Part II: The Third Man
By Roman Black
The elevator doors whispered open onto the executive floor as Marcus stepped out, calm and measured, suit jacket draped over his arm. His conference badge sat tucked in his pocket, untouched since lunch. He wasn’t thinking about keynote sessions or market analysis anymore.
He was thinking about Elliott.
And Jace.
And the room he intended to build between them.
The hallway was quiet. Dim. The kind of silence that made a man’s heartbeat feel loud in his chest. Marcus reached his suite, slid the keycard, and stepped inside.
Nathaniel had already refreshed the place—cologne still lingering faintly in the air, sheets crisp and folded to sharp edges, champagne chilling in a silver bucket near the bar. Marcus didn’t ask for any of that. Nathaniel just knew.
And tonight… Marcus needed a room that listened.
He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his cuffs, and checked the time.
Elliott would be getting out of his final breakout session soon. His text earlier had been simple:
“1102 tonight. 9:30. Clear your schedule.”
Not a question. A direction.
Elliott replied seconds later with only:
“Yes.”
Marcus smirked.
He felt it in the base of his spine—control settling in, warm and deliberate.
But Elliott didn’t know the rest.
Marcus walked to the bar and poured two fingers of rye into a crystal glass, then set it down untouched.
Then he reached for his phone.
Marcus: Upstairs. Now.
Jace: You want company?
Marcus: I want discipline. And I want you ready.
Jace: Say less.
That was all.
Marcus didn’t need more than that. He stood before the window—the same glass he bent Elliott over the night before—and waited. His reflection stared back at him: tall, sharp, controlled. A man who didn’t raise his voice to command a room. He engineered one.
A soft knock came at the door.
Marcus opened it without hesitation.
Jace stepped inside wearing black joggers and a fitted tee that gripped his chest like apology. He smelled like sweat, fresh soap, and hunger. His eyes scanned the room immediately, sensing tension like heat.
“You setting something up tonight?” Jace asked, shutting the door behind him.
Marcus stepped closer. “Take your shirt off.”
Jace didn’t blink. He peeled it over his head, muscles flexing under the warm lamp light—his torso tight, tattooed shoulder shifting as he dropped the shirt on a chair. Marcus walked around him once, slow, evaluating.
“You still know your place?” Marcus asked quietly.
Jace swallowed. “Yeah.”
Marcus stopped behind him, close enough that his breath brushed the back of Jace’s neck.
“You speak when I tell you to speak. You touch when I tell you to touch. You stop the second I say stop. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus’s grip slid up Jace’s spine, thick fingers trailing along the line of bone straight to the base of his neck.
“You remember how to kneel?”
Jace dropped instantly—slow, controlled, no hesitation. Hands behind his back. Head lowered.
He was ready.
Marcus checked the clock again.
9:27 PM.
Right on cue, another soft knock met the door.
Elliott.
Marcus’s body tightened with anticipation. He glanced down at Jace.
“Stay.”
Jace nodded, eyes straight ahead, chest rising slow.
Marcus unlocked the door.
Elliott stepped inside wearing a slate-blue dress shirt tucked into fitted black slacks, blazer off, sleeves rolled to the forearms. His cologne hit first—dark, warm, restrained. His eyes lifted immediately to Marcus’s.
“You wanted me here,” Elliott said softly.
Marcus stepped aside. “Come in.”
Elliott walked in. The door closed.
And then he froze.
His eyes landed on Jace—kneeling. Shirtless. Silent. Head bowed.
“What… what’s this?” Elliott breathed.
Marcus shut the distance between them in three slow steps. He pressed a hand to Elliott’s lower back—the same place he marked the night before—and leaned into his ear.
“You said you were curious,” Marcus murmured. “I listened.”
Elliott’s pulse kicked. Hard.
He didn’t step back.
He didn’t look away.
“Marcus…” he whispered. “You didn’t tell me—”
“I didn’t need to.”
Marcus’s voice was smooth, velvet over steel.
“You told me last night you were built to take it. Let me show you what that means.”
Elliott swallowed slowly, chest rising with a deep breath. His eyes drifted down again to Jace—still kneeling, still silent, still obedient.
“Who is he?” Elliott asked.
Marcus answered calmly.
“A man who knows how to listen.”
Elliott’s breath shivered. “And what am I?”
Marcus smiled—slow, dark, and certain.
“You’re the one I choose.”
Elliott’s jaw flexed. He nodded, just slightly. “So what happens now?”
Marcus stepped behind Elliott, lips near his ear again, voice a low command.
“Now you take off your shirt.”
“And you don’t break eye contact with him.”
Jace lifted his head for the first time—just his eyes—and the room tightened like a held breath.
Elliott’s fingers slid to his buttons.
One.
Then another.
Then another.
Slow. Deliberate.
His chest rising with every undone inch of fabric.
Marcus watched both men—the tension, the silence, the hunger threading between them.
This was what he wanted.
What he engineered.
What he controlled.
Two men.
One room.
And a city that never knew what happened when it slept.
Marcus whispered against Elliott’s neck, the words striking low and deep:
“Tonight… you give him permission to want you.”
“And you give me permission to decide what he gets.”
Elliott exhaled—shaky, turned on, overwhelmed.
“I’m ready.”
Marcus smirked.
“Oh, you will be.”
Jace’s lips grazed Elliott’s thigh—barely a kiss, barely a breath.
But it was enough.
Elliott jolted, a sharp inhale cutting through the quiet. His body went tense, hands gripping the edge of the mattress, muscles tightening under his skin.
Marcus watched him closely.
Studied the way Elliott’s shoulders shook.
Studied the way Jace held steady, waiting for the next command, breathing slow against warm skin.
“Good,” Marcus murmured. “Both of you.”
He placed a hand on Elliott’s back, slow and deliberate, palm heavy with intention. His thumb moved in a small circle—a claiming touch, not soft, not gentle, just controlled.
“You feel that?” Marcus asked.
Elliott nodded, but Marcus wasn’t satisfied.
“Use your words.”
Elliott swallowed. “Yes.”
Marcus leaned in, his mouth brushing Elliott’s ear in a way that wasn’t a kiss but felt like one.
“Tell me what you feel.”
Elliott exhaled shakily. “Warm. Close. Too close.”
Marcus smiled against his skin. “Good. Stay right there.”
He snapped his fingers once.
Jace shifted immediately—just a subtle movement of knees on carpet, body angling upward, breath pressing closer to Elliott’s inner thigh but still not touching anything more.
Marcus lowered his voice to a slow command.
“Jace. Hands behind your back again.”
Jace obeyed instantly. The restraint only made the room feel tighter, heavier, more controlled.
Elliott’s eyes flickered down. “He’s just… waiting?”
“For you,” Marcus said.
“For my instruction.”
“For the moment I decide what he’s allowed to do.”
Elliott’s breath stuttered—half anticipation, half disbelief.
“You’re shaking,” Marcus murmured.
“I can’t help it.”
“That’s because I haven’t told you who’s in charge yet.”
Elliott looked up at him, chest rising.
“You already know,” Marcus said quietly. “Your body knew the second you walked in.”
A beat of silence passed.
Jace stayed still, muscles locked in place, eyes fixed where Marcus wanted them.
Then Marcus reached forward and tapped two fingers under Elliott’s chin, lifting his face toward him.
“Elliott… look at him.”
Elliott turned his head.
Jace’s eyes were darker now—focused, disciplined, hungry, but waiting.
“Tell him what you’re thinking,” Marcus said.
Elliott hesitated. Then whispered, “That he looks like he’s about to break.”
Marcus’s voice sharpened just slightly. “He is.”
Jace’s shoulders flexed—controlled, tight—but he didn’t move. He didn’t dare.
Marcus stepped back, placing one hand on each of their shoulders—Elliott sitting, Jace kneeling, both men caught between instruction and desire.
“You feel the tension?” Marcus asked.
Both nodded.
“That’s not by accident. That’s me.”
His grip tightened.
“I decide the rhythm.”
“I decide the pace.”
“I decide who gets what.”
“And when.”
Elliott’s head dropped, overwhelmed.
Jace’s breathing deepened, chest heaving.
Marcus pulled Elliott gently backward until his spine met Marcus’s chest. His voice dripped control into Elliott’s ear.
“You wanted to know what it feels like to be chosen,” he murmured.
“This is it.”
Elliott’s breath hitched. “Marcus…”
“Don’t talk,” Marcus whispered. “Just feel.”
Jace’s eyes followed every shift in Elliott’s body—every tremble, every swallow, every breath.
But he didn’t move.
Not without permission.
Marcus looked down at the younger man.
“You see him falling apart?” Marcus asked.
Jace nodded once. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Marcus replied. “Because tonight isn’t about you.”
Something hot flickered across Jace’s expression.
Resentment.
Need.
Forced patience.
Marcus smirked.
“But I’ll still let you watch.”
Jace let out a quiet, involuntary exhale.
