He nods, gaze locked on the city beyond the windows. “That’s the job. That’s always been the job.”
“So,” I say, “am I disappearing tonight? Is that what that call was? You… taking care of it? That was about me, wasn’t it.”
His knuckles whiten around the glass. He gives me a look, then downs the rest of the drink. “You’re the package they delivered. I am supposed to return to sender.”
My mouth goes dry. “Someone ordered my death?”
He doesn’t deny it. “You’re not supposed to exist outside the system. You’re a data point, not a person. Part of the masses. When you started poking around, they got nervous.”
“They?”
His eyes roll, like he’s exasperated that I can’t keep up. “The people who own the world, Landon. The ones who signed your invitation.”
I try to process this, but my brain just skids on the implication. “And you work for them.”
He sets the glass down so hard it chips on the rim. “I work for myself. Sort of.”
I believe him, and that’s the scary part.
He rakes a hand through his hair, frustration radiating off him. “I’m supposed to hand you over tomorrow. Today, really, considering it past three a.m. You’ll be erased, memory-holed, whatever you want to call it. But you’re… interesting. And now you’re mine.”
He says the last word like it’s an answer to every question I didn’t know how to ask.
My cock stirs under the robe, half from fear, half from the way he’s staring at me now.
His eyes track the line of my legs, stopping where the robe parts at my thigh. I see the hunger, raw and unfiltered, and the anger that comes with it.
“You’re hard,” he says.
It’s true. I don’t hide it.
He moves further away from me, as if to control himself, leaning against the wall, nursing his drink. His eyes close, squeezing tightly before opening again. I watch his chest rise and fall, the steady cadence of breath. The scars are a roadmap, crossing his skin in tight lines—thin and wide, pale and red, newand old. One runs from his collarbone to just above his heart; another circles his left bicep like a bracelet.
I want to touch them, but I don’t.
Instead, I wrap my arms around myself, and stare at the space between us.
“Why are you going against your own kind?”
He considers, then shrugs. “Every ecosystem needs its outliers. I collect what interests me.”
He doesn’t say it with pride or shame. It’s just the truth, as if he’s discussing weather patterns or how much he spent on the penthouse. I watch the muscles in his jaw clench, then relax.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “What happens to the ones that don’t interest you?”
He stares at me as if I’m stupid, and the blue of his eyes is sharp enough to hurt. “They go away.”
“If I’m dead by morning, will anyone know?”
He considers this. “No.”
I should be terrified, but I just feel… calm. Maybe it’s the bath or the booze, or maybe it’s the way he says things like death and ownership in the same breath, with no distinction.
He puts his glass down and walks towards me. I think for half a second, he’s going to snap my neck.
Instead, he leans down and kisses me—harder than before, teeth scraping my lower lip. I gasp, and he pushes his tongue into my mouth, deep, possessive.
I melt against him, let him take. My cock is hard and aching, pressed between us.
