When Askai next clawed his way back to consciousness, he found himself lying on something impossibly soft—a bed so plush, so obscenely comfortable, that for a suspended, disoriented moment, he thought he was dead. The high ceiling above him shimmered with golden bands of morning light, fractured through the narrow slits of the tall windows. The sunlight struck the mirrored panels overhead, scattering warm rays across the room in delicate, wandering arcs.

  For an instant—a foolish, fleeting instant—it felt like heaven. A heaven he did not believe in.

  The illusion shattered the moment he shifted and felt the cool press of a dark marble floor beneath his fingertips, grounding him in a reality far stranger than any dream.

  He exhaled slowly, the sound rough against the quiet. This wasn’t heaven. This wasn’t a dream. Then where the hell was he?

  He pushed his palms to the mattress, preparing to rise—when the sharp crack of a gunshot split through the distant air. Askai froze. The silence that followed rang louder than the sound itself.

  Then came the soft scrape of footsteps, the twist of a lock, and survival instinct slammed into his chest like a fist. He dove back under the blanket, pulling it up in an instinctive shield, forcing his breathing to quiet, to steady, to lie.

  The door opened.

  Soft, deliberate footsteps crossed the room—paced, measured, assessing. Askai kept his eyes closed, lids relaxed, face lax and unbothered. Curiosity thrummed through him like a live wire, but curiosity had always killed the cat.

  And he had been killed once already.

  Someone swept open the curtains. A violent, unexpected flood of light stabbed through his eyelids and he reflexively tensed—too late to hide it.

  “Don’t pretend. I know you’re awake.”

  That voice—

  That unmistakable voice, coiled around him with the same dark, decadent danger it always carried.

  His eyes flew open. And there he was.

  Vance Regale, perched casually on the edge of a polished desk as though he owned the world—and Askai was merely a curiosity within it. His shirt, loose linen and nearly transparent in the morning light, clung to the hard cut of his chest. The first few buttons hung open in careless disarray, exposing the finely sculpted lines beneath. His trousers, tailored and severe, somehow failed to contain the long, powerful strength of his legs.

  But it was his face that robbed Askai of breath.

  A rough stubble shadowed his jaw, at least a day old. His eyes—usually sharp, taunting—looked tired, bloodshot, the exhaustion barely veiled beneath that irreverent, lopsided grin. His hair was rumpled, disheveled as though he had run his hands through it one too many times. He looked like a man who had been to hell and crawled out through fire—and then poured himself a drink.

  Whiskey glinted in his hand.

  Askai pushed himself up, spine stiff with annoyance he couldn’t fully hide.

  “How in hell did I end up here?” Askai demanded, his voice tight, frayed with residual panic and annoyance. He could only hazily recall dropping Jordan off at Mrs. Well’s house—an old, safe, forgotten place—and he prayed he hadn’t jeopardized both their safety.

  He had been hunted. The image of the flashing sirens and the men in black suits—a chilling uniform in his current life—haunted him. Wherever he went, men in suits were wreaking havoc, their armies seemingly multiplying, all looking similar, yet with distinct conduct. He had no idea who commanded them.

  Nothing he could remember explained his current location: in a plush, expensive room, facing Vance Regale. The man in front of him merely shrugged, an indifferent, careless gesture that dismissed Askai’s confusion.

  Vance lifted the crystal glass—heavy, sharp-edged, and nearly full—to his mouth and downed the whole drink in a single, defiant gulp, as if making a statement of impatience.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Wherever you would run to, Askai, you would always end up here. I would rather you explain,” Vance stated, the pause that followed stretching the air tight and making Askai's heart flip with cold apprehension. “Why were you running in the first place?”

  Vance slammed the empty glass down onto a polished wood surface, the loud thwack making Askai wince reflexively. It was the sharp, reactive flinch of a man on edge, even though the beer was nowhere near enough to cause this hangover-like tension.

  There was a fleeting flash of something like regret or perhaps raw frustration on Vance's face. Surely, he knew the generalized reason for anyone running on the streets. Askai noticed a distinct slur in Vance’s voice; he was clearly drunk, but not enough to mix his 'who' and 'why'. So did he know who Askai was running from? How long would it take him to figure out the ‘why’ then—the debt, the violence, the past? Most importantly, why was Vance so relentlessly interested?

  Askai was thoroughly confused and annoyed, but he chose to keep his mouth shut, resolute in his secrecy. Vance calmly walked over to the immense, sprawling bed and plopped down onto the expensive mattress that sunk heavily beneath his weight, the motion naturally pulling Askai, who was sitting near the foot of the bed, slightly toward him. Vance seemed oddly troubled by Askai’s silence, his composure slipping.

  “My men were only there to ensure your safety. Why did you run from them? Is there someone threatening you?” Vance leaned forward slightly, his gaze piercing. “You only need to give a name, Askai, and I promise you that it will be the last you ever hear of them.”

  There was a fierce, almost terrifying touch of protectiveness in his voice, and Askai knew he meant every cold, ruthless word. But how could Askai tell him that he did not need anyone to fight his demons for him? He just needed one who could accept, without judgment, the darkness he already carried.

  "You don't need to concern yourself with my business. I can take care of myself," Askai retorted, his pride bristling. He then turned fully to face him, suddenly too close to Vance’s chiseled, beautiful face. He kept his eyes fiercely glued to the other man’s. “Why were your men looking into my safety? Are you stalking me?”

  Vance remained silent, staring back without flinching, and that gave Askai pause. A cold dread began to form in his stomach.

  "Are you really?” Askai asked, less shocked now, and infinitely more scared. The past few days, he had been up to no good. Trashing the motel, roughening up the manager, and the terrifying culmination of the fight last night—he could end up being convicted for all of them if Vance really had him trailed. Most importantly, how in hell did he not notice a tail?

  Vance gave another careless shrug, a gesture of profound entitlement, as if they were discussing the evening attire for a formal dinner. "I was just worried about you. You seem like a guy who goes around actively asking for trouble.”

  "Trouble he can take care of,” Askai rudely reminded him, pushing back against the condescension, but Vance completely ignored his protest. He looked like he was arguing with a child who knew no better. What, in the world, gave him that infuriating impression of Askai?

  Vance laughed—that magnetic, deeply rich sound that, despite his fury, made Askai want to gaze lovingly at him.

  “You were going to take care of them with a pocket knife, some plastic rope, and a few crumpled bills that I tossed at you during the event. Who are you running from, Santa Claus? First-aid was the only useful thing in that bag of yours, and it would have come handy once they had rearranged your beautiful face. How naive are you?!”

  Vance looked so thoroughly amused at Askai's expense, so convinced of his own superior wisdom, that Askai almost did not want to burst his bubble of delusion. Askai and naive—those were two words that did not belong together in a sentence.

  The pocket knife was sharp enough to plunge into an artery that could bleed a person to death in minutes. Askai had taken years to master these vital, unguarded places on the human body. The knife was the only thing he needed besides his fists to take down a person. The rest of the things in the bag were merely for convenience. He had survived the streets with far less.

  Despite himself, a small, weary smile touched his lips at the monumental misunderstanding, which Vance instantly took for an admission of his ignorance.

  "You know, I have seen many rich kids running away from their parents' homes to claim independence, trying to learn the street-smart ways. I appreciate the spirit, but the act in itself is utterly stupid. The West is not something to be toyed with. What were you thinking, going into that shady hospital in the West? You have no idea what kind of people go in there. Then you disappeared! Do you have any idea what I went through figuring out what happened to you?”

  He disappeared. The sheer luck of that thought gave Askai a sliver of respite. If he hadn't managed to shake the tail, they would not be having this infuriating conversation in someone's bedroom; they would be behind bars.

  Then he dialed back on the conversation, a cold, hard anger rising in his gut.

  “Did you just call me a rich runaway kid?” he asked, his voice low, his dark eyes wide with disbelief.