Leo stumbled into his room, the silence of the mansion pressing against his eardrums like cotton. He peeled off David's borrowed clothes—the soft grey t-shirt, the black sweatpants—letting them pool on the marble floor. They smelled faintly of Laurent's expensive vetiver, a ghostly accusation. He stepped into the shower stall, turning the water scalding hot. Steam billowed around him as he scrubbed furiously, nails scraping skin raw over his ribs, his hips, the pla[1]ces David's hands had claimed him. The scent of sex and olive oil swirled down the drain, replaced by the sterile bite of Thorne's imported soap. Clean. He needed to feel clean.
Dressed in his own worn jeans and hoodie, Leo sat at the small desk Thorne had provided. He opened the laptop, fingers trembling slightly. The report was straightforward—a summary of Azure's recent acquisitions, nothing sensitive. He typed mechanically, the click of keys echoing in the quiet room. His mind drifted to David's penthouse: the rumble of his gravelly voice, the startling tenderness after the claiming, the raw honesty of that note. *I think I love you*. Leo's chest tightened. He'd never been cherished like that—seen beyond the performance, desired without transaction. A fragile warmth bloomed beneath the dread Thorne's fury had planted.
He finished the report, saved it, and emailed it to Thorne's encrypted server. The timestamp blinked: 11:47 AM. Done. He pushed back from the desk, restless energy humming under his skin. He needed air that wasn't Thorne's. Needed space. Leo walked to the ensuite bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. He stared at his reflection—the faint bruise blooming on his jaw where Thorne had gripped him, the shadows under his eyes. David had traced these same features with reverence. The contrast was jarring: Thorne's possessive violence versus David's possessive adoration. Leo craved more of the latter—the safety, the intensity that felt like shelter, not a cage. But love? It was too vast, too soon. He needed to unravel David slowly, understand the man behind the brass knuckles and the penthouse silences.
***
Thorne slammed his office door shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the marble hallway. Inside, the meticulously ordered space became a war zone. A crystal paperweight sailed past Leo's head, shattering against the far wall in a spray of glittering shards. Files flew like wounded birds, pages scattering across the Persian rug. He gripped the edge of his heavy mahogany desk, knuckles bone-white, tendons straining in his neck as a guttural roar tore from his throat—raw, animalistic fury directed at the empty air. *Who?* The question hammered against his skull. Laurent's scent, Laurent's soap, Laurent's *perfume* clinging to Leo's skin like a taunt. Laurent was in France. Verified. So who wore Laurent's armor? Who dared touch what was *his*? The thought of Leo gasping beneath another man, slick with sweat and oil, ignited a white-hot rage that scorched reason. He ripped a framed Degas lithograph from the wall and hurled it. Glass exploded. The delicate ballerina lay fractured on the floor. Someone would pay. Blood would flow for this violation. He'd peel Azure apart layer by layer until he found the name. Until he tasted their fear.
Leo slept fitfully upstairs, curled tight in borrowed silk sheets, oblivious to the storm raging below. Exhaustion pinned him down, a heavy weight dragging him under despite the turmoil in his chest. David's note—*I think I love you*—echoed softly against the memory of Thorne's crushing grip and icy contempt. The scent of expensive vetiver and bergamot, faint but stubborn, still lingered in his hair, a ghostly caress. He murmured David's name once, a sigh lost in the pillow, before sinking deeper. Downstairs, the destruction reached its peak. Thorne overturned his own desk with a primal heave, wood groaning, drawers spilling secrets onto the floor. Silence followed, thick and charged. He stood amidst the wreckage, chest heaving, surveying the carnage with cold, calculating eyes. The fury hadn't dissipated; it had crystallized. He pulled out his encrypted phone, thumb hovering over a contact labeled only with a black chess knight. Laurent's network. Azure's veins. He'd bleed them dry to find the man who'd slept in his bed.
***
The burner phone lay heavy in Leo's pocket like a stone. He stared at Thorne's closed office door, the silence radiating cold fury. Before he could decide whether to obey or defy, Thorne's private line rang inside – a sharp, insistent trill cutting through the mansion's stillness. Leo froze, listening. The door didn't open. Thorne answered on the second ring. His voice, muffled but audible through the thick wood, was clipped, devoid of its usual icy control. "Speak." A pause, longer than necessary. Then, lower, tighter: "Agent Dark. Confirmed?" Another pause. Leo heard the faint rasp of Thorne shifting, perhaps leaning forward. "The Grand Majestic. Tonight. Target?" A sharp intake of breath, almost imperceptible. "Understood. Asset status?" The finality in Thorne's next word sent a chill down Leo's spine: "Terminate." The line went dead.
Leo still is asleep.
Thorne agrees and uses the mission to vent o anger and frustration. He arrives at the Grand Majestic Hotel rooftop bar precisely at 9:47 PM, the humid city air clinging to his charcoal suit. Below, the city pulses like a wounded animal. His target—Agent Dark—sits alone at the far end of the bar, nursing a neat whiskey. The man looks ordinary: thinning hair, tired eyes, the slump of middle-management defeat. Perfect camouflage. Thorne's knuckles whiten around his own tumbler. He replays Leo's scent—Laurent's bergamot soap, the musk of sex—and fury coils tighter in his gut. This kill isn't just protocol; it's punctuation. A period at the end of a sentence written in betrayal.
He moves at 10:02 PM. The rooftop is half-empty, soft jazz masking footfalls. Dark doesn't react until Thorne's shadow falls across his drink. Recognition flashes—brief, panicked—before professionalism locks it down. "Sir," Dark rasps, hand twitching toward his jacket. Too slow. Thorne's silenced pistol presses hard beneath Dark's ribcage. One muffled thump. The agent slumps forward, forehead hitting the polished mahogany with a soft thud. Whiskey spills, mingling with the bloom of crimson on his white shirt. Thorne slides the man's untouched phone into his pocket—the only objective. The rest is personal. He watches the light fade from Dark's eyes, imagining Leo's defiance crumbling the same way. Satisfaction is cold and sharp.
[1] ER