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I scoffed, turning my gaze to the blur of city lights outside the window. For two weeks, I’d been off my game—an edge to my thoughts, a restlessness in my bones. Kent noticed, of course; the bastard missed nothing. Cole, too, saw something was up, but that self-absorbed prick wouldn’t care if the world burned, so long as he stood atop the ashes.
“Is this your idea of a fucking intervention?” My words were clipped, terse.
“Could be,” Kent replied, his voice smooth as the purr of the engine. “Or maybe I just want to have some fun.”
“Fun,” I said, the concept feeling foreign on my tongue.
Fun wasn’t chasing ghosts through unanswered texts or wrestling with desires best kept in the dark—a breeding ground for shame and regret. No, fun was a distraction I couldn’t afford, not when every fiber of me screamed for resolution, for something I couldn’t quite name.
“Lighten up, Ashbourne. You’ve been wound tighter than a virgin’s—” Kent cut himself off with a chuckle, glancing my way.
“Finish that sentence, and I’ll show you just how tight my fist can be.” The threat left my lips without thought, as instinctive as breathing.
“Promises, promises,” Kent taunted, the anticipation in his voice like a live wire. Whatever he had planned, it reeked of fucked-up—the kind of twisted thrill that made my blood sing, despite my better judgment.
We sped through the streets, my mind a battleground of desire and denial. I was a fucking high-powered lawyer, not some pawn in Kent’s perverse chess game. Yet here I was, captive to curiosity, to whatever carnal spectacle awaited. The city blurred past, a smudge of lights and shadows against the night. My thumb scrolled, relentless, desperate. Darius’s contact—nothing but empty space where there should’ve been words. Fifty texts, countless calls, each one an echo in the void he’d left behind.Darius.My screen mocked back at me, devoid of life. A digital ghost town.
I let out a low growl of frustration, barely audible over the hum of tires on the asphalt. The phone, a sleek slice of technology that promised connection yet delivered isolation, slipped from my grasp, its weight heavy with failure as it hit the pocket of my designer suit.
Kent’s foot eased off the gas, the car coasting now. A heavy sigh escaped me, a surrender to whatever madness awaited. We slid into an alley, the headlights catching on something unexpected—a door, stark against the grime, crowned with a rose, blood-red against the black gloss finish. An omen, a beacon, a dare.
“Are you shitting me?” I said with annoyance.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Kent shrugged.
I wanted to punch him in the face. I didn’t need to see what was behind the door to know it had something to do with pussy. Kent’s marriage was nothing more than a business transaction orchestrated by our father. He was bound to his wife only in name, with no emotional connection or loyalty. This arrangement gave Kent the freedom to indulge in any carnal pleasure he desired, thrusting his cock into any warm cunt that would have him, without consequence.
“I hope you use protection,” I said, turning my attention back to the door in front of us.
The car stopped, the engine’s rumble dying down to silence, and with it, the last of my patience. Between the both of us, we had a million things to deal with, but Kent was more worried about blowing a load. The door clicked shut behind Kent, the sound crisp in the alley's silence. I followed suit, leather soles connecting with gritty pavement as I emerged from the car’s confines. The air stank of refuse and secrets. I rolled my eyes, impatience clawing at me.
“Where the fuck are we, and how long is this going to take?” I spat, not bothering to mask the annoyance roughening my voice.
Kent turned, a smirk playing on his lips, nonchalant as ever. His fist rapped against the enigmatic door, echoing down the desolate corridor of garbage bins and shadows.
“You got somewhere to be?” He tossed the question back like a challenge, his eyebrow arched, daring me to admit that I did—in fact—have somewhere else I’d rather be. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but away from the unanswered calls that haunted me.
I clenched my jaw, the taste of anger and something else—something darker—swirling on my tongue. My gaze flickered over the red rose, that goddamn emblem of whatever hedonistic hell awaited inside.
The slit in the door widened, revealing a pair of eyes that scrutinized us with cold calculation. “Phrase?” the voice demanded, a low growl of impatience or perhaps amusement.
“Kavanagh knows best,” Kent answered, his tone betraying no hesitation. The eyes vanished, and the door creaked open.
Kent gestured, a silent command sharpened by the tilt of his head. I stepped over the threshold. The oppressive, dimly lit corridor stretched out like a serpent’s spine.
“Looks like a fucking drug lair,” I mumbled under my breath, my words a mix of defiance and reluctant curiosity. “Who the fuck is Kavanagh?”
The man, a shadow clad in black, halted at the end of the hall. He extended an arm toward a red curtain that hung like a shroud before us. My feet froze, a momentary rebellion against the unknown.
“Come on, Wes,” Kent whispered, his nudge more persuasion than force.
I pushed past the velvet barrier, its texture brushing against my skin—a tactile warning.
The air reeked of sex and secrets, thick with the scent of lust that clawed at my throat. Masked men lined up like sentinels of sin, their tailored suits a mockery of the debauchery they witnessed. Beneath them, naked women sprawled on display, bound and gagged like some twisted offering to the gods of flesh.
“What the fuck is this?”
Kent’s lips brushed my ear, a serpent’s hiss disguised as a whisper. “The breeding suite.”
