies. Beside him stood a man with similar commanding features—too similar to be coincidence—but lacking the infamous Regale face Askai had seen on every newsfeed. A brother? A cousin?

  Before he could delve further into the enigma, muffled voices drifted like whispers from an adjacent room. He moved, his old street training surging through him, all silent, predatory grace. He recognized the low, intense cadence of high-stakes, private business.