Elliott shivered.
Marcus’s voice dropped into something low and coaxing.
“Elliott… lean forward.”
Elliott did—slowly—exposing more of himself in a way that felt both vulnerable and electric.
“Good,” Marcus said. “Now breathe.”
Elliott did.
Marcus turned to Jace.
“And you — don’t take your eyes off him.”
Jace nodded, jaw tight.
Marcus traced a line down Elliott’s spine with the back of his finger — slow, intentional, sending a visible shiver through the man beneath him.
“That’s it,” Marcus murmured. “Both of you stay right there. Stay in the tension. Stay in the need. Stay in the space I build.”
He stepped around them, watching them from different angles — like a conductor taking his place before the first note.
One man naked and shaking on the mattress.
One man kneeling and hungry on the floor.
Both waiting.
Both braced.
Both falling under him.
Marcus inhaled slowly, savoring the power he held over the room — over two grown men who would’ve commanded any boardroom, any negotiation, any deal.
But not here.
Here, he was the gravity.
The axis.
The force.
He stepped closer and said, just loud enough to ground them both:
“Tonight… I’ll show you how a room obeys.”
For a long moment, no one moved.
The suite was quiet except for the breath of two men holding themselves still under Marcus’s control. The city beyond the glass glittered like an audience that didn’t know it had front-row seats.
Marcus stood between them with a stillness that made the air feel thick.
Not tense—intentional.
Like a pressure building before the first drop of rain.
He rested his hands behind his back and assessed the room like he owned every inch of it.
“Look at me,” Marcus said.
Elliott lifted his head immediately.
Jace followed a heartbeat later.
Marcus stepped forward until he stood directly in front of Elliott—close enough that Elliott had to tilt his chin up.
“You’re trembling.”
Elliott swallowed. “I’m aware.”
Marcus smirked slightly. “Good. That means you’re listening.”
His fingers brushed Elliott’s jaw—not a caress, not a tease, just possession. Then he shifted his gaze down to the man still kneeling at Elliott’s feet.
“And you,” Marcus murmured. “Still desperate.”
Jace’s breath hitched, but he stayed silent.
Marcus didn’t look away.
“I can tell,” Marcus said quietly. “Your whole body’s locked like you’re fighting yourself.”
Jace’s jaw flexed, a confession in the tension of his muscles.
Marcus’s voice lowered, steady and absolute.
“You don’t fight anything in here. Not your breathing. Not your pulse. Not what you want.”
He stepped away from Elliott and circled behind Jace. The younger man’s shoulders rose subtly—aware of every footstep.
Without touching him, Marcus leaned close enough that his voice wrapped around the back of Jace’s neck.
“But you do wait. Because I said so.”
Jace nodded once, the movement small, controlled.
Marcus moved again—this time back to Elliott, who was still perched at the edge of the mattress, thighs open just enough to reveal uncertainty and need.
“Elliott,” Marcus said, “hands on your knees.”
Elliott complied, fingers pressing into his skin as though grounding himself.
“Sit tall.”
Elliott straightened.
Marcus smiled.
“That’s better. You look like a man who understands he’s being seen.”
The words alone made Elliott’s lips part slightly—something like vulnerability, something like recognition.
Marcus reached out and placed a single finger under Elliott’s chin, lifting it again until their eyes met.
“You said you were ready,” Marcus murmured. “Now I’m going to test that.”
Silence.
Then Marcus spoke the first true command of the night:
“Elliott… tell him to look at you.”
Elliott blinked, startled by the thought of giving instruction. But Marcus didn’t repeat himself; he merely waited.
Elliott turned his head slowly toward the kneeling man.
“Look at me,” Elliott said softly.
Jace’s gaze lifted instantly.
And something electric passed between them—silent, sharp, unfamiliar.
Marcus watched it strike.
“Good,” Marcus said. “Now hold his eyes.”
Elliott did.
Jace did.
Two men who would never have chosen each other—now locked in a current neither one could break.
Marcus stepped back to watch the way their bodies reacted:
Elliott’s breathing unsteady.
Jace’s chest rising fast.
Neither daring to look away.
Marcus’s voice cut through the tension like warm steel.
“Now,” he said, “tell him what you feel in this moment.”
Elliott hesitated—caught, vulnerable, exposed in a way he’d never been around another man.
But Marcus stayed silent. Waiting.
Elliott swallowed hard.
“I feel… overwhelmed,” he whispered. “And curious. And… seen.”
Jace’s breath shook.
Marcus nodded once—pleased.
“Jace,” Marcus said, “your turn.”
Jace’s voice came out rough, low, honest in a way he hadn’t planned.
“I feel like I’m losing patience… and discipline’s the only thing holding me together.”
Marcus’s smile deepened—the kind a man wore when everything was going exactly as he intended.
“Good,” Marcus said. “Now both of you hold that. The wanting. The restraint. The pressure.”
He stepped closer to them both, lowering his voice into something dark and controlled.
“And now I decide what happens next.”
Both men inhaled sharply.
Marcus reached out and placed one hand on Elliott’s shoulder…
and the other on Jace’s jaw…
a single point of contact for each man, binding them not to each other, but to him.
He held them there—breathing, waiting, trembling under two inches of his touch—and said:
“Elliott, lean forward.”
“Jace, lift your face to him.”
The room pulsed with tension.
“Good,” Marcus murmured.
“Now stay in that space.”
“Feel the pull.”
“Don’t cross it.”
“Not yet.”
He stepped back, letting the distance between their lips, their breath, their chest-tightening want do the work.
“Tonight,” Marcus said quietly, “I teach you both the difference between need… and permission.”
The city lights flickered on the window.
Neither man exhaled.
And Marcus smirked.
“Now,” he said, “we begin.”
Marcus didn’t rush.
He didn’t need to.
Time bent around him.
The room moved at his pace, not theirs.
And both men felt it — the slow tightening of the air, the grounding weight of his presence, the silence that wasn’t empty but loaded.
Elliott leaned forward just an inch, held there by the thick tension Marcus engineered.
Jace lifted his face, breathing shallow, jaw tight with patience he was barely holding onto.
Marcus walked a slow circle around them — not to intimidate, but to assess the tension like a conductor listening to the orchestra before the first note.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Both of you are exactly where I want you.”
He stopped behind them again, standing close enough that they could feel the heat from his body but not close enough to touch.
“Elliott,” Marcus murmured, “tell me what you feel when he looks at you like that.”
Elliott hesitated — but only for a breath.
“Exposed,” he said softly.
“Wanted.”
“Like I’m supposed to let something happen… but I don’t know what.”
Marcus smirked.
“That uncertainty is yours. Don’t fight it.”
He turned to Jace, who was still kneeling, still staring up at Elliott with the kind of hunger that made his shoulders rise and fall in slow, tense waves.
“And you,” Marcus said. “Tell him what you feel.”
Jace swallowed. “Like I’m being tested.”
“You are,” Marcus said calmly. “By me.”
Jace nodded once. “And by him.”
Elliott’s breath hitched — surprised, affected, flustered in a way Marcus caught instantly.
“Good,” Marcus murmured. “Let the honesty stay in the room. No filters. No pretending you’re not both reacting to each other.”
He placed a hand on the center of Elliott’s back.
Another on the side of Jace’s neck.
Both men stiffened under the contact — not from fear, but from the shock of being held in place by a single, measured touch.
Marcus leaned down, voice dropping low.
“This is the first permission of the night,” he said.
“You will follow it exactly. No more. No less.”
Elliott inhaled sharply.
Jace exhaled, shaky.
Marcus stepped between them, standing tall, dominant, collected.
“Jace,” Marcus said.
“Lift your hand.”
Jace looked up, almost disbelieving — he hadn’t been allowed to move for what felt like hours.
Slowly, deliberately, he raised one hand, palm open.
“That’s it,” Marcus murmured. “Good.”
Marcus turned to Elliott.
“And you,” he said, “lean forward… just enough for him to touch your shoulder.”
Elliott froze.
Not in fear — in tension.
In anticipation.
In a kind of vulnerable surrender Marcus had only hinted at before.
He moved slowly… carefully… closing the distance inch by inch until Jace’s fingertips hovered just a breath away from his skin.
Jace’s chest tightened.
Elliott’s lips parted.
The air between them vibrated.
Marcus held up a hand.
“Stop. Right there.”
They froze — breath, muscle, willpower all suspended.
“You feel that?” Marcus asked.
“The pull? The waiting? The almost?”
Both men nodded — small, shaky, overwhelmed.
“That,” Marcus said, “is control.”
“Not pleasure.”
“Not contact.”
“Not release.”
“Control.”
He stepped back, watching them from the perfect angle — one man kneeling, one leaning, both caught in the gravity he built.
“Now…” Marcus said softly.
He moved his hand forward, slow as midnight, until it hovered between their two bodies.
“Jace,” Marcus said. “Touch him.”
