Please don’t let this be what I think it is.
Bare soles whisper across the old wood floor. My feet move, trying to catch up with my imagination. It races ahead of reason, pulled by some quiet, awful knowing.
My pulse throbs at the sides of my neck, a tight, sick twist winding low in my gut.
What are you doing, Laurette?
Go back. Just go back.
But I don’t because that’s not who I am.
The door looms ahead. My hand hovers near the knob, fingers trembling.
Then a sound. Muffled. Wet. A soft, rhythmic thud. A groan, low and strained.
The air thins. My vision narrows, darkening at the edges.
Don’t open it, Laurette. You don’t want to know.
You already know.
I push the door open and stop dead.
Jon David is on his knees. Callum towers over him, naked and merciless, one hand fisted in his hair, the other resting at his side. He fucks Jon David’s mouth with slow, brutal precision, hips rolling forward, cock disappearing inch by inch down his throat.
For a heartbeat, I can’t move. I can’t think. I can’t breathe.
“Fuck, you suck cock better than any woman I’ve had.”
Callum lifts his head, eyes catching mine over Jon David’s shoulder, and he grins.
The motherfucker smiles right at me.
Slow. Sinister. Shameless.
“Tell me you want it, JD. Beg with your eyes since your mouth’s too full.”
Callum’s fingers tighten in Jon David’s hair, a low grunt slipping from his throat as he drives forward again—unbothered, unchanged. Like I’m invisible.
“Your mouth’s a good start, JD. But I’m ready to pump my cock in that tight little asshole. Get on all fours. Face down. Now, pretty boy.”
Jon David doesn’t see me standing in the doorway, every nerve screaming, the world fracturing beneath my feet with one brutal truth rising loud and clear.
This was never about me.
Chapter 3
Bastien Montclaire
New Orleansalways smells like sin… but this bar reeks of it.
Leviathan isn’t an establishment for tourists. It’s a place where rules bend, morals blur, and sins of every variety are served neat. Revenge, lust, betrayal—all under the same roof.
The booths sink into shadows, carved into alcoves like confessionals. The lighting is low, just enough to reveal intention but not identity. Smooth jazz drips from hidden speakers, soft and seductive. The walls are dark, the leather blood-red, and the quiet between songs isn’t empty. It listens.
The low light flatters. Customers look younger, richer, prettier in here. But I see through all of it. Always have.
I sit at the bar, bourbon untouched. I never drink on the job. Whiskey is for after the job’s done.
