“I think,” he says slowly, each word carefully measured, “that we all have our own paths to walk. And some of us might surprise you.”
I let the silence stretch, savoring the tension that hangs thick in the air. My fingers trace the rim of my whiskey glass, the smooth crystal cool against my skin. The chaos of their reactions, the subtle shifts in body language—it’s intoxicating. This is the game I truly enjoy, the one played beneath the surface.
“It’s not about finding someone who fits neatly into our world,” I say, my voice low and measured. I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, watching the light dance across its surface. “It’s about surviving the chaos. The unpredictability.”
I pause, letting my words sink in. Their weight settles over the table like a shroud. I can see it in their eyes—the recognition, the unease. We’re treading into dangerous territory now, laying bare the truths we usually keep hidden.
“And nobody wants that in life,” I continue, my gaze sweeping across their faces. “It’s not normal.”
The word “normal” hangs in the air, almost mocking in its simplicity. We’re anything but normal, this group of men gathered around my table. Each of us carries our own darkness, our own obsessions that set us apart from the world.
I take a slow sip of my whiskey, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken truths and barely concealed demons. This game we play is a delicate balance. Push too hard, and the carefully constructed facades might crumble. But that’s where the thrill lies, isn’t it?
In the corner of my eye, I catch Rex’s subtle shift. His fingers tighten around his glass. He’s always been the most controlled among us, but even he can’t hide the impact of my words.
“Is that what you truly believe, Remy?” Tristan asks, his voice cutting through the silence. His eyes are sharp, probing.
I meet his gaze steadily, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth. “Belief has nothing to do with it, Tristan. It’s simply the truth we all dance around.”
I lean back in my chair, savoring the weight of Greyson’s words. His gravelly voice cuts through the tension like a knife, and I can’t help but admire the raw honesty in his statement.
“Surviving the chaos… or being destroyed by it. Why bring someone down with us into hell,” Greyson says, his amber eyes meeting mine across the table.
I hold his gaze, recognizing the shared understanding between us. We’re both men haunted by our need for control, acutely aware of the destruction it brings. But while I revel in the chaos, Greyson seems more willing to acknowledge its dangers.
“Hell can be quite comfortable if you know how to arrange the furniture,” I quip, raising my glass in a mock toast.
Greyson’s jaw tightens, but there’s a glimmer of dark amusement in his eyes. “And how many have you dragged down with you, Remy?”
I shrug, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth. “I prefer to think of it as… guided tours.”
A ripple of laughter passes around the table. We all know the truth behind the jokes.
Rex clears his throat, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the table.
Colton chimes in, his charm slicing through the tension, “Here we all are, pretending we’ve got a chance.” He raises his glass, grinning that wolfish grin of his.
The laughter that follows is genuine this time, a moment of shared understanding among men who walk in darkness.
“Speak for yourself,” Declan grunts, tossing his cards onto the table. “I’ve never pretended anything.”
I arch an eyebrow at that. “No pretenses at all, Declan? Not even for the lovely ladies you’re so fond of protecting?”
Declan’s green eyes flash dangerously. “They know exactly what they’re getting into.”
“Do they?” Tristan interjects, his voice smooth as silk. “Or do they just see what you want them to see?”
The tension ratchets up another notch, and I can’t help but savor it. This is the real game, after all—the one played with words and secrets instead of cards.
“We all wear masks,” Luka murmurs, his quiet voice somehow cutting through the rising tension. “The question is, do we ever take them off?”
I turn to him, intrigued. “And what about you, Luka? Does your muse get to see behind the mask?”
Luka’s gaze meets mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something raw and vulnerable. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by his usual inscrutable expression.
“Art is truth,” he says simply. “Whether we like it or not.”
The silence that follows is heavy with unspoken truths and barely concealed demons. I look around the table, taking in the faces of these men—each haunted by their own obsessions, each dancing on the edge of destruction.