Jace’s fingertips finally met Elliott’s shoulder — barely, gently, reverently — but the effect was immediate.
Elliott’s breathing broke.
Jace’s shoulders trembled.
The room snapped tight like a live wire.
Marcus watched every shiver, every subtle shift, every small surrender.
“That,” he murmured, “was your first permission.”
He walked behind them again, voice growing darker, smoother, confident enough to fill the entire suite.
“And there will be more,” Marcus said.
“Slow.”
“Measured.”
“Earned.”
“But understand this…”
He placed a hand on each of them again — anchoring them, claiming them.
“Tonight, neither of you decide what happens.”
“I do.”
Elliott exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours.
Jace shut his eyes briefly, overwhelmed by restraint and wanting.
Marcus smirked.
“Good,” he said. “Now that you’ve had your first permission…”
He paused — letting quiet settle, letting their hearts race in the space he left open.
“…let’s see how you behave with the second.”
Marcus didn’t speak right away.
Silence was part of the architecture — the way he shaped the room, the way he bent two men into presence and attention.
Elliott sat on the edge of the mattress, breathing unevenly, Jace’s fingertips still resting on his shoulder. Even that small contact made Elliott’s pulse stumble and quicken.
Jace held his position perfectly — kneeling, arm extended, eyes focused on Elliott as though permission alone had flipped a switch inside him.
Marcus stepped between them and gently closed Jace’s hand, removing the touch.
“Good,” Marcus said quietly. “You both felt that.”
He looked at Elliott.
“You nearly leaned too far.”
He looked at Jace.
“And you nearly grabbed more than my instruction.”
Jace lowered his eyes, jaw flexing.
Marcus lifted his chin with two fingers, forcing eye contact.
“That’s not a punishment,” Marcus murmured. “It’s confirmation.”
“Of what?” Jace asked, voice low.
“That the next permission will hit harder than the first.”
Jace swallowed. Elliott’s hands tightened on his knees. The room grew warm around them — not from temperature, but from containment.
Marcus turned away from them and walked toward the window, hands in his pockets. The city lights washed over him in gold and blue, his reflection tall and unmovable in the glass.
Neither man dared shift.
When he turned back, his voice was deeper. Steadier.
“Elliott,” Marcus said, “stand.”
Elliott rose from the mattress slowly, every inch of him feeling exposed and seen. He stood tall but not steady — legs tense, breath shallow, heart audible.
“Good,” Marcus said, circling behind him. “Now face him.”
Elliott turned toward Jace, who was still kneeling, still watching, still waiting.
Their eyes met — and something quiet, electric, unfiltered passed between them.
Marcus spoke from behind Elliott’s shoulder.
“You feel that tension?” he asked.
Elliott nodded.
“That’s not attraction,” Marcus said.
“That’s instruction waiting to happen.”
Jace’s breathing deepened.
Marcus stepped close, his voice near Elliott’s ear.
“This is your second permission,” he said.
“And I want you to follow it exactly.”
Elliott inhaled sharply.
Jace’s hands twitched where they rested on his thighs.
Marcus spoke slowly, deliberately.
“Elliott… offer him your hand.”
Elliott tensed — not from fear, but from the weight of what Marcus was asking. A hand wasn’t small. Not in this room. Not with these roles.
A hand was an invitation.
Acknowledgment.
Acceptance of power and desire in the same breath.
But he raised it anyway — a slow lift, his palm open, fingers steady only because Marcus was behind him.
Jace’s eyes widened but he didn’t move toward it.
Marcus stepped in.
“No,” Marcus said, voice low. “Not you.”
Jace froze, breath caught in his throat.
Marcus moved around them again, claiming the center of the room.
“Elliott offered,” Marcus said, “but you — Jace — don’t get to take.”
The air vibrated with tension.
Elliott’s arm trembled faintly from holding the pose.
Marcus stepped closer to Jace.
“Look at his hand,” Marcus instructed.
Jace lifted his gaze.
“Feel how much he’s giving,” Marcus said. “How much he’s trusting.”
Jace nodded, jaw tightening.
“But you,” Marcus said firmly, “don’t get to touch him yet.”
Jace’s breath left him in a quiet, frustrated growl — the kind he tried to swallow but couldn’t.
Marcus smirked.
“That,” he said, “is discipline.”
He turned to Elliott and slowly lowered the offered hand for him — guiding it down until Elliott’s arm rested at his side.
Elliott felt the loss of contact-that-never-happened like heat leaving his skin.
Jace felt it like ache.
Marcus saw both reactions.
“Good,” Marcus said. “Very good.”
He circled them again, voice dropping into that deep, controlled register that shaped the room like gravity.
“You’re both learning something tonight,” Marcus said.
Elliott’s voice was barely a whisper. “What’s that?”
“That anticipation,” Marcus murmured, “is more powerful than touch.”
Jace exhaled hard.
Elliott swallowed.
Marcus stepped between them again, placing a hand on each man — Elliott’s chest, Jace’s shoulder — grounding them both.
“And when I decide you get the third permission…”
He paused, letting the silence draw tight.
“…you’ll feel it everywhere.”
Both men inhaled sharply.
Marcus smiled.
“And you’ll take it exactly the way I give it.”
Marcus didn’t speak right away.
The room was stretched so tight with controlled hunger that even a breath felt like a decision. Elliott still stood, chest rising, palms slightly damp. Jace remained kneeling, jaw clenched, shoulders rigid with restraint.
Both men were waiting — not for each other, but for Marcus’s voice.
He made them wait a moment longer.
Then he moved.
Marcus walked between them, slow and deliberate, the subtle sound of his shoes on the carpet the only rhythm in the room. He stopped beside Jace, then reached out and placed a firm hand at the back of the younger man’s neck — an anchoring grip that made Jace exhale sharply.
Marcus didn’t squeeze.
He didn’t force.
He just held.
“This,” Marcus said quietly, “is control.”
He shifted his gaze to Elliott, who stood tall but visibly shaken — not from fear, but from being seen so clearly.
“And this,” Marcus said to him, “is surrender. Not weakness. Surrender.”
Elliott’s breath hitched.
Jace’s eyes flicked up — needing, jealous, disciplined.
Marcus released Jace’s neck only to walk behind Elliott, placing a strong hand at the center of his back.
“Both of you,” he said, “look at me.”
They did — Jace kneeling, Elliott standing, Marcus the axis that kept the room balanced.
“This is your third permission,” Marcus said.
“And it changes everything.”
He stepped between them again, positioning himself so they faced each other while still looking to him for direction.
“Elliott,” Marcus said, “step forward.”
Elliott moved — one slow, careful step.
“Good. Again.”
Elliott stepped closer until he stood only a breath away from Jace — close enough that Jace felt the heat from his skin.
Jace inhaled sharply but kept his hands behind his back, fists clenched, discipline trembling under his ribs.
Marcus stepped to Jace now.
“You feel him in front of you?” Marcus murmured.
“Yes,” Jace said, voice hoarse.
“And you want him?”
“Yes.”
“Show me you want him.”
Jace raised his eyes slowly — deliberate, reverent, almost pleading — letting Elliot see that hunger fully for the first time.
Elliott’s entire body reacted — a visible shiver, a sharp breath, his legs tightening as though the floor shifted under him.
Marcus saw it all.
“Good,” Marcus said. “Now, Elliott.”
Elliott’s eyes flicked from Marcus to Jace and back, unsure if he could breathe, let alone speak.
Marcus stepped closer, voice low enough to graze Elliott’s spine.
“You don’t need to be brave,” Marcus murmured.
“You just need to be honest.”
Elliott swallowed. “About what?”
Marcus gave a faint smile.
“About what you feel right now.”
Elliott opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first — not because he didn’t know, but because the truth felt heavy.
Finally, he whispered:
“I… want him to touch me.”
Jace’s head dropped for one split second — a quiet, involuntary release of breath — before he caught himself, spine straightening again.
Marcus nodded once.
“Good,” he said. “Very good.”
He turned to Jace.
“You hear that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You think you deserve that?”
Jace hesitated — just long enough for Marcus to notice.
“Yes,” he said finally.
Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Then why are your hands still behind your back?”
Jace’s breath caught.
He hadn’t dared move without permission.
Marcus smirked.
“That,” he said, “is why you might deserve it.”
Elliott’s heartbeat pounded in his throat.
Marcus moved behind him again, placing both hands on Elliott’s shoulders — grounding him, steadying him, claiming him.
“Now,” Marcus said softly, “the third permission.”
The room froze as he spoke the next command:
“Jace… lift your hand. Slowly.”
Jace raised his right hand an inch.
“Higher,” Marcus said.
He raised it further — trembling now with restraint and need.
“Good,” Marcus murmured.
“Now reach forward.”
Jace extended his arm, slow, controlled, reverent.
Elliott’s breath stuttered as that hand closed the distance between them — barely, just inches apart, the air between them vibrating with the promise of contact.
