Page 34 of Crown of Ash

“Just him?” Andre said, meaning Marcus.

He shook his head. “Both of you. Every time. Doesn’t matter who you are.”

The prick was fast and precise, a fleeting sting that sent a shiver up Marcus’s spine. It was a stark reminder, more potent than the imposing ironwork, the steep ramp, or the sight of thirty luxury cars parked in a garage built for ten times that many. It told him exactly how seriously this building, and the man who ran it, regarded the question of who was granted the privilege to stand in its inner sanctum.

The final stretch of their journey was not by elevator, but by stairs. A narrow gothic spiral, its stone steps worn soft in the center by countless feet over the years. The flickering light from real candles in iron brackets cast long, dancing shadows on the walls, their warm glow a stark contrast to the cold sterility of electric lighting. The bass from the music below fell away, swallowed by the stone and distance.

His heart wanted to race, but he focused on calm. This wasn't the first time he'd met Bell in person. Just the first time he'd done so here. The escort didn’t bother knocking on it. Instead, he pushed it open with an air of familiarity and stepped back, his gaze flicking to Marcus and Andre.

“Go on,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the stone stairwell. His tone was indifferent, as if he’d performed this ritual countless times before.

Marcus exchanged a glance with Andre. The tension was palpable, a silent agreement passing between them once again. They would face whatever awaited them beyond that door together.

With a deep breath to steady himself, Marcus stepped forward into the unknown.

The room was a cathedral of decadence, occupying the entire top floor. Stone arches, like the skeletal remains of a sanctuary, soared into shadow overhead, mirroring the sacred architecture two hundred feet below. Stained glass windows, their hues a deep amber, glowed mysteriously in the night, their light source an enigma to Marcus.

To the left, a second throne sat on a raised platform, its black wood and red velvet stark against the stone backdrop. To the right, a wooden platform cradled a four-poster bed swathed in black curtains. Chains looped decoratively around each post, their metallic sheen catching the amber light. A St. Andrew's cross stood sentinel against the stone wall behind it, an ominous silhouette in the dimly lit room.

But neither the throne nor the cross was what seized Marcus's attention first.

A slight blond man in a black leather kilt was astride a well-built, harnessed, hooded man on the throne. He fucked him with an unhurried rhythm, his motions proprietary as if he were a king surveying his kingdom. And indeed, he was. His accent was soft and rounded, each word dripping with Savannah charm as he called out without breaking stride or glancing toward the door. "Just a moment," he said. "Y'all made good time."

Andre's hand found the doorframe in a silent bid for stability.

Marcus remained silent, his years of legal training offering no script for this surreal tableau. A clinical part of his brain noted that the blond, Bell himself, knew exactly how long the drive from Lakefront took and had timed this encounter down to the minute.

Bell man finished with a low, satisfied sound and a roll of his hips that was devoid of any performative flair. He gripped the hooded man's jaw once, gently, murmuring something too quiet to carry across the room and gave him an absolutely filthy kiss. Then he rose off him in a single unhurried motion. His shirt sleeves, black and frilled at the cuff, settled back over his wrists. The corset laced beneath it remained as taut as before.

"Go on and take yourself a bath, darlin'," he instructed the hooded man without looking back settling into the chair as if he hadn’t just come, arranging the plaits of the kilt around him. "But no cummin'. That's for later. I'll know if you've been naughty, so don't even think about it."

The hooded man rose, bowed his head once in acknowledgment, and exited through a side door without uttering a word.

The blond then sank into the throne as if it were a porch swing on a lazy summer afternoon, crossed one knee-high boot over the other, and finally turned his full attention on the two men standing in his doorway. His eyes were honey gold, and cold, a stark contrast to the warm smile that played on his lips.

"Now," he began, folding his hands in his lap like a genteel host welcoming guests. "To what do I owe the pleasure of Marcus Whitfield and his detective former lover, in my humble abode? Rumor is you boys have run into a spot of trouble lately."

Chapter 18

Ruthless. Faceless. Bell was a name whispered in hushed tones, a specter that haunted the tales spun by weary cops over stale coffee and cold donuts when a case closed without satisfaction. He was Detroit's boogeyman, a phantom that lurked in the shadows of the city's underbelly. Half the department didn't believe he was real, while the other half feared the chilling truth of his existence. Over a decade, Andre had pieced together an image from the nervous laughter and hushed whispers of his colleagues. A towering figure, perhaps six and a half feet tall, with shoulders as broad as a docked freighter. A voice that echoed like a low rumble of an engine at idle, the kind that resonated through a room, leaving an unsettling chill in its wake. A man who was dangerous, frightening.

Yet, standing before him now, the actual Bell barely reached Andre's collarbone. He was a diminutive figure, perhaps five-five in heeled boots, slender through the chest. His pale blond hair was long, almost to his elbows, and his features were doll perfect. Except for the obvious; there was an old scar that ran from the corner of his right eye all the way to his jaw. Any red had faded from it, so clearly it was from his youth, but it was still a wicked mark on a face that was otherwise perfect. His attire was an eccentric mix of a frilly black poet’s shirt and a black and red corset cinched over it, paired with a leather kilt and boots that looked lethal enough to have claimed lives. If the rumors held even a shred of truth, they probably had. He carried an unusual scent, an intoxicating blend of gardenia and lavender with an undercurrent of sweet orange that wafted towards Andre each time Bell leaned in over the arm of his throne. His words were laced with an unexpected humor as he referred to Marcus's ex-boyfriend as a detective with the casualness one might use to describe a golden retriever.

"Come in, come in." Bell beckoned them further into the room without rising from his throne, one hand idly smoothing the black lace at his cuff in a gesture akin to checking a watch he already knew the time on. "Don't just stand there looking like you've stumbled upon your grandmother in a compromising position. Well," his grin was wicked, a flash of white teeth against the dim light, “If your granny was fortunate enough to be half as deviant as my fine self, anyway.” His laughter filled the room, a sweet, airy sound that seemed to dance around them.

Marcus moved first, stepping into the room with a measured stride. Andre followed a half-step behind, his gaze darting around the room, taking in the details.

A small creature stirred at the base of the throne. Hairless and pink-skinned, it blinked up at them with an expression of flat, unbothered judgment that only cats could master. The Sphinx wore a little white sweater with ‘Daddy’s little angel’ knitted in black and a collar adorned with what appeared to be… actual rubies. The ostentatious display of wealth was staggering. It clambered up Bell's leg and turned twice in his lap before settling down. Bell's hand moved to it instinctively, scratching under its chin in an absent-minded gesture.

"This is my baby, Princess," Bell announced, as if that single statement explained everything. His gaze returned to them, golden eyes glinting with an unreadable emotion as he studied them in silence.

"You said trouble." Marcus's voice was a low growl, his stance rigid. He didn't sit, and Andre could sense the tension radiating off him. Sitting would have been a sign of submission, of asking for something, and Marcus was not in the habit of asking this man for anything he didn't absolutely need to.

"I said rumor of trouble." Bell's voice was a soft purr, his hand moving in slow, rhythmic strokes over Princess's back. His golden eyes held a glint of amusement, a spark of malice that danced in the dim light. It wasn't directed at them, Andre realized, but rather at the situation they found themselves in. "Rumors are polite. You want to give me the ugly version, or should I tell you what I know?"

"Drakov." The name fell from Marcus's lips like a curse, his voice flat and final. It was a tone Andre recognized from years of watching him close out arguments with a single word.

"There it is." Bell's voice was smooth as silk, his expression unchanging. He didn't sound surprised; rather, he sounded like a man confirming what he already knew. "Go on."