The interior of Markus's condo was exactly what Jake had expected, yet it still felt like a punch to his refined sensibilities. It wasn't the chaotic mess of a bachelor pad; instead, it was a space of brutal, expensive minimalism. The floors were polished dark concrete, the furniture was heavy and low-slung in shades of slate and charcoal, and the walls were adorned with nothing but a single, oversized boxing speed bag in the corner and a series of high-end, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the shimmering, restless lights of Makati.
It smelled of expensive espresso, sandalwood, and the faint, metallic tang of a man who spent his free time hitting things.
"Sit," Markus commanded, nodding toward a small, zinc-topped kitchen island. He didn't offer to take Jake's designer coat. He just watched as the Prince gingerly placed the greasy bag of street food on the counter as if it were a delicate archaeological find.
Jake unpacked the skewers. He'd seen them being grilled over charcoal on a street corner—isaw, pork barbecue, and something the vendor called betamax. He didn't know what they were, but the smoky, savory scent was intoxicating. He hadn't eaten since the flight.
"You're actually going to eat that?" Markus asked, leaning against the refrigerator, his arms crossed. The light caught the intricate black ink on his biceps—the tattoos Jake had noticed earlier. Up close, they weren't just random lines; they were stylized patterns that looked like thorns and old Filipino script, Baybayin, wrapping around his skin like armor.
"I am hungry," Jake said simply. He took a bite of a pork skewer. The flavor was an explosion of sweet, salty, and spicy vinegar. He let out a small, involuntary sound of approval. "This is... remarkable. Better than the truffled quail at the gala."
Markus's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossing his face. "Truffled quail. Right. You really are from another planet, aren't you?" He reached out, snagging a skewer of isaw (chicken intestines) and sliding the meat off with his teeth in one practiced motion. "Don't get used to it. Tomorrow, you're finding your own 'remarkable' snacks."
They ate in a strange, heavy silence. Jake felt Markus's gaze on him the entire time—an analytical, predatory look that made him feel like he was being weighed and measured. Jake, in turn, couldn't help but stare at Markus's hands. They were large, the knuckles thickened and scarred, yet he handled the small wooden skewers with a surprising, quiet grace.
When the food was gone, Jake wiped his hands on a paper napkin, his mind already drifting toward the exhaustion settling into his bones. The adrenaline that had carried him from the Grand Imperial to this 42nd-floor condo was finally leaching out of him.
"Where do I sleep?" Jake asked, standing up.
Markus didn't even blink. He pointed a scarred thumb toward the long, L-shaped charcoal sofa in the living area. It was sleek, expensive, and looked about as soft as a park bench. "Right there. I'll get you a throw pillow and a spare sheet if I can find one. The AC is set to twenty, so you might want to keep your fancy socks on."
Jake looked at the sofa. Then he looked at the hallway leading to what he assumed was the bedroom. "The sofa? You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm in a comedy mood, Princess?" Markus's voice was flat. "I told you, I don't do roommates. You're the one who crashed my gate. You get the couch."
"Markus, I have spent the last twenty-four hours in transit," Jake said, his royal poise returning out of pure desperation. "I have never slept on a sofa in my life. I am... pampered. I admit it. My spine is accustomed to Egyptian cotton and mattresses that feel like clouds. If I sleep on that, I won't be able to walk tomorrow."
Markus let out a sharp, dry bark of a laugh. "Then maybe you'll be easier to kick out. Look, Jake—or whatever your name is—I spent three years sleeping on a concrete slab with a rolled-up orange jumpsuit for a pillow. You'll survive a night on a four-thousand-dollar Italian leather couch. It builds character. Something you're clearly lacking."
Jake felt the sting of the insult, but he didn't back down. He stepped closer, entering Markus's personal space. He could smell the soap and the lingering scent of the street food on the other man. "I am not asking for character. I am asking for a bed. I am a guest, even if I am an uninvited one. In my country, hospitality is a sacred duty."