Then Marcus spoke:
“Stop.”
Jace froze.
Elliott gasped.
Marcus stepped between them, placing his hand between Jace’s reaching fingers and Elliott’s bare chest — blocking the touch they both wanted.
His voice was gravel-soft, pure control:
“That… is how close you may come.”
Neither man exhaled.
Marcus looked at Elliott.
“You wanted him to touch you.”
He turned to Jace.
“And you wanted to touch him.”
Then he lowered his voice until both men felt it in their bones:
“And neither of you gets it until I say so.”
Elliott shivered.
Jace swallowed hard.
Marcus smiled — slow, dark, satisfied.
“Now,” he said, stepping back and letting their suspended need fill the room—
“let’s see how you handle the fourth.”
The room went silent again.
Not empty — never empty — but full
of breath
of tension
of want
of two men suspended in a moment Marcus engineered with precision.
Elliott stood frozen, chest rising in quick, uneven pulls.
Jace knelt, arm still extended, fingers hovering inches from Elliott’s skin, held in place by Marcus’s command alone.
Both men were statues held together by heat and discipline.
Marcus stepped slowly between them, lowering Jace’s hand with two fingers — not rough, not soft, just final.
“Lower,” Marcus murmured.
Jace obeyed, breath shaking as his hand dropped back to his thigh.
Marcus turned to Elliott.
“Stay exactly where you are.”
Elliott nodded, swallowing the dryness in his throat.
Marcus stepped back, studying them like a man reviewing a blueprint.
Every detail mattered.
Every response told him something.
“You two don’t understand,” Marcus said softly. “This tension… this pressure… this almost…”
He walked behind Elliott and placed a firm hand on the back of his neck.
“…isn’t accidental.”
Elliott’s knees almost buckled. Marcus steadied him instantly, fingers strong, commanding.
“It’s mine,” Marcus said.
He moved to Jace and tilted the younger man’s chin up with his thumb.
“And you hold your position because you know it.”
Jace’s eyes darkened, chest rising and falling.
Marcus turned to face both men fully.
“This is your fourth permission,” he said.
“And it won’t be what you expect.”
Both men listened — tense, braced, waiting for impact.
Marcus paced once, hands behind his back.
“Elliott,” he said, “you’re going to take a step forward.”
Elliott stiffened. “Toward him?”
“One step,” Marcus said. “Only one.”
Elliott’s heart jumped.
But he moved — slowly, carefully — until he stood directly in front of Jace.
Jace inhaled sharply, practically trembling with restraint.
Marcus stepped around them, speaking low.
“You two—close like this—changes the air of a room.”
They both felt it.
Heat.
Friction.
An electric pull.
Marcus studied Elliott’s spine, the tension in his shoulders, the uncertainty mixed with wanting.
“Good,” Marcus said. “Hold it.”
He turned to Jace.
“Lift your eyes.”
Jace looked up at Elliott — fully, directly — and something passed between them that made Elliott’s breath break.
Marcus saw it all.
“Now,” Marcus said, “here’s how the fourth permission works.”
He stepped right into the small space between them, a force neither man could ignore.
“I choose who initiates.”
Jace’s jaw clenched.
Elliott’s stomach tightened.
Marcus stood tall, authoritative, calm.
“And tonight,” he said with a slow, deliberate breath, “the one who goes first…”
Both men leaned in by instinct.
“…is the one who didn’t expect to.”
Jace blinked.
Elliott froze.
Marcus looked directly at Elliott.
“You initiate.”
Elliott’s lips parted. “Me?”
“Yes,” Marcus said.
“Because you’re the one Jace didn’t think would move first.”
“And you’re the one I want taking the lead — right now — for exactly one action.”
Jace’s eyes widened in surprise, then something like admiration, then deeper want.
Elliott’s heartbeat thundered in his chest.
He whispered, “What action?”
Marcus smirked.
“You’re going to reach for him.”
Jace’s breath hitched.
Elliott’s whole body trembled.
Marcus continued:
“But—”
He raised his finger, commanding silence.
“You will not touch his skin.”
Elliott swallowed. “Then what do I touch?”
Marcus stepped closer, voice low enough that the room leaned in.
“You will touch his jawline… without making contact.”
Elliott’s breath broke.
Jace’s lips parted, waiting.
“And you will stop,” Marcus said, “exactly half an inch away.”
Jace groaned under his breath — a sound he wasn’t supposed to let out.
Marcus smiled at the slip.
“Do it,” he said.
Elliott lifted his hand — slow, careful, shaking — raising it toward Jace’s face.
Jace’s eyes never left Elliott’s.
The closer Elliott’s hand came, the heavier the air became — heat meeting discipline, want meeting restraint.
Elliott’s fingers hovered just above Jace’s jaw — not touching, but close enough that the absence of contact felt like fire.
Jace trembled visibly.
Marcus stepped behind Elliott, one hand on his waist, the other on his shoulder.
“Good,” Marcus whispered.
“Hold the line.”
“Feel the ache.”
“Let him feel the wanting.”
Jace exhaled a broken breath.
Elliott shivered.
Marcus smiled.
“That,” Marcus said, “is the fourth permission.”
“And neither of you are the same now.”
He stepped back, letting their suspended proximity burn between them.
“Now,” Marcus said quietly, “we move to the fifth.”
For a moment, it felt like the room wasn’t breathing.
Elliott’s hand hovered just above Jace’s jaw — so close the air between them was thin, trembling, alive.
Jace knelt like a man caught between prayer and temptation.
Marcus stepped back and watched his creation: two men suspended in want, held still by nothing more than his voice.
He let it simmer.
He let it ache.
He let the silence shape itself into something powerful.
“Good,” Marcus murmured. “Both of you are right where you should be.”
Elliott’s arm started to tremble from holding the exact distance Marcus required.
Jace felt the warmth of Elliott’s hand without a single point of contact, and his breath grew unsteady.
Marcus stepped forward again — calm, deliberate, controlled.
“This is the fifth permission,” Marcus said.
“And it’s the first that lets you cross a line.”
Elliott’s knees nearly gave.
Jace’s heartbeat thudded visibly beneath his collarbone.
Marcus walked around them, slow enough to let his presence wrap the entire space.
“Look at each other,” Marcus commanded.
They did — Elliott leaning forward slightly, Jace raising his eyes from below. Their gazes locked in the kind of tension that couldn’t be undone.
Marcus stood behind Elliott now, a large hand pressing gently but firmly at the small of his back.
“Elliott,” he said, “breathe in.”
Elliott obeyed, chest expanding, hand still hovering just shy of Jace’s skin.
Marcus’s other hand gripped Jace’s shoulder, grounding him.
“And you,” Marcus told the younger man, “breathe out.”
Jace released a shaky breath that brushed Elliott’s fingertips.
Elliott shivered.
“Good,” Marcus said softly. “Now neither of you move unless I say move.”
He stepped back — giving them space while keeping his claim on the room.
“You two think the permission is about touch,” Marcus said.
“It isn’t.”
Elliott frowned slightly. “Then what is it about?”
Marcus smiled — slow, dangerous, knowing.
“It’s about who closes the distance… and who holds the weight of it.”
Jace’s jaw flexed.
Elliott swallowed.
Marcus pointed to Elliott’s extended hand.
“Right now,” he said, “you’re the one offering.”
He pointed to Jace.
“And you’re the one waiting.”
They both nodded — instinctively, as if their bodies moved before their minds caught up.
“That’s not the dynamic I want for this moment,” Marcus said.
“So we’re going to reverse it.”
Elliott’s breath hitched.
Jace lifted his head sharply.
Marcus stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around Elliott’s wrist — warm, strong, controlled — guiding his arm down slowly until Elliott’s hand hovered close to his own side.
“Elliott,” Marcus said quietly, “drop your hand.”
Elliott lowered it all the way, arm trembling from the rush of release.
Marcus turned to Jace.
“And you,” Marcus murmured, “rise.”
Jace blinked.
“Me?”
“Yes,” Marcus said, tone final. “Stand.”
Jace rose from the floor slowly, body unfolding from discipline into readiness.
Standing now, he was level with Elliott — and the energy between them shifted instantly.
Elliott’s breath stuttered.
Jace’s shoulders squared.
The dynamic flipped.
Marcus walked around them again, assessing the shift, pleased with how the air thickened.
“This is the fifth permission,” Marcus said.
“Jace will reach first.”
Elliott’s pulse jumped.
Jace inhaled sharply.
“But,” Marcus continued, “he may only touch you one time. One point. One contact. No more.”
Jace’s voice was barely a whisper. “Where?”
Elliott looked from Jace to Marcus, chest tight with anticipation, uncertainty, and something deeper.
Marcus stepped between them, placing his thumb against Elliott’s collarbone — right where breath and vulnerability met.
“Here,” Marcus said.
“This is where he touches you.”
Jace’s eyes darkened.
Elliott’s knees went weak.
“But listen to me,” Marcus said, lowering his voice into gravel.
“This isn’t about the touch.”
He paused.
“It’s about the moment before it.”
Elliott’s lips parted.
Jace exhaled hard.
Marcus stepped back.
“Jace… lift your hand.”
Jace raised it slowly — fingers steady, arm trembling with held-back wanting.
“Now,” Marcus said, “move it forward.”
Jace stepped closer, breath shaking, hand inching toward Elliott’s collarbone.
Elliott leaned into the pull without moving his feet, chest rising with every inch Jace closed.
Their breaths tangled in the small space between them.
“Stop,” Marcus said softly.
Jace froze — his hand suspended just shy of Elliott’s collarbone, heat radiating, the promise of contact almost unbearable.
Elliott felt it like gravity.
Marcus circled behind them, voice low and anchoring.
“Now listen carefully,” he said.
“When I give the signal… Jace will be the first man to touch you.”
“And you—Elliott—are going to accept it.”
Elliott shivered.
Jace held his breath.
Marcus raised one finger.
“Not yet.”
Jace’s hand trembled.
Elliott’s chest heaved.
“Not yet.”
Marcus stepped closer.
“Wait for it.”
He leaned in, lips near Elliott’s ear.
“When I say now…”
Silence pulsed.
“…you belong to the permission.”
A beat.
A breath.
A held moment.
Then Marcus stepped back and said, with absolute command—
“Now.”
The moment Marcus said now, the room shifted.
Jace didn’t lunge.
He didn’t grab.
He didn’t rush.
He moved like a man stepping through a threshold he’d been held outside of all night — slow, reverent, shaking with discipline.
His hand traveled the last inch toward Elliott’s collarbone…
closing the distance that had held the entire room hostage.
And when his fingers finally touched Elliott’s skin—
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t rough.
It wasn’t greedy.
It was exactly the way Marcus wanted it:
Precise.
Measured.
Claiming—but only the space Marcus allowed.
Elliott’s breath broke the second Jace touched him.
His eyes fluttered shut, knees weakening as heat shot up his spine from a single point of contact.
Jace froze the instant he made contact—
not withdrawing, not pushing further—
just holding that one allowed touch like it was sacred.
Marcus watched them, arms folded, satisfaction tightening his jaw.
“That,” Marcus said quietly, “is how you touch a man who’s still learning himself.”
Jace swallowed, hand still pressed lightly against Elliott’s collarbone, thumb trembling with restraint. His breathing was uneven — not from lust, but from the weight of permission.
Elliott lifted his chin slightly, chest rising, body shaking from something deeper than physical reaction.
Marcus stepped slowly around them, assessing the energy with the precision of a craftsman.
“Tell me what you feel,” Marcus said.
Elliott opened his eyes—barely—and whispered, “Warm.”
“And?” Marcus pressed.
“Seen.”
Jace inhaled sharply, eyes closing for a beat.
Marcus turned to him.
“And you?”
“Like I’m holding something I shouldn’t drop,” Jace whispered.
Marcus nodded, satisfied.
“That,” he said, “is why you were allowed to touch him first.”
He placed a large hand on Elliott’s shoulder, grounding him, then stepped closer to Jace and placed his other hand at the base of his neck.
“Now here’s the sixth permission,” Marcus murmured.
“Jace… you will keep your hand exactly where it is.”
“No sliding.”
“No exploring.”
“No more than this.”
Jace nodded, jaw tight. “Yes, sir.”
Marcus turned to Elliott.
“And Elliott… do not pull away.”
Elliott shook his head slowly, breath shallow. “I won’t.”
Marcus stepped back, watching the way Elliott leaned slightly into the hand on his collarbone — subtle, involuntary, but honest.
“Good,” Marcus said. “Now breathe into it.”
Elliott inhaled, chest lifting into Jace’s palm.
Jace tensed, fingers flexing gently with the movement.
The connection was small — barely a touch — but the emotional impact was seismic.
“Feel that?” Marcus asked.
Both men nodded.
“That’s what happens,” Marcus said, “when I let two men meet each other. Not through want. Not through desperation. But through direction.”
He placed one hand on each of them again — Elliott’s back, Jace’s shoulder — connecting the three of them without intertwining.
“You two weren’t meant to collide,” Marcus said.
“You were meant to be placed.”
Elliott exhaled shakily.
Jace lowered his head slightly, overwhelmed.
Marcus smirked.
“And now,” he said quietly, “I’m going to make this harder.”
Both men stiffened.
Marcus stepped in front of Jace, lifting his chin with a finger.
“You’re going to hold his gaze,” Marcus said. “Not his body. His eyes.”
Jace looked up immediately.
“And Elliott,” Marcus continued, turning to him, “you’re going to keep breathing into his touch… without closing your eyes.”
Elliott swallowed hard. “Yes.”
Marcus’s voice dropped into something commanding and intimate all at once.
“This permission is about being seen just as much as being touched.”
Elliott lifted his chin.
Jace squared his shoulders.
Marcus stepped back to watch.
“Look at each other,” Marcus ordered.
They did.
Slow.
Unsteady.
Powerful.
Jace’s hand stayed anchored at Elliott’s collarbone, warm and steady.
Elliott’s breath rose and fell into that touch, every inhale making their connection deeper.
Marcus smiled — a slow, proud satisfaction.
“That’s it,” he said. “Hold it.”
He watched their eyes lock, watched something shift between them — something neither had been prepared for.
“You two feel that?” Marcus asked quietly.
“Yes,” they said in unison — same tone, same breath, same impact.
Marcus nodded once.
“That,” he murmured,
“is the sixth permission.”
He stepped forward, voice low and final:
“And after that… the seventh changes everything.”
For a long stretch of seconds, the room existed in a kind of suspended gravity.
Elliott stood breathing into the warmth of Jace’s hand on his collarbone — a single point of connection that felt bigger than either of them expected.
Jace held Elliott’s gaze, not his body, shoulders trembling with the effort of staying disciplined.
Marcus watched — not like a spectator, but like an architect.
A builder.
A man shaping a moment.
He let the silence thicken until both men felt it in their ribs.
Then Marcus broke it with a single sentence that shifted the entire room:
“The seventh permission is shared.”
Elliott tensed.
Jace’s breath caught.
“Shared?” Elliott echoed softly.
Marcus stepped between them, pushing their connection apart just a few inches — not separating them, but forcing them both to redirect their focus to him.
“A shared permission means you both act,” Marcus said.
“But in different ways.”
Elliott’s eyes flicked with confusion.
Jace clenched his jaw.
Marcus placed a hand on Elliott’s sternum — right over the place Jace had touched.
“Elliott,” Marcus said quietly.
“You will allow.”
Then he turned to Jace and gripped the back of his neck firmly — grounding him, steadying him.
“And you,” Marcus said, “will initiate.”
Jace swallowed, eyes sharpening.
Elliott inhaled slowly, almost bracing.
Marcus stepped back one pace, watching the tension tighten between them like a drawn bowstring.
“The seventh permission,” Marcus continued, “is about trust and awareness — not touch.”
Elliott blinked. “Then what do we do?”
Marcus stepped closer, his presence thickening the air again.
“You,” Marcus said, pointing to Elliott, “are going to soften.”
“Soft—?” Elliott muttered, startled.
“Yes,” Marcus said firmly.
“Your shoulders, your breath, your stance. All of it. I want to see you ease into vulnerability without collapsing into it.”
Elliott swallowed, nodded, and—slowly—let his shoulders drop. His posture shifted from guarded to open, from tense to receptive. Something warm and unspoken spread across his chest.
Marcus turned to Jace.
“And you,” he said, “are going to step closer — controlled. One deliberate step. Nothing more.”
Jace breathed out hard — the kind of breath that carried longing and discipline in equal measure — then took one step toward Elliott.
Not rushing.
Not claiming.
Not overtaking.
Just a step.
Their chests aligned.
Their breath fell into the same rhythm.
The air between them felt charged and intimate without a single new point of contact.
Marcus smirked.
“Good. Now look at each other.”
They did — and the look was different this time.
Not hesitant.
Not unsure.
Something warmer.
Something unsettling.
Something honest.
Marcus folded his arms, studying them.
“You two don’t get it yet,” he murmured.
“But this is the permission that changes what comes next.”
Jace frowned slightly. “How?”
Marcus stepped closer to him first, lowering his voice just enough that it brushed Jace’s jaw.
“You’re used to leading with hunger,” Marcus said. “Tonight you’ll lead with intention.”
Jace’s throat worked as he swallowed.
Then Marcus turned to Elliott, brushing his thumb once across Elliott’s shoulder — not a caress, but a placement.
“And you,” Marcus said softly, “are used to hiding your want.”
“Not tonight.”
Elliott closed his eyes for a second, breath shaky, before opening them again — clearer, steadier.
Marcus nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Now the seventh permission can begin.”
He took a step back, letting the two men face one another again.
