Then, just as suddenly, he pulls back. Thiago’s voice is rough when he speaks, his eyes move back down to my swollen lips, and I bite down on the edge of my piercing.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “That I’m no better than the man who raised me.”
With that, he turns, walking inside, and I follow behind. The sound of glass clinking follows. His room is big enough to be its own apartment. Black marbled floor, high ceiling, open windows, and a large four-poster bed smack in the middle. A throne fit for a king. I watch as he grabs a glass bottle and pours two drinks.
Heat continues to build inside me, making my blood boil with need… So, I do the only rational thing and look away, pretending that I’m interested more in the lack of personality in this room. I can hear him stride towards me, his footsteps soft and purposeful. Something is different in the way it sounds. It’s minimal, but I pick it up either way. It’s like he’s trudging in mud, but quickly recovers.
“Scotch,” he says, handing me a glass, which I take, the amber liquid catching the light.
“You know I expected more of this room,” I tease, which is new to me.
Thiago chuckles, the sound low and tired. “You expected more?” he echoes, swirling his ice with his finger. “I don’t keep much that isn’t useful. To me, this isn’t home. It’s a prison.”
My eyes move to the grand piano—black lacquer, polished to a mirror, sitting comfortably in the corner in direct view of the large window. He strides toward it, his finger trailing over the smooth surface, before hovering over the keys. Slowly, he presses one down. Eyes on me.
The key is high and bouncing off the walls.
“Want me to play for you?” he asks, his voice dark and husky. I suck in breath before downing the drink in one swallow. My voice matches the same intensity when I say, “Please.”
He inhales sharply, his orbs dilating until all that is left is black. Safra places two fingers in the air and hooks them. A silent order.Come here.
I obey.
“Sit…” He pats the top of the piano for me to sit. My head shifts, unsure if it’s sturdy enough to hold me. “Sit, Ruas.”
And I do, muttering curses under my breath, only to come to a stop when he takes a seat at the bench, and using his hand, He spreads my legs apart, his eyes on me.
“Pull out your cock, Zayden.” The command has my body thrumming with need, and my hands moving of their own accord. “Touch yourself for me…” he rasps, his eyes focused on me as the first notes spill out—low and vibrating through the wood beneath me. It crawls up my spine, making me feel like I’m flying. My eyes close, only for the soft melody to come to a forceful stop. “Eyes on me, Ruas.”
My lashes flutter open to find him already staring. Heat licks my neck, working its way up my cheeks and to my ears. My hand moves slowly over my length, my thumb rolling off the tip with each long stroke. My toes curl inside my shoes. The feeling is intoxicating. If I’m high, then I never want to come down… not from this. Safra’s gaze never leaves mine, and the music becomes something else entirely, building until it shifts.
My pulse and hand sync with the rhythm. My vision swims, my eyes growing heavier, and I swear it feels like my head is detached from my body and I’m fucking floating. My movements grow sluggish and maybe a little clumsy.
I sit up, trying to fight through the fog pulling me under. Thiago isn’t looking this time. His brown curls fall around him like curtains shielding him from his cruelty. The truth hits likea slap. He drugged me. The realization has me slipping off the piano, the music fading into nothing but my beating heart. The room spins and spins.
And I fall and fall.
Coming to a stop in a cloud of lies.
My arms fall open beside me, my eyes fixed on the ceiling that spins and spins. Through the blur, I see movement—Thiago rises from the bench, his outline fractured by the bright light. He closes in, creating an eclipse… much like him and I. He’s saying something, lips moving slowly. I’m sure he is telling the truth… I’m not ready to hear whatever it is. The sound doesn’t reach me. Only the shape of his mouth, the quiver of his chin, and the way his eyes flicker between guilt and resolve.
I blink, fighting to stay awake, but the fog thickens. His voice becomes a hum, distant and underwater. One word—maybe my name—breaks through, then dissolves.
Before everything goes black.
He’s dead.
He’s dead. He’s dead.
I recite the words over and over. My legs pump harder with each step, the trees blurring in my vision, and my lungs burn. I don’t stop. I dodge. Jump. Not stopping until I break out of the clearing, filling my lungs with air, trying to steady my racing pulse. When headlights come into view, cutting through the dark. The black car races down the curve, my gaze follows its path, and I notice it heading straight towards… Shiloh.
I run harder than I ever have in my life, cursing and shouting, putting myself in harm's way for a girl I barely tolerated. The horn blares, cutting too close to Shiloh, who’s on her knees, crying, staring down at her screen. My arms instinctively wrap around the blonde as the car continues on its path.
He’s dead.
He’s dead. He’s dead.
The words continue to plague my mind, even as I whisper to her. “Shh. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
