“No, you don’t.” He sits up, the blanket slipping to his hips. He looks wrecked and beautiful, the kind of sight that makes logic short-circuit. “You could just… not.”
“Magnus—”
He leans forward, catching my wrist, tugging until I’m standing between his knees. “Stay.” His hands slide up my sides, lazy but deliberate. “He can wait.”
“He can’t.” My voice shakes.
Magnus tilts his head, eyes dark and unreadable. “Did something happen?”
I look away from him. “No. He just needs me at the office.”
Magnus stands up, towering over me. His fingers turn my face to meet his eyes. He looks skeptical.
“I’m fine, Mags.”
He nods and his mouth finds mine. It’s the kind of kiss that unravels things—the kind that starts slow, then ignites, teeth and heat and the faint taste of coffee on his tongue. My hand lands on his shoulder, meaning to push, but it turns into a clutch instead.
He murmurs against my mouth, “You smell good. Expensive.”
“You smell like trouble.”
“That’s mutual,” he whispers, lips trailing down my jaw.
I try to laugh, but it comes out as a shiver. He smirks, presses me back against the counter, his hands skating under the hem of my shirt, tracing the curve of my spine. He kisses me again—deeper, hungrier. For a heartbeat, I let him. I’m a moaning mess. His fingers pinching my nipples, making them strain against my t-shirt. My hips grinding against his to find any friction. His free hand slipping into my jeans to cup my ass.
Then I pull away, breath uneven. “That almost worked.”
Magnus smirks, tongue brushing my lower lip. “Almost?”
“I have to go,” I say, softer now. “But I’ll come back tonight.”
He looks like he wants to argue, then exhales and nods once, releasing me. “You better.”
As I reach the door, he adds quietly, “Be careful.”
I don’t know if he means the drive or my father. Maybe both. “I will.”
The Hale Building sits like a monument in the middle of downtown Silver City—glass, steel, and ambition stacked forty floors high. The guards nod when I enter, the kind of trained politeness that reminds me I’ll always be the boss’s son first and the defenseman second.
My father’s office takes up the entire top floor. I find him standing by the window, looking out over the city like it owes him something. He turns when I step in, sharp suit, sharper expression.
“Alaric,” he says, smooth and cool. “Right on time.”
“Your message didn’t leave much room for choice.”
He gestures toward the table. “Sit.”
I do. There’s a spread waiting—grilled salmon, salad, sparkling water. No small talk, no warmth. His assistant closes the door behind me and the air tightens.
“How are you?” My father’s voice is tight, calculating.
“Fine?”
“And Kyle?” He doesn’t touch his food.
“Also, fine.”
“Hm.” He throws a file down on the table. “Take a look.”
