Thorne's grip didn't loosen; it became a vise, forcing Leo's chin up. "Who?" The single word was a jagged shard of ice. "Who was it?" His grey eyes bored into Leo's, demanding immediate capitulation. The fury was still there, but beneath it surged a raw, possessive need to *know* the interloper's identity.
Leo swallowed hard, the pressure on his jawbone sharp. "No one," he choked out, the lie brittle and immediate. Instinct screamed to shield David, to keep that fragile connection untouched by Thorne's darkness. "Just... someone. From before." He tried to twist away, but Thorne's strength was absolute, pinning him against the solid wood of the door. The scent of David – the intimacy, the tenderness – felt like a brand now, a damning proof Thorne could smell but couldn't name.
Thorne leaned closer, his breath hot against Leo's ear, nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply. "Liar." The word vibrated with cold fury. "Laurent's signature bergamot and cedarwood soap. His vetiver perfume. It clings to your skin like a fucking banner." His grip tightened impossibly, forcing a gasp from Leo. "Azure's report yesterday. Laurent's in France. Signed off personally. So who," Thorne hissed, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "*who* at Azure wears Laurent's scent? Who touched you?"
Panic seized Leo's throat. Thorne knew Laurent's movements, his *scent*. The lie was crumbling. "It wasn't Laurent!" Leo blurted, the words tearing free. "He's innocent! He wasn't even there!" He met Thorne's burning gaze, defiance warring with desperation. "It was... mine. My arrangement. Private." The word felt heavy, borrowed from Thorne's own cold lexicon. "Someone... I chose."
Thorne froze. The crushing pressure on Leo's jaw eased infinitesimally, replaced by a terrifying stillness. The fury in his grey eyes didn't vanish; it deepened, crystallizing into something colder, sharper. He searched Leo's face, probing for deceit, for weakness. Leo held his breath, willing the lie to hold. *Private arrangement*. He prayed Thorne would accept it, that the shield would hold.
A low, humorless sound escaped Thorne's lips. Not a laugh. A dismissal. He released Leo's jaw abruptly, stepping back as if Leo were suddenly contaminated. The sudden absence of contact left Leo swaying, the phantom ache lingering. Thorne turned away, his broad shoulders rigid. He didn't look back. He simply walked towards his office door, the silence thick and suffocating. He paused, hand on the knob. "The report," he stated, his voice devoid of inflection, colder than the marble floor. "On my desk by noon." The door clicked shut behind him with unnerving finality. Leo slumped against the wall, trembling. The reprieve was hollow, brittle. He'd traded one danger for another: Thorne's possessive fury for his icy contempt. And the unspoken command hung heavy in the air: *Inform me next time.*
*
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