From behind the desk, Vance watched Askai with an intensity that bordered on the obsessive. He observed as Askai's head slowly dipped toward the armrest, his lean frame, stretching out on the expensive couch, slowly drifting away from the harsh realities of the world.
A curious, unfamiliar tenderness warred with Vance's inherent need for control. He left the desk—a silent, almost stealthy movement that belied his inherent arrogance—and walked up to the couch, sitting beside the sleeping man.
Askai was barely a few inches shorter than Vance, but the contrast was stark: Askai was all lean, hard muscle, forged in constant motion and necessity, while Vance was refined, built of disciplined strength and inherited privilege.
Vance lifted his hand, his fingers tracing the sharp, proud line of Askai's jaw, careful not to wake him. Ever since that night at the party, Vance had been gripped by a profound, magnetic fixation. Askai was a variable he couldn't predict, a secret he couldn't buy, and a chase he couldn't abandon. With his wild hairs and foxy eyes, he looked like a stray cat that Vance was all too willing to adopt but for whatever reasons, Askai had his claws out.
He simply could not understand him.
Vance was opening his world to the boy with an ease that few people in the East—or even Middle Nolan—would ever refuse. It was a powerful world: connections worth more than diamonds, rooms where influence was traded like currency, boardrooms that could shape a future before it had properly begun. For any aspiring lawyer, it was a dream handed over on a silver platter.
And even when Vance's interest faded—as it always eventually did—he was not careless with those who had shared his love. His lovers left with their lives elevated, their futures padded with opportunity, their exits cushioned in wealth and influence. Vance Regale did not discard. He endowed.
Askai yet wanted none of it. He neither wanted his affection nor his connections. Vance was looking for every possible excuse to run toward the flame, and Askai, with equal fervor, was looking for every possible way to run from him.
Vance's lips lifted into a sly, slow smile, utterly devoid of humor. He knew how utterly vain Askai's efforts would turn out to be. The more the man ran, the more the thrill—and the deeper the attachment—grew. Askai was rapidly becoming the most intriguing, challenging possession Vance had ever coveted.
Then, with calculated, devastating effect, Vance cleared his throat, a sharp, loud sound that shattered the peace.
Askai's eyes flew open with a frantic start, his reflexes kicking in. "I'm sorry, Professor—!" he blurted, blinking rapidly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had been caught so often napping in his classes, that his body understood the drill.
But instead of the dreary reality of a lecture hall, it was Vance sitting inches away, head tilted back, laughing—a genuine, unrestrained sound, as if he'd just won a complex, private bet.
Askai groaned, dragging a hand down his face in pure exasperation. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, the last remnants of sleep dissolving into shame and urgency.
He snatched his phone—4:15 PM.
"Shit." He sprang from the couch and started fumbling violently for his bag. He had promised Jordan he would leave by four.
That idiot should have at least called me, he thought, irritation spiking.
"Relax," Vance said, finally catching his breath, the amusement lingering in his voice. "Where are you rushing off to? Dinner's on me tonight."
Askai slung the heavy strap over his shoulder, his eyes squeezed shut for a quick second of centering. "Can't. I have to be somewhere. Really urgent."
Vance's smile faltered. His eyes narrowed slightly, a subtle shift that turned his voice from casual suggestion to pointed, dangerous inquiry.
"Is Jordan a part of that 'somewhere'?"
Askai froze. His hand on the doorknob faltered, his shoulders stiffening defensively. "Don't."
Vance leaned back against the desk, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze unwavering. "I'm just asking."
"He's like a brother to me," Askai said quietly, his voice dangerously level. "We've been together since… since my first memory of myself. Don't drag him into this. He's not part of your game."
There was something unreadable in Vance's eyes—no mockery, no sarcasm, no hint of the casual cruelty Askai expected. Just a raw, exposed flicker of something Askai didn't want to recognize, a sudden glimpse of a vulnerability that was terrifying in its rarity.
"I know that now," Vance whispered, the confession sounding utterly genuine.
Askai looked away, hating this—this subtle, destabilizing shift in tone that made things harder, not easier. It was too soft, too close to the bone.
"You can bring him along," Vance offered, a grudging compromise. "If it makes you feel better. I won't pretend I'm not curious."
"Not today," Askai said quickly, voice firm, almost desperate. "Please. Just... understand that."
He kept glancing at his watch, the minutes ticking away toward his appointment with Kael.
Vance stepped closer. Too close. His hand rose again, not to dominate, but with a seeking, tender curiosity, his fingers brushing along Askai's jaw in a motion too soft, too deliberate.
Askai, against all his instincts, almost leaned into that touch. It was a gesture so quiet, so intimate, that he might have fooled himself into believing that this was more than a cat-and-mouse chase for Vance—that perhaps this was the beginning of an unfamiliar, fragile attraction.
It could never be.
Both of them were instances of the same species—cut from the same dark, rebellious cloth, perhaps, but stitched into entirely different patterns. Where Askai had been forged in scarcity, in back-alley deals and the kind of fierce, earned loyalty that demanded blood, Vance had been carved from excess—polished and shaped by power that had never once been threatened or questioned.
Their upbringings had left them standing at opposite ends of a spectrum—two halves of a broken mirror, each reflecting a devastatingly different vision of what they could become.
Askai wanted escape, a semblance of peace, something grounded in freedom. Vance, on the other hand, craved control and the thrill of bending the world's rules just enough to make them his own.
One was running from ghosts.
The other was actively hunting them, and the hunt had never felt more essential.
Vance opened his mouth, as if to say something —a demand, a realization, a threat—then didn't. He just nodded, his hand falling away, the withdrawal a practiced art of calculated distance.
"Fine," he said, his voice returning to its cool, aristocratic register. "But breakfast. Tomorrow. Don't be late."
Askai gave a single, clipped nod. "Done."
Then he was gone, out the door with the faintest rustle of wind and the rapid sound of his retreating boots.
Vance watched the empty space where Askai had stood, his lips pressed into a thin, thoughtful line. The second the sound of Askai's movements faded into the hum of the East Wing, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number known only to a select few in the shadows.
He waited as the line rang, then said into it, his voice cool and even, utterly devoid of the warmth he had just displayed:
"He just left. Track where he goes. Discreetly. Do not interfere."
A short pause followed as he listened to the acknowledgement.
"And if the blonde one shows up—stay out of sight. I want to know exactly what they are hiding. Every detail." He hung up without waiting for a response, staring at the rapidly darkening sky beyond the suite window.
Askai thought he was running from something. He hadn't realized he was running straight into the most dangerous hands in Nolan.
The chase, after all, had only just begun.