The first time Pete walked into the Montclair estate, he felt the air shift around him. Marble floors gleamed under harsh chandelier lights, and the walls seemed to hum with danger. This was Vegas' world. A kingdom ruled by power, fear, and the kind of authority Pete had spent his life learning to read—and avoid.
Vegas was waiting in the grand hall, lounging casually on a sleek leather chair like a predator who knew the chase had already begun. His smirk widened when he saw Pete step in, his posture cautious, gun holstered but hands twitching as if ready to spring.
"Look at you," Vegas said, voice dripping amusement and danger. "Little enemy bodyguard, walking into my den. Bold… or stupid?"
Pete met his gaze, chest tight, every nerve alert. "I'm just here to protect my client. Not interested in your games."
Vegas laughed, a low, dangerous sound that filled the hall. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes scanning Pete like he was a puzzle—one Vegas planned to solve slowly, painfully, and thoroughly.
"You think you're safe," Vegas murmured, rising with the grace of a panther. "But once you step into my world… everything changes."
Pete's pulse jumped. He hated, loved, feared, and craved this man all at once. Vegas was chaos incarnate: foul language, cruel humor, playboy charm, and lethal hands. Every step Vegas took toward him was both a threat and a temptation.
"You're dangerous," Pete said, voice low, almost a growl. "I know who you are. I won't fall into your games."
Vegas stopped mere inches away. The heat radiating off him was physical, almost suffocating. "Oh, you will fall, pet. And not because I make you… because you want to." His hand brushed Pete's arm lightly—a touch electric enough to make him stagger, though he tried to hide it.
Pete's teeth clenched. His training screamed to stay professional, but every instinct throbbed with the tension Vegas ignited. The man was a storm, and Pete had no umbrella.
A sudden shout from the side announced an attack—a rival gang, daring to strike at Montclair territory. Vegas' smirk never faltered. "Show me what you've got," he said, voice low and commanding.
Pete moved. Reflexes sharp, body tense, he engaged—blocking, countering, protecting not just himself but Vegas' unspoken trust. And Vegas? He fought like a storm, ruthless, powerful, and beautiful in motion. Every strike was precise, every kick lethal.
At one point, they were back-to-back, breathing hard, surrounded by unconscious bodies. Vegas leaned slightly toward Pete, eyes dark with amusement and something more primal. "Not bad," he whispered. "Maybe you do belong here…"
Pete felt the heat of his words in his chest, in places he'd never admit. He shook his head, trying to refocus. "Don't push me."
Vegas chuckled, hand brushing Pete's hair teasingly. "You love being pushed, pet. Admit it."
Pete's body betrayed him. Every nerve screamed, every heartbeat thudded like a warning drum. He hated himself for it. He hated that he wanted Vegas' touch, that he wanted to sink into the chaos, that he wanted… more.
Vegas' smirk widened as he saw the conflict in Pete's eyes. "Good," he said softly. "Because I'm not stopping. Not now, not ever."
And with that, he pulled Pete into the deeper heart of his world—luxury, danger, lust, and loyalty tangled together like a blade and its sheath. Every room, every shadow held temptation. Every glance, every touch was a challenge.
Later, in the private study, Vegas cornered him. Rain pounded against the windows, mixing with the heat between them. Vegas' hands were firm on Pete's shoulders, holding him close—not just touching, but claiming.
"You think you can resist me?" Vegas murmured, voice low, rough with desire. "Try. I dare you."
Pete swallowed, body tight, heart hammering. "I… I won't…"
Vegas' lips brushed against his ear, hot, teasing, promising. "We'll see, pet. We'll see."
And that night, Pete realized something terrifying—and thrilling: in Vegas' world, control was an illusion. And he wanted none of it… except Vegas.