“Get fucked,” he shoots back, but I catch the edge in his voice.
Dom’s not a small man—never has been. Six-five and carved from the kind of muscle that makes people step back. He’s not your average hockey player, that’s for sure. I see the way women gawk at him, even straight men wouldn’t kick him out of bed.
I remember the way my sister used to look at him. That memory makes me angry for some reason.
His dual-colored eyes—one a piercing blue and the other a light hazel brown—make him stand out in any room. The tattoos and dark wardrobe complete the image, but right now, I see it: the unease. I can't help but laugh as I realize he might actually be uncomfortable.
“Listen, you might have a death wish, but I just got signed to play for my top team. I’d like to wake up tomorrow. Let’s go,” Dom says, turning to leave. I reach out to grab his arm, feeling the tension coiled beneath his jacket. “Trust me, Dom. One night. Then we’re out.”
Dominik Lewis, who usually faces everything with unflinching confidence, is out of his element for once. The thought of him, with his imposing build and tough-guy image, being scared is entertaining.
He looks at me for a beat, eyes searching mine, before exhaling sharply. “Fine. But if I get stabbed or some shit, I’m haunting you.”
I grin, my own nerves coiling tighter as we ascend the grand staircase. The groan of old wood under our weight is a harsh reminder of how fragile this façade really is. The air shifts, carrying faint whispers and the thrum of bass so low it’s almost imperceptible. The hotel’s secrets hum around us, waiting.
“It’s meant to look abandoned so if anyone breaks in, they’ll turn around. Unless they’re here for a reason,” I wink at him.
Dom pauses, crossing his arms when I don’t continue. “What reason?”
I straighten my already smooth jacket. “The same reason you collect and play with masks.”
“Oh fuck,” he mutters.
At the top of the stairs, two doors stand sentinel, imposing in their faded elegance. One swings open before we reach it, revealing a man in a tailored suit, sharp lines matching his expression.
Tristan.
His dark eyes settle on me, then flick to Dom with a momentary smirk.
“You brought company. And you’re late,” Tristan says, voice smooth but laced with an unspoken warning.
Glancing down at my watch, I take note of the time. I’m actually early.
Don’t defend. Ignore and offer silence. Always remain in power.
I wait for Tristan to meet us at the bottom of the stairs.
He called this meeting. He can come to me.
“This is Thomas. He’s with me. I brought him for some potential after-business fun, depending on how our meeting goes.”
Tristan’s lips form into a ghost of a smile as his eyes narrow, calculating. “Interesting choice.”
Whatever the fuck that means.
Dom bristles but stays silent, his gaze fixed and unreadable. He’s good at that, at hiding behind a wall of bravado when he feels cornered. But I know better. I can sense the way his muscles are bunched, ready for a fight.
“This way,” Tristan gestures, leading us down a corridor that pulses with an undercurrent of energy. The walls are lined with mirrors, each reflecting fractured images of ourselves, distorted and ghostly. It’s disorienting, like walking through a kaleidoscope that shifts and bends reality.
Tristan stands roughly my height, around six-foot-two, his broad frame clad in a tailored suit that fits him like a second skin. The expensive fabric highlights his muscular build, each movement deliberate and smooth. Coppery-brown hair, perfectly styled and trimmed, frames his sharp features. Pale green eyes lock onto ours, unflinching and calculating. He’s symmetrical and undeniably handsome.
He reminds me of myself.
We ascend the stairs and continue down a narrow hallway where faded, peeling wallpaper exposes patches of bare plaster beneath. The dim lighting casts long, wavering shadows, making the place feel like a haunted house in December.
At the end of the corridor, Tristan stops before a nearly invisible black door and pushes it open, motioning for us to enter. Stepping inside feels like walking into a different world. The room is a stark contrast to the dilapidated hotel exterior—a modern, opulent space illuminated by a grand chandelier casting a warm, golden glow. A long table dominates the room, its surface embedded with sleek screens.
“Mr. Lewis, please, take your time exploring what’s on the table while Mr. Jackson and I have a brief discussion in the next room,” Tristan says smoothly, watching for our reaction.