“Elliott,” Marcus said, “your job now… is to hold your ground.”
Elliott set his feet. “Okay.”
“And Jace,” Marcus continued, “your job… is to read him.”
Jace tilted his head. “Read him how?”
Marcus smiled.
“Not with your hands.”
“Not with your body.”
“With your eyes.”
He motioned for Jace to look — truly look — at Elliott.
Jace did.
Slowly, with intention.
Taking in Elliott’s posture, his breath, the way his fingers flexed at his sides, the way vulnerability sat on his chest.
Elliott’s breathing stuttered under the intensity.
Marcus spoke, voice steady, low.
“Now say it.”
Jace blinked. “Say what?”
“What you see,” Marcus said. “In him.”
Elliott’s pulse skipped.
Jace hesitated — then let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“I see…” he started, voice rough, “a man trying not to fall apart.”
Elliott’s chest tightened, eyes dropping for a second before he forced himself to meet Jace’s again.
Marcus nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Now Elliott — your turn.”
Elliott swallowed.
“To say what I see?”
“Yes,” Marcus murmured. “In him.”
Elliott took a slow breath.
“I see…” he whispered, “someone who’s… holding back too much.”
Jace’s lips parted — the first sign of something unguarded, something wounded and wanting.
Marcus saw it.
“That,” Marcus said quietly, “is the seventh permission.”
Elliott frowned. “Just saying what we see?”
Marcus smiled — slow, deliberate, knowing.
“No,” he said.
“Saying what you’ve been afraid to see.”
The words hit both men like a slow strike to the chest.
Marcus stepped forward again, lowering his voice into something final.
“And now that you’ve done that…”
He paused.
“…you’re ready for the eighth.”
After the Seventh Permission, the room didn’t simply feel tense. It felt changed.
Elliott’s breathing was deeper now — not frantic, not overwhelmed, but open.
Jace stood taller — not aggressive, not impatient, but present.
Marcus walked a slow circle around them, taking in the shift.
“Good,” he murmured. “You’re both feeling it.”
Neither spoke.
Because they were.
Something had dropped.
Something had steadied.
Something had opened.
Marcus stopped between them again, hands behind his back.
“The eighth permission,” he said, “is about alignment.”
Jace’s brow furrowed. “Alignment?”
Marcus nodded.
“Two men can want each other,” he said.
“But that doesn’t mean they meet in the same place.”
Elliott’s pulse kicked.
Jace tilted his head slightly, listening.
Marcus stepped closer to Elliott.
“You,” he said, hand hovering just above Elliott’s sternum, “lead with caution.”
He moved to Jace.
“And you,” he said, fingers brushing the air near Jace’s jaw, “lead with force you’re trying not to use.”
Jace exhaled sharply in acknowledgment.
Marcus stepped back.
“I’m going to bring you into alignment.”
Elliott’s eyes widened.
Jace’s shoulders tightened.
Marcus’s voice dropped into a gravel-soft command:
“Elliott… place your hands at your sides.”
Elliott obeyed.
“Good,” Marcus said.
“Now keep them there. No matter what.”
Elliott nodded.
Marcus turned to Jace.
“And you,” he said, tone firmer, “will step forward again.”
Jace swallowed and took another slow, deliberate step, closing the space between them until they were nearly chest to chest.
The warmth of Jace’s body hit Elliott in a wave.
Elliott inhaled sharply.
Jace held his ground.
Marcus watched the air thicken.
“That’s it,” he said softly. “Now breathe into each other’s space.”
Elliott’s chest lifted.
Jace’s breath synced with his without them planning it.
Marcus nodded.
“You’re aligning.”
He stepped behind Elliott again and placed a warm, grounding hand between his shoulder blades.
“Elliott,” Marcus said, “hold steady.”
Elliott did — knees tense, core tightening, breath unsteady but controlled.
Then Marcus stepped behind Jace, placing a hand at the base of the younger man’s neck.
“And Jace,” Marcus said, “ease.”
Jace’s shoulders loosened under Marcus’s palm.
Elliott felt the change immediately — the shift from Jace standing rigidly to Jace standing with him, not against him.
Marcus stepped back to watch.
“This,” he said, “is the eighth permission.”
Elliott swallowed. “Being close?”
“No,” Marcus said quietly.
“Being close without bracing.”
Jace’s breath faltered.
Elliott’s eyes flickered with something he didn’t expect.
Marcus wasn’t done.
“You’re going to stay like this,” he said, “until your breathing matches.”
Elliott blinked. “Matches?”
“Exactly,” Marcus said.
“In rhythm. In pace. In control.”
Jace exhaled deeply, eyes focusing on Elliott’s.
Elliott let out a shaky breath in return.
At first, their breathing clashed — one too fast, the other too deep, both a mess of nerves and want.
Marcus didn’t intervene.
He didn’t correct them.
He just waited.
Slowly…
slowly…
their inhales began to fall into the same pattern.
Jace’s chest rose; Elliott’s followed.
Elliott exhaled; Jace softened with him.
One rhythm.
One tempo.
One alignment.
Marcus watched the shift with something like pride.
“Good,” he murmured. “Very good.”
He stepped between them again, close enough that both men felt his presence like a charge.
“You two are breathing the same now,” Marcus said.
“That means you’re no longer just reacting to each other.”
He paused.
“You’re responding.”
Neither spoke.
They didn’t need to.
Marcus looked from Elliott to Jace, then nodded once — slow, deliberate, approving.
“That,” he said, “was the eighth permission.”
He stepped back, the faintest smirk touching his lips.
“And now that you’re aligned…”
He let the silence drop into the room like a stone into deep water.
“…it’s time for permission number nine.”
The alignment between them held — steady, tense, shared.
Elliott and Jace breathed in the same rhythm now, chests rising and falling like two men caught in the same invisible tide.
Marcus watched them with a stillness that felt orchestrated, deliberate, almost reverent.
“You feel that?” he asked softly.
Neither man answered.
But both did.
Deeply.
Marcus stepped closer until his presence pressed into the tiny space separating them.
“This,” he murmured, “is where most men break.”
Jace swallowed.
Elliott’s fingers twitched at his sides.
“Not because of wanting,” Marcus continued, “but because of honesty.”
He circled them again, slow and controlled — not a predator this time, but something quieter.
Something that understood power wasn’t just domination — it was revelation.
“The ninth permission,” Marcus said, stopping between them, “is vulnerability.”
Elliott stiffened.
Jace blinked once, eyes sharpening.
Marcus raised a hand to keep both men in place.
“No,” he said. “Not the kind you’re thinking of.”
He stepped in front of Elliott and placed two fingers on the man’s sternum — right at the center of his breath.
“You,” Marcus said, “speak your truth like it’s a confession.”
Elliott’s chest shook under Marcus’s fingers.
Then Marcus turned to Jace, gripping the younger man’s jaw with a firm, steady hand.
“And you,” he said quietly, “speak yours like it’s a consequence.”
Jace’s breath stuttered.
Marcus stepped back, giving both men space while still owning the room.
“The ninth permission is simple,” Marcus said.
“You speak honestly. Directly. Without deflecting. Without hiding behind control or silence.”
Elliott’s eyes widened.
Jace’s jaw flexed.
Marcus smirked.
“Yes,” he said, “this one is harder than touch.”
He turned to Elliott first.
“Elliott,” Marcus said. “You’ll go first.”
Elliott swallowed, breath unsteady.
“What do you want from him,” Marcus asked, “that has nothing to do with his body?”
Elliott froze.
His lips parted.
His eyes flickered.
His breath caught in his chest like he wasn’t sure he should answer — or if he even knew how.
Marcus waited.
Not impatient.
Not pressing.
Just waiting — the kind of patience that felt like gravity.
Finally, Elliott exhaled.
“I want…”
His voice cracked, surprising him.
Marcus stepped closer.
“Say it.”
“I want him not to look through me,” Elliott whispered. “Not to treat me like I’m just… something he’s trying to hold back from.”
Jace’s breath hitched — visibly taken by the honesty.
Marcus nodded once.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Now you, Jace.”
Jace blinked hard, chest rising with a deep swallow.
“What do you want from him,” Marcus asked, “that has nothing to do with the way he looks at you?”
Jace hesitated — pride, hunger, discipline all colliding inside him.
Marcus’s tone sharpened.
“Say it, Jace.”
Jace let out a slow, reluctant breath.
“I want him to stop acting like he’s the fragile one,” Jace said — voice low, unsteady. “Because he’s not.”
Elliott inhaled sharply.
Jace continued, voice rough:
“And I want him to see that he affects people more than he thinks. That he’s not invisible. Not to me.”
Marcus watched Elliott absorb the words — not just hear them.
A silence settled — not awkward, but thick, the kind of stillness that exposes everything men try to keep covered.
Marcus stepped between them again, hands on their shoulders.
“That,” he murmured, “was the ninth permission.”
Jace closed his eyes once — grounding himself.
Elliott’s breath came uneven — like something inside him had loosened.
Marcus leaned in, voice deep and certain:
“You two just crossed a line nothing physical could have taken you across.”
He stepped back, letting them stand in the aftermath of what they’d admitted.
“Now,” Marcus said, “you’re ready for the tenth.”
The air in the suite shifted the moment Marcus stepped closer.
Not darker.
Not lighter.
Just heavier — like gravity thickened around all three men at once.
Elliott felt it first, a slow roll of heat up his spine.
Jace felt it next, tightening across his shoulders.
Marcus felt it last — with the steady calm of a man who already knew what he was about to do.
He moved between them, standing close enough that his presence pressed against their chests.
“Permission Ten,” Marcus said quietly, “is the first boundary neither of you can walk back.”
Jace inhaled hard.
Elliott’s fingers curled at his sides.
“This one isn’t about trust,” Marcus continued.
“And it’s not about honesty.”
He looked at both men — slow, deliberate, assessing.
“It’s about choice.”
He stepped behind Elliott and placed both hands on his shoulders — warm, firm, claiming. Elliott’s breath stuttered, body tightening under the weight of the touch.
“Elliott,” Marcus murmured, “you’re going to stay exactly where I put you.”
Elliott nodded, throat tight. “Okay.”
Marcus’s hands slid down Elliott’s arms — not sexual, but guiding, shaping. He placed Elliott’s palms against the edge of the table near the window.
“Hold,” Marcus said.
Elliott did.
Marcus stepped back and turned to Jace.
“And you,” Marcus said softly, “are done standing still.”
Jace’s chest rose slowly. “What do you want?”
Marcus walked right up to him — face inches away, voice low enough to brush Jace’s skin.
“I want you to cross a boundary he won’t let himself cross alone.”
Jace’s pulse kicked.
Elliott heard it in the silence — felt it — like someone was stepping directly into a place inside him he wasn’t ready to admit existed.
Marcus placed a finger on Jace’s chin, tilting his head just enough to make him hold eye contact.
“Go to him,” Marcus ordered. “Now.”
Jace moved.
Not rushed.
Not hesitant.
Just deliberate.
He stepped behind Elliott, close enough that Elliott felt the heat of his body before he touched anything. Elliott’s breath hitched hard, palms gripping the table, eyes closing for a second before he forced them open.
“Don’t move,” Marcus said from across the room.
“And don’t look down.”
Elliott held still, jaw tightening.
Jace stood behind him — not touching yet — just letting Elliott feel the presence, the intention, the pull.
Marcus watched them both, arms folded.
“You feel that?” Marcus asked Elliott.
“Yes,” Elliott whispered.
“And you?” Marcus asked Jace.
“Yeah,” Jace breathed, voice rougher than he intended.
Marcus stepped forward slowly, placing his hand in the center of Elliott’s back — the quiet, commanding kind of touch that tells a man he’s no longer the one deciding what happens next.
“Here’s the boundary,” Marcus said.
“Jace is going to put his hands on you.”
Elliott exhaled sharply.
Jace’s fingers flexed at his sides.
“But not where you expect,” Marcus added.
Jace frowned. “Then where?”
Marcus leaned in, whispering to Elliott first — voice hot against his ear.
“Somebody touching your want isn’t the boundary,” he murmured.
“Somebody touching your fear is.”
Elliott’s knees weakened.
Marcus moved behind Jace and pressed a hand to the small of his back — a silent command.
“Jace,” Marcus said, “put your hands on him.”
Jace swallowed, breath locking in his chest.
“Where?” he asked again, softer this time.
Marcus’s voice deepened into gravel.
“Where a man only lets you if he’s crossing something.”
Jace understood.
He moved slowly — deliberately — lifting his hands and placing them not on Elliott’s hips, not on his waist, but higher…
Just beneath Elliott’s ribs, where breath and vulnerability meet.
Elliott’s inhale broke instantly, body shuddering at the contact.
Jace froze, hands open against Elliott’s sides, fingers spread like he was memorizing the moment.
“Yeah,” Marcus said quietly. “Right there. That’s the boundary.”
Elliott’s voice came out as a whisper:
“Don’t—stop.”
Jace didn’t.
Marcus stepped closer, watching the tremor run through Elliott’s shoulders.
“You feel what he’s doing to you?” Marcus asked.
Elliott nodded, breath ragged.
“And you?” Marcus asked Jace.
Jace’s voice was thick. “He’s… shaking.”
“That’s not fear,” Marcus said.
“That’s a man letting someone hold the part of him he keeps locked down.”
Jace’s hands tightened — not enough to restrain, but enough to anchor.
Elliott’s breath hitched again, body pressing back instinctively.
That was the moment.
That was the crossed line.
Not explicit.
Not crude.
Not a body part.
But a boundary that no man crosses lightly —
letting someone touch the place where breath breaks and truth lives.
Marcus watched them, satisfied.
“That,” he said quietly,
“was Permission Ten.”
He stepped forward, voice dropping into something heavier.
“And now that you’ve crossed it…”
He looked at both men with slow, deliberate hunger — the kind that isn’t about sex at all.
“…you’re ready for what comes next.”
The room felt different after Permission Ten — like something sacred had been touched, cracked, and opened.
Elliott stood with Jace’s hands still spread beneath his ribs, holding him in a place no one touched unless they were invited into the truth beneath a man’s armor.
Jace didn’t let go.
Elliott didn’t pull away.
Marcus watched — the smallest tilt at the corner of his mouth betraying satisfaction.
He stepped closer.
“Good,” Marcus murmured. “Now we move forward.”
Jace straightened slightly behind Elliott, hands steady but not tightening.
Elliott’s breath shuddered — not from fear now, but from something that shook deeper.
Marcus circled behind them again, voice low.
“Permission Eleven,” he said, “is the first pull.”
Elliott swallowed. “What does that mean?”
Marcus didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he reached out and placed a single hand on Jace’s forearm — not forceful, not soft, but directive.
“Jace,” Marcus said, “you’re going to pull him back.”
Elliott’s breath caught.
Jace froze. “Pull him how?”
Marcus leaned in — close enough that the warmth of his breath brushed Jace’s ear.
“Like you’re claiming space he doesn’t think he deserves.”
Jace’s jaw tightened.
Elliott’s fingers curled over the edge of the table.
“And Elliott,” Marcus said, turning his voice toward him, “you are not allowed to resist.”
Elliott nodded, chest rising.
Marcus stepped back.
“Do it,” he ordered.
Jace didn’t hesitate this time.
He slid his hands slightly upward — not wandering, not groping, but anchoring — fingers fitting beneath Elliott’s ribcage, palms firm against his sides.
Elliott gasped, body folding slightly into the grip.
Then Jace pulled.
Not aggressively.
Not roughly.
Just enough for Elliott to feel his body leave the table — enough for Elliott to feel claimed, redirected, taken out of stillness and into a moment Jace controlled.
Elliott inhaled sharply, head tilting back on instinct as Jace drew him closer by the center of his body — the most intimate pull a man can make without touching anything forbidden.
Marcus’s breath deepened as he watched.
“That,” Marcus said, “is the first pull.”
Elliott stood against Jace’s chest now — back to him, breath unsteady, shoulders trembling, the heat of Jace’s body pressed into him in a way no one in the room could pretend wasn’t crossing something sacred.
Jace didn’t let go.
“Feel where you are,” Marcus said quietly.
Elliott swallowed. “I feel him.”
“And you?” Marcus asked Jace.
Jace’s voice dropped to gravel.
“I feel him… giving.”
Marcus nodded once.
“Good.”
He stepped forward slowly, placing a hand beneath Elliott’s chin and guiding his head to the side — exposing the line of Elliott’s throat, lifting his breath, forcing him open while Jace held him still.
Elliott’s pulse jumped beneath Marcus’s fingers.
Jace’s grip tightened subtly, matching the shift.
Marcus leaned in — his lips near Elliott’s jaw but not touching — letting the heat of his breath drag across Elliott’s skin.
“This,” Marcus murmured, “is the boundary you crossed in Permission Ten becoming something real.”
Elliott’s breath stuttered.
Jace stood anchored behind him, chest pressed to Elliott’s back, breathing into the rhythm they’d built.
Marcus tilted Elliott’s chin higher, just enough to make him feel the control without crossing into anything explicit.
“You feel held?” Marcus asked.
Elliott nodded shakily. “Yes.”
“You feel him choosing you?” Marcus pressed.
Elliott’s breath broke. “Yes.”
Jace’s voice was low behind him.
“I’m right here.”
Marcus’s eyes lifted to Jace — approving, sharp.
“And that,” Marcus said softly, letting Elliott’s chin lower but not escape his touch,
“was the first pull.”
He stepped back, letting both men feel the absence of his hands — letting them experience what it meant to hold each other without instruction.
“And now,” Marcus said, steady and intentional,
“you’re ready for Permission Twelve.”
He let the silence drop heavy between them.
“Do you want to know what that one is?”
Elliott remained locked in Jace’s arms — held beneath his ribs, pulled back into a body he didn’t expect to feel this close to.
His breath rose and fell too quickly.
Jace’s breath matched it — not in dominance this time, but in presence.
Marcus watched them like a man reading a language only he understood.
“You feel where we are now?” Marcus asked quietly.
Elliott nodded without looking up.
Jace tightened his grip slightly, steadying him.
Marcus stepped closer.
“Permission Twelve,” he said, “is the closing distance.”
Elliott exhaled. “What does that mean?”
Marcus didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he slid his hand slowly across Elliott’s chest — not grabbing, not groping — just moving.
Tracing breath.
Tracing tension.
Tracing the truth Elliott tried so hard to control.
“Distance,” Marcus murmured, “isn’t just space. It’s fear. It’s pride. It’s the illusion that you’re separate.”
His hand moved down Elliott’s torso, stopping just above where Jace’s hands held him.
“You two,” Marcus said, looking at Jace and then Elliott,
“have been pretending you don’t feel each other.”
Jace swallowed.
Elliott’s breath hitched.
“That ends now.”
Marcus stepped behind Jace, placing both hands on his shoulders — firm, steady, grounding.
“Jace,” he said, “you’re going to close the space between you.”
Jace blinked. “There is no space.”
Marcus leaned in, voice low enough to brush Jace’s ear.
“Not between your bodies,” he murmured.
“Between your intentions.”
Jace’s breath stopped short — as if Marcus had exposed something he hadn’t spoken aloud.
Marcus continued:
“You want him.
He feels you wanting him.
And both of you are pretending it’s only about direction.”
Jace exhaled slowly.
Elliott’s eyes closed for a moment, chest rising high under Marcus’s hand.
Marcus stepped around to face Elliott.
“And you,” he said quietly, “are going to stop acting like you’re being taken.”
Elliott opened his eyes — startled, shaken.
“What do you mean?” he breathed.
Marcus tilted his head.
“You’re not being taken,” Marcus said.
“You’re leaning.”
Elliott froze — because the truth of it hit him somewhere deeper than breath.
Marcus stepped away from them, giving the space weight.
“Permission Twelve isn’t about touch,” he said.
“It’s about intention.”
He pointed at Elliott.
“You stop bracing.”
He pointed at Jace.
“You stop holding back.”
Both men swallowed.
Marcus took a slow step forward.
“Now… both of you… close the distance.”
He didn’t tell them how.
He didn’t tell them where.
He didn’t tell them who moved first.
He simply waited.
For a long moment, neither man moved.
Then Jace exhaled — a deep, shuddering breath — and slid one hand higher on Elliott’s torso, fingers spreading carefully across his chest.
Elliott gasped — not from the touch, but from the shift in intention.
Marcus’s voice dropped into something deep and approving.
“Good.”
Elliott, without instruction, leaned back into Jace — just an inch, just enough to break the illusion that he was being held rather than letting himself be held.
Marcus smiled — slow, dark, knowing.
“There it is,” he murmured.
“That’s the distance finally closing.”
Jace pressed closer, chest meeting Elliott’s back fully now — breath against Elliott’s neck, warmth flooding through the thin barrier between them.
Elliott’s hands tightened on the table’s edge, knuckles whitening as his breathing broke into something he couldn’t hide.
Marcus stepped in front of them, watching the shift like it was a sunrise.
“That,” he said, “was Permission Twelve.”
A long silence followed — thick with heat, breath, surrender, want.
Marcus let it settle.
Let it take root.
Then his voice lowered.
“And Permission Thirteen…”
He paused, letting the suspense coil tight.
“…is where none of you will pretend anymore.”
Jace’s chest stayed pressed to Elliott’s back — no space, no hesitation, no pretending the contact was accidental.
Elliott’s breath hitched again, sharper this time, the kind of sound a man makes when he stops fighting what he feels.
Marcus watched them with a slow, predatory calm.
“Good,” he said quietly. “You two are right at the edge.”
Neither man spoke.
Neither man moved.
The room felt like a held breath.
Marcus stepped closer until he stood directly in front of Elliott — so close that Elliott could feel Marcus’s body heat against his face.
“Permission Thirteen,” Marcus said,
“is The Breaking Point.”
Elliott swallowed hard.
Jace’s hands flexed against Elliott’s chest, steadying him.
Marcus raised a hand, brushing two fingers beneath Elliott’s chin — lifting it gently, exposing his throat, forcing him to hold the moment instead of collapsing under it.
“You’ve both been circling this,” Marcus said.
“And I’ve let you.”
His fingers remained beneath Elliott’s chin — not stroking, not claiming, just holding him open.
“But from this point forward,” Marcus continued,
“nothing is accidental.
And nothing is innocent.”
Elliott’s breath shook.
Jace’s grip tightened slightly, thumb pressing into Elliott’s ribs in a silent acknowledgement.
Marcus’s tone softened — not gentle, but deep, intimate, cutting.
“You feel him,” Marcus murmured to Elliott, “don’t you?”
Elliott nodded once. “Yes.”
“And you,” Marcus said, shifting his gaze to Jace, “feel him leaning.”
Jace’s voice came out low and rough. “I do.”
Marcus stepped back half a pace — enough to view them both at once, enough to see the pressure building between their bodies.
“Good,” Marcus said. “Now we cross a boundary with no return.”
He pointed to Elliott.
“You’re going to reach back.”
Elliott froze.
“What?”
Marcus’s voice sharpened — not louder, just more certain.
“Reach. Back.”
Elliott’s fingers trembled on the table’s edge.
He let go.
Slowly…
hesitantly…
his hand slid behind him, searching, unsure.
Jace inhaled sharply as Elliott’s hand brushed his thigh — not fully touching, just grazing, just enough to feel the warmth, the intent.
Marcus smirked.
“There it is,” he said softly. “The moment you stopped pretending this is happening to you…”
Elliott’s breath broke.
His palm settled more fully against Jace’s leg — a choice, not a reflex.
“…and admitted you want it.”
Jace exhaled hard behind him — body tensing, shoulders tightening, the restraint in him shaking so visibly that Elliott felt it through his back.
Marcus stepped closer again, eyes dark, controlled.
“And Jace…” Marcus murmured,
“…Permission Thirteen means you stop standing like you’re waiting for instructions.”
Jace blinked. “Then what do I—”
“Act,” Marcus said.
“No excuses.
No hesitation.
Show him what you’ve been trying not to show.”
Jace’s breath stilled.
He slid one arm around Elliott’s torso — slow, deliberate, claiming — palm spreading across Elliott’s chest, pulling him back just an inch more.
Elliott gasped — the sound raw, unguarded.
Marcus nodded once.
“Good,” he said.
“That’s The Breaking Point.”
He stepped behind both men, voice lowering into something deep and final.
“You two just crossed the line where intention becomes action.
Where heat becomes contact.
Where there’s no going back to strangers.”
The room pulsed with silence — thick, hot, overwhelming.
Marcus placed his hands on both their shoulders — grounding them, claiming them, steadying the quake he’d created.
“From here on,” Marcus said quietly,
“…you’re not following me.”
He paused, letting the words sink in.
“You’re following each other.”
The silence after that line hit like gravity.
Elliott’s hand tightened on Jace’s thigh.
Jace’s arm pressed Elliott fully against him.
Marcus stood behind them, satisfied.
Permission Thirteen had broken something open.
And now…
the next step was unavoidable.
Elliott’s hand stayed on Jace’s thigh — not gripping, not searching, but choosing.
Jace’s arm stayed wrapped around Elliott’s torso — not pinning, not forcing, but claiming.
Marcus watched both of them with the calm certainty of a man who had engineered this moment long before they realized they were walking toward it.
He stepped around them, slow, deliberate, observing their bodies like he was measuring faultlines.
“Good,” Marcus murmured.
“You’re both past pretending.”
Elliott’s breath shook.
Jace’s jaw tightened.
Marcus moved closer — the heat of him brushing Elliott’s chest as he stood face-to-face with him.
“Permission Fourteen,” Marcus said quietly,
“is The First Contact.”
Elliott swallowed. “We’ve already—”
“No,” Marcus cut him off, voice steady.
“What you did was accidental contact.
Reflex contact.
Fear contact.”
He lifted Elliott’s chin with two fingers, guiding his gaze upward.
“This one,” Marcus said,
“you feel.”
Jace inhaled sharply behind Elliott — breath dragging across the back of Elliott’s neck like heat drawn to heat.
Marcus didn’t move his fingers from Elliott’s chin.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
Elliott did — eyes wide, chest rising fast against the space between them.
“You’re not going to brace,” Marcus said.
“You’re not going to flinch.”
“You’re not going to run from it.”
His hand slid slowly along Elliott’s jaw — not caressing… but directing.
“You’re going to stay exactly