When Askai next clawed his way back to consciousness, he found himself lying on something impossibly soft—a bed so plush, so obscenely comfortable, that for a moment, he thought he was dead.
The high ceiling above him shimmered with golden bands of morning light that filtered through the curtains on the tall windows. The sunlight struck the mirrored panels overhead, scattering warm rays across the room in delicate, wandering arcs.
For an instant—a foolish, fleeting instant—it felt like heaven. A heaven he did not believe in.
The illusion shattered the moment he shifted and felt the cool press of a dark marble floor beneath his fingertips, grounding him in a reality far stranger than any dream.
He exhaled slowly. This wasn't heaven. This wasn't a dream. Then where the hell was he?
He pushed his palms to the mattress, preparing to rise—when the sharp crack of a gunshot split through the distant air. Askai froze. The silence that followed rang louder than the sound itself.
Then came the soft scrape of footsteps, the twist of a lock, and survival instinct slammed into his chest like a fist. He dove back under the blanket, pulling it up in an instinctive shield, forcing his breathing to a quiet, steady rhythm.
The door opened.
Soft footsteps crossed the room—paced, measured, assessing. Askai kept his eyes closed, lids relaxed, face lax and unbothered. Curiosity thrummed through him like a live wire, but curiosity had always killed the cat.
And he had been killed once already.
Someone swept open the curtains. A violent, unexpected flood of light stabbed through his eyelids and he reflexively tensed—too late to hide it.
"Don't pretend. I know you're awake."
That voice—that unmistakable voice, coiled around him with the same dark, decadent danger it always carried.
His eyes flew open. And there he was.
Vance Regale, perched casually on the edge of a polished desk as though he owned the world. His shirt, loose linen and nearly transparent in the morning light, clung to the hard cut of his chest. The first few buttons hung open, exposing the finely sculpted lines beneath. His trousers, tailored and severe, somehow failed to contain the long, powerful strength of his legs.
But it was his face that robbed Askai of breath.
A rough stubble shadowed his jaw, at least a day old. His eyes—usually sharp, taunting—looked tired, bloodshot, the exhaustion barely veiled beneath that lopsided grin. His hair was disheveled as though he had run his hands through it one too many times. He looked like a man who had been to hell and crawled out through fire—and then poured himself a drink.
Whiskey glinted in his hand.
Askai pushed himself up, spine stiff with annoyance he couldn't fully hide.
"How in hell did I end up here?" Askai demanded, his voice tight, frayed with residual panic and annoyance.
Nothing he could remember explained his current location: in a plush, expensive room, facing Vance Regale. The man in front of him merely shrugged, an indifferent, careless gesture that dismissed Askai's confusion.
Vance lifted the crystal glass—heavy, sharp-edged, and nearly full—to his mouth and downed the whole drink in a single, defiant gulp, never wandering his eyes from Askai. He stared at him with an intensity which was setting him on edge and he visibly gulped.
"Wherever you would run to, Askai, you would always end up here. I thought you would know that by now or was I playing too nice? I would rather you explain," Vance stated, the pause that followed stretching the air tight and making Askai's heart flip with cold apprehension. "Why were you running in the first place?"
Vance slammed the empty glass down onto a polished wood surface, the loud thwack making Askai wince reflexively. It was the sharp, reactive flinch of a man on edge, even though the beer was nowhere near enough to cause this hangover-like tension.
There was a fleeting flash of something like regret or perhaps raw frustration on Vance's face. Surely, he knew the generalized reason for anyone running on the streets.
Askai noticed a distinct slur in Vance's voice; he was clearly drunk, but not enough to mix his 'who' and 'why'. So did he know who Askai was running from? How long would it take him to figure out the 'why' then—the debt, the violence, the past? Most importantly, why was Vance so fucking relentlessly interested?
Askai was thoroughly confused and annoyed, but he chose to keep his mouth shut, resolute in his secrecy. Vance calmly walked over to the immense, sprawling bed and plopped down onto the expensive mattress that sunk heavily beneath his weight, the motion naturally pulling Askai, who was sitting near the foot of the bed, slightly toward him.
"My men were there all night, sifting through the streets of East and West End, after you so conveniently disappeared near that shady hospital. Then you drove that friend of yours on a stolen bike from god knows where back to the dorms. What the hell has he gotten you into Askai?!"
He almost growled into his ears and Askai fisted his hands, trying to reign in his own anger.
Vance had no fucking business setting a trail on him!
His thoughts ran wild trying to figure out how much he had been onto. But Vance mistook his silence for fear. Vance seemed oddly troubled by Askai's reaction, his composure slipping.
"Why did you run from them? Is there someone threatening you?" Vance leaned forward slightly, his voice tight and his gaze piercing. "You only need to give a name, Askai, and I promise you that it will be the last you ever hear of them. But if you don't.."
There was a fierce, almost terrifying touch of protectiveness in his voice, and Askai knew he meant every cold, ruthless word.
But how could Askai tell him that he did not need Vance to fight his demons for him?
If the truth ever came out, Vance would soon be joining the same legion. Moraine had ensured it when he had forced Askai to enroll in the University of Nolan when there were plenty in the Middle Nolan. He had wanted the brothers in the palm of his hand, not imagining in his wildest dreams that Askai would make it so long without losing his cover.
He might have sailed through this sea of deceit if he hadn't crossed paths with Vance.