He could almost taste the metallic tang of blood in the air, feel the palpable tension as Matt handed Andy over to the medic.The Watcher imagined himself in Andy’s place—broken and bloodied, yes, but also the singular focus of Matt’s intense gaze. To be cherished and fretted over by someone like Matt… it was a bitter pill to swallow that it wasn’t him who inspired such fervor.
His gaze flickered back to Andy as the medic’s vehicle pulled away, red lights piercing the twilight. “Die,” he muttered under his breath, a dark whisper lost to the din around him. This whole scenario should have been Andy’s final act; Carlos was nothing if not an eager puppet to the Watcher’s machinations.
But there it was again—that damn resilience. Like a cat with nine lives, Andy clung to existence with infuriating tenacity. It brought back that fateful day when the Watcher had planted seeds in Sean’s mind, knowing full well the volatility of the drug deal. It should have been a simple culling, but no—Matt had to play savior.
Now here he was again, saving Andy from death’s door like some sort of modern-day knight. The Watcher’s hands clenched on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white with rage.
Enough was enough. His carefully laid plans lay in ruins—twice now by this interloper’s persistence and Matt’s heroics. The Watcher felt something dark and violent uncoil within him, a promise that next time, there would be no more interference.
With one last look at Matt’s retreating form—his own personal Achilles’ heel—the Watcher started his car and pulled away from the scene, consumed by thoughts as dark as the leather interior of his luxury sedan.
The Watcher returned to his clandestine sanctuary, a hotel room that could easily rival the splendor of the Maxwell’s. It had taken him years to secure this perfect vantage point—a strategic location with a clear view into Matt’s sleek office across the way. He settled into his personal lair, the cost of which barely dented his substantial means.
The room was designed with precision, every piece of furniture and décor chosen to mirror the Watcher’s refined tastes. But among the expensive trappings, one item stood out—a high-powered telescope, its lens trained on the window that revealed Matt’s world. A window that had borne witness to Matt’s passion, to Andy’s surrender.
He approached the telescope now, his fingers brushing against the cool metal. Peering through it was an exercise in futility; he knew Matt wouldn’t be there, not with Andy laid up in a hospital bed. A spark of malice flared within him as he whispered into the emptiness, “Die already.” His voice was soft but laced with venom.
With a turn from the telescope, the Watcher flopped onto the sofa, its plush cushions swallowing him whole. He couldn’t shake the image that seared into his mind—the memory of only yesterday when he had witnessed through this very lens Matt and Andy entwined in a carnal dance against that very window.
It had been raw and primal—Matt’s body moving with a hunger that matched the Watcher’s hidden desires. And there was Andy, a mere stand-in for the fantasy that played on a loop in the Watcher’s head. With each thrust Matt delivered, the Watcher imagined himself as the recipient of such fierce attention.
His mind drifted back to yesterday’s spectacle: Matt’s powerful form pinning Andy against that window, muscles taut and movements relentless. The Watcher’s breath quickened at the memory. Every thrust, every raw groan of pleasure—etched into his mind like a dark fantasy.
Closing his eyes, he let himself be transported back to that moment. Only this time, it was him pinned against the glass, feeling Matt’s hands grip his hips with bruising intensity. The heat between them was palpable, Matt’s dominance absolute.
He could almost feel the cool surface of the glass against his skin, contrasting with Matt’s scorching touch. Each rough motion sent waves of pleasure coursing through him as he imagined Matt whispering filthy promises in his ear. It wasn’t Andy who earned those marks and moans—it was him, the Watcher, who truly belonged in Matt’s arms.
The room faded away as the Watcher leaned back into the cushions and let his dark fantasies swirl around him like smoke—each one more vivid than the last as he replaced Andy with himself over and over again.
Twenty-Eight
ANDY
Lying in that hospital bed, swathed in the finest Egyptian cotton I was sure had been spun by silkworms wearing tiny tuxedos, I couldn’t help but think how ludicrous my life had become. Seven days. That’s how long I’d been wrapped in more luxury than a sultan in his palace. The hospital suite, courtesy of Matt’s deep pockets, could have given any five-star hotel a run for its money—hell, I mean, there I was, in a suite that probably cost more per night than my old apartment did for a year.
The view from my window offered a front-row seat to Vegas’ perpetual light show. During my more lucid moments between pain meds, I’d watch the Stratosphere pierce the desert sky like a gilded needle, while the High Roller turned endless circles, as if counting the hours until my release. At night, the city bloomed into a garden of neon, and I’d try to guess which colors belonged to Matt’s casino-hotel empire. Sometimes, in those quiet hours when sleep eluded me, I’d catch him watching me from the plush armchair he’d claimed as his command center, his laptop casting a blue glow across his sharp features.
If you were going to get kidnapped and beaten within an inch of your life, I’d recommend doing it within the vicinity ofa billionaire with a penchant for dramatic rescues. The recovery wasn’t half-bad when you had silk sheets, plush pillows, and a view that could make a hermit reconsider his life choices. But let’s face it, the best amenity in that place was the remote that controlled everything from the blinds to the bed temperature. It was like a universal remote for indulgence—though I’m pretty sure Matt had the nurses confiscate it after I spent an entire afternoon making the bed go up and down while high on painkillers.
“It’s not a carnival ride,” he’d said, trying to hide his amusement behind that stern businessman facade of his.
“Everything’s a carnival ride if you’re creative enough,” I’d replied, still floating on a cloud of premium pharmaceuticals. “Besides, your face does this cute little twitch every time I hit the button.”
The first few days had been a blur of pain and pills, but I remembered when Fin and Ethan burst into my room like a hurricane of emotions after Matt told them about my misadventure. Fin, bless his melodramatic heart, had cried enough tears to water the succulents on my windowsill for months.
“What would I do without you, Andy?” he’d wailed, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You can’t leave me. You’re my best friend, my surrogate brother!” His blue eyes swam with emotion, a stark contrast to Ethan’s quiet torment. He’d practically draped himself across my bed, nearly disconnecting my IV in the process.
“Fin,” Ethan had warned, pulling his brother back by his collar like a misbehaving puppy. “He’s bruised, not dead.”
“But look at him!” Fin gestured wildly at my face. “He looks like he got into a fight with a meat tenderizer and lost!”
“Thanks for that assessment,” I’d muttered, though it wasn’t far from the truth. “Really helps the self-esteem.”
Ethan had just stood there looking like he’d swallowed a lemon whole, his usually pale features drawn tight with worry. He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve like Fin, but I could see it in his eyes, the way they’d flick to the machines beeping beside my bed. The next day, he’d shown up with a stack of trashy magazines and my favorite coffee from that little shop near the Bellagio—the one that charges more for a cup of coffee than I used to make in an hour.
“The nurses said no coffee,” I’d pointed out.
“The nurses aren’t here,” he’d replied with that angel-faced smirk of his. “And what Matt doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