"This isn't your country," Markus snapped, his eyes flashing with a sudden, dark intensity. He took a step forward, looming over Jake. He was a wall of muscle and heat, a physical presence that should have sent Jake running for the elevators. "And in my world, 'guests' don't demand the host's bed. I don't sleep with strangers. I don't trust people enough to close my eyes next to them. Understand?"
For a moment, Jake saw it—the flash of raw, jagged trauma behind Markus's bravado. It wasn't just that he was being a jerk; it was that he was genuinely guarded. The "yard" had taught him that vulnerability was a death sentence.
But Jake was a Prince, and if there was one thing royalty was good at, it was being relentlessly, maddeningly persistent.
"I am not a stranger," Jake said softly, his voice steady. "I am the man who brought you dinner. I am the man who chose your 'asshole' company over a luxury villa. I'm not going to steal your scotch, and I certainly won't hurt you in your sleep. Look at me, Markus. Do I look like a threat to you?"
Markus looked. He looked at the pale, symmetrical face, the wide blue eyes filled with a stubbornness that rivaled his own, and the slight frame that looked like it had never known a day of physical hardship. Jake looked like a masterpiece in a world of scrap metal.
"You're a pain in my ass," Markus muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I am also very tired," Jake added, sensing a crack in the armor. "The bed is large, isn't it? A King-sized bed?"
Markus groaned, a sound of pure defeat. "It's a California King. Custom made."
"Then there is plenty of room for two men who don't like each other to stay on their respective sides," Jake argued. "I promise, I won't even cross the invisible line in the middle."
Markus stared at him for a long, agonizing minute. He looked like he was weighing the pros and cons of throwing Jake off the balcony versus sharing his mattress. Finally, he let out a long, frustrated breath.
"Fine," Markus growled, pointing a finger at Jake's chest. "But listen to me. You stay on your side. You don't talk. You don't touch me. If you even so much as graze my arm, you're going out the window. I sleep with a knife under my pillow, Jake. Don't test me."
Jake suppressed a shudder, though his heart did a strange, erratic skip. "Understood. No talking. No touching. No windows."
The bedroom was even more minimalist than the living room. The bed was a massive, low-profile platform in the center of the room, covered in heavy black linens. The only other furniture was a set of free weights in the corner and a single nightstand with a heavy glass of water.
Markus moved to one side of the bed, his movements jerky and irritated. He didn't take off his sweatpants, but he stayed shirtless, the muscles of his back rippling as he climbed under the covers. He lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, his body as rigid as a board.
Jake felt a sudden, sharp wave of self-consciousness. He had changed into a pair of silk pajama bottoms he'd packed in his duffel—royal blue, of course—and a thin white t-shirt. He felt absurdly underdressed for a man who usually slept in a room the size of a ballroom.
He climbed into the other side of the bed. The mattress was indeed incredible—firm yet yielding, smelling of the same sandalwood as the rest of the condo. He lay down, keeping as close to the edge as possible, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The silence in the room was deafening. He could hear the hum of the air conditioning and the distant, muffled sounds of the city below, but mostly, he could hear Markus's breathing. It was slow and deep, but there was an edge to it—a tension that hadn't dissipated.
"Markus?" Jake whispered.
"No talking," the gravelly voice replied instantly from the darkness.
"I just wanted to say... thank you. For the bed."
"Go to sleep, Jake."
"And for not throwing me out the window."
"The night isn't over yet."
Jake smiled to himself in the dark. He closed his eyes, the scent of the man next to him—the soap, the ink, the raw, masculine heat—filling his senses. It was the strangest, most dangerous situation he had ever been in. He was a Prince in hiding, sharing a bed with a former convict in a city that didn't know his name.
For the first time in twenty-five years, Jake didn't feel like a prisoner of his own life. He felt like an adventurer.
He drifted off to sleep, blissfully unaware of the fact that halfway through the night, as the temperature in the room dropped, he would unconsciously seek out the warmth of the man beside him, and that Markus, despite his knife and his trauma, wouldn't pull away.