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“I hate you,” I spat out, the words meant to wound, to push him away.
Weston’s response was to nibble at my earlobe, sending an unwanted jolt straight to my gut. “I know,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble filled with something dark and wrong.
His words sent another jolt through me, one that made my dick pulse with need. Fuck, I wanted to fill his hole with my cock once more. His presence loomed, and his scent enveloped me, a mix of citrus and musk that was uniquely Weston. My skin prickled with awareness, every nerve ending screaming that this was wrong, so fucking wrong, but god help me, it felt like sinking into quicksand—terrifying and impossible to escape.
Chapter17
Weston
Three days later and my body was still a fucking wreck—a human punching bag that’d been tenderized for the main course. I lay there on the couch, letting out a groan as I tried to find a position that didn’t scream murder. The phone rang, Kent’s voice coming through like an annoying gnat buzzing in my ear.
“The office is in chaos, Weston. Without you and Cole… we had to fly in reinforcements from the New York branch.”
I listened, half-dead to the world, the phone slipping a little from my grip. I should have given a damn—senior partner and all that bullshit—but I didn’t. Not one fucking bit. That night at the club with Darius, the raw pulse of it, the sweat, the heat… something inside me snapped like a brittle bone.
Kent rambled on, words tumbling over each other, but they were just noise—static on a screen I had stopped watching. My mind played reruns of fists flying, blood splattering, and Darius… fucking Darius in the thick of it.
“Weston, are you even listening?”
“Sure, Kent,” I lied, and pressed the phone against my cheek. “Keep the ship afloat. I’ll be back when I’m back.”
The truth? The office could have burned to the ground for all I cared at that moment. The prestige, the accolades, the entire Ashbourne legacy meant nothing as I tasted real, unadulterated life with Darius. The golden handcuffs shattered, and I was finally felt free from their grip.
Kent had said, “Get well soon,” before hanging up, his voice dripping with the insincere concern of a corporate robot.
I flung the phone aside, letting it become swallowed by the cushions.
“Fuck,” I mumbled, shifting to ease the ache in my torso.
Healing, sure. But not fast enough. The cold beer bottle sweated in my grip, a slippery contrast to the hot flush spreading across my chest. It wasn’t just the alcohol numbing the pain—it was the realization that I wanted to be fucking done with that life.
I let the bitterness of the hops wash over my tongue, feeling it mingle with the bile of years spent groveling for scraps of approval from a man who’d never seen me as more than a surname carrier. Albert Ashbourne—father, tycoon, relentless fucker of joy.
I leaned back against the plush cushions of the couch, my body protesting with a symphony of pain and bruises. But lurking beneath the surface of my newfound rebellion was Parker. My dead brother. My first twisted taste of love, hidden away under lock and key in the darkest corners of my mind. The memory of him was a phantom pain, an ache so deep that every recollection sliced through the scar tissue with surgical precision.
“Christ,” I exhaled, the word barely a whisper, as the ghost of him flickered behind closed eyelids. That familiar grin, the one that could light up the darkest corners of my soul, now only cast shadows. It had been years since the crash, since the world went dark and cold without him, but the loss still clung to me—a relentless leech draining the warmth from my veins.
My hand trembled slightly as I brought the bottle to my lips once more, seeking solace in the burn that trailed down my throat. I could almost hear Parker’s laugh, that carefree sound that had so often been the prelude to our secret, nocturnal sins.
“Never enough,” I whispered to the empty room.
Never enough to chase away the chill, to fill the void left by a brother’s touch, a brother’s kiss. Never enough to make me whole again. But Parker was gone. And I was here, still bleeding, still breathing, still yearning for something more than the golden shackles of a name.
The deep glow of the early evening suffused the room, with shadows stretching across the polished floors like creeping tendrils. There was a stillness in the air, punctuated only by the occasional clink of glass against wood as I set my beer down—a momentary relief from the relentless current of thoughts.
I replayed that dinner scene over and over, the night I saw him after years had stretched between us. The second I saw him, something primal inside me stirred, an instinct far removed from rational thought. Dark hair like midnight silk, hazel eyes with secrets dancing in their depths, he was the echo of a past I could never escape. Every gesture, every smirk, a haunting resemblance to Parker. It twisted my gut, this collision of desire and despair, luring and repelling me all at once. To crave him felt like sacrilege, yet the pull was undeniable. Dead brother’s son be damned.
“Is this what you do all day?” Darius’s voice sliced through the silence, sharp and unexpected.
I didn’t startle; I never did. But his presence—it charged the air, electrified it until each breath felt like inhaling lightning.
The beer bottle hovered at my lips, cold and forgotten as I took him in. He stood there, the embodiment of temptation, wrapped in another pair of my sweats. They hung low on his hips, teasingly revealing just a hint of skin. My smirk came unbidden, the silent admission of my feelings coming to the surface. He moved closer, and I felt the air shift. The weight of his gaze was a tangible thing, heavy with questions I wasn’t sure I wanted to answer. But then again, when had I ever been able to deny him anything?
“You know, a bag of your clothing was dropped off yesterday morning.”
“I know.” Darius’s response came easy, nonchalant as he shoved his hands into the pockets and stepped between my legs, invading my personal space like it was his birthright. “But I like these more.”
His eyes lingered on my torso, concern flickering in those hazel depths. “Does it still hurt?” His voice softened around the edges, a rare moment of vulnerability piercing his usual armor of defiance.
