The cot was a slab of rusted metal bolted to the wall, with a plastic mattress no thicker than a lie, and a blanket that smelled of bleach and despair. A toilet crouched in the corner, stainless steel and savage, offering no privacy, no dignity.
Ash lay on the cot with one bare foot dangling, the coarse gray uniform peeled halfway down his body, the sleeves tied loosely around his hips. His naked torso gleamed in the bulb’s ruthless glare, milky skin unmarred, still fresh, still flawless. His dark hair was tousled but lush, framing a face too luminous for this place. He didn’t stink of fear or sweat, the way most would after a day without bathing. Even now, his body refused to betray him.
He breathed in. Out. In again. Boredom gnawed at him. If he hadn’t played the hero, if he’d just minded his own business, he wouldn’t be here now, caged and stripped of purpose, while the real criminals walked free.Funny thing about doing the rightthing,he thought.It always leaves bruises.In Calgrave, virtue gets you a bullet or a booking number.
Hunger curled at the edge of his skin, the kind only another body could sate. He could feel it in the dull drag behind his eyes, the slow cooling of that inner fire. His thoughts turned from the sour twist of self-pity and sarcasm to something sharper: a memory, all broad shoulders and storm-gray eyes. That jaw you could break your morals on. Detective Rick Slade.
Ash had tried. During the interrogation, he’d leaned in, poured the full weight of his charisma into the air between them—his voice was warm honey, his scent a gentle narcotic—and Slade hadn’t flinched. No dilation of the pupils, no flush in the cheeks, no lust-muddied pulse. The detective hadn’t even looked tempted.
It unsettled Ash in ways he didn’t like. Or maybe, liked too much.
The scrape of heavy boots echoed outside. Ash didn’t stir. The door groaned open, and a young officer entered bearing a dented tray: two slices of bread, a slab of grayish paste pretending to be meat, a bruised apple. The cop set it on the floor without ceremony. A command, not a kindness.
Ash’s eyes slanted up.
Officer Hayes, as the name tag on his uniform read, was in his early thirties, broad and tall, all muscle and upward momentum. Standard-issue haircut, face chiseled enough to seem carved. Handsome in that blunt, overbearing way—until you looked into his eyes and found something colder there, sharp edges buried so deep most wouldn’t see it. A pleasure in power. Ash knew the type. Calgrave was full of them.
More telling was the way his gaze snagged on the soft curve of Ash’s waist, the rise of his ribcage, the smooth planes of his chest. It was just a glimmer, quick and impulsive, but Ash noticed it instantly.
Oh, you like what you see?
He stretched, sluggish and feline, arms behind his head, drawing out the motion as if time itself obeyed him. The light played over the lines of his body, highlighting the deliberate grace of his exposed torso, the subtle ladder of his abs.
The cop swallowed. “You waiting for a fucking invitation?” he said, voice thick.
Ash tilted his head, lashes half-lowered. “Waiting for some better company.”
Rising from the cot with unhurried ease, he padded across to the toilet, every motion languorous enough to make the watching hurt. Thumbs hooked into the loose waistband of the jumpsuit, rolling it down his hips, just enough to expose the high, firm curve of his ass. A glance back was unnecessary; hefeltthe stare, sticky and hard, crawling up his spine.
He relieved himself without shame, a show without seeming one. When he turned, he caught the officer watching with parted lips, eyes glazed slightly. Ash tucked himself away without hurry, adjusted the sagging jumpsuit over his hips, then returned to the cot and stretched outon his side, one leg bent, his expression loose, dreamy, vulnerable. “You got a name, stud?” he asked softly, a child asking for a bedtime story.
“You don’t get to ask questions,” Hayes sneered.
“Sorry, sir,” Ash whispered, voice fragile and sharp-edged. “Didn’t mean to make you mad.”
The shift was immediate: the coil of tension straining just beneath the copper’s skin, the way his heartbeat kicked up, the way his blood thickened with want. As with all bullies, it was helplessness, not beauty, that aroused him, an aphrodisiac too potent to resist.
Ash reached; not with hands, but with the thrum of his presence, as imperceptible and intoxicating as perfume on a warm night. Not a full blast—he wasn’t strong enough—buta suggestion: desire, emboldened by power, sweetened with danger. He sighed and watched it take root.
Hayes’s breath caught. His hands curled at his sides. His pupils dilated, dark and sudden as blood in the water. He took a step forward, then seemed to think better of it. His gaze lifted toward the ceiling, and the dusty lens of the camera tucked high in the corner, mostly forgotten. Ash saw the calculation form behind those pale irises.
The officer licked his lips. “Be a good boy,” he said slyly. “And maybe I’ll bring you something… warmer. Later.”
Ash let the corner of his lip curl, but his eyes stayed wide, guileless. “Yes, sir,” he breathed. Rolling onto his stomach again, he shifted just enough to pull the jumpsuit tight over the hump of his ass. His voice turned dreamy, faraway. “Promise.”
The man stood there a moment longer, torn between impulse and risk. Then he turned and left, slamming the door behind him.
Ash let out a breath and spun to his back. Slowly, a smile spread across his face, wicked, weary. He stared up at the ceiling, the cracks above him like the lines in a palm, trying to divine his fate.
But there was no mystery in his immediate future: Hayes would be back, as sure as the sun sets. And when he came, Ash would be ready.
Chapter Six
(1:03 p.m.)
Up here, the Eclipse shed its velvet mask for something more honest and pragmatic: plush carpet to muffle footsteps, walls paneled in dark wood polished to a mirror sheen. Crystal sconces threw dim light across gold-threaded wallpaper, while the scent of expensive cigars and spiced cologne hung sticky in the air. From the main hall downstairs, a piano wept in rehearsal, dragging soft, syrupy notes through the murk.
At the end of the corridor, just outside a half-open office door, two slabs of manhood blocked the way, identical down to their boots, black striped suits, and meat-grinder glares—two halves of the same brickhouse scowl. Rick didn’t need names to know the type: loyal muscle, light on conversation, heavy on broken noses. They looked like they’d been poured out of the same barrel of protein and suspicion.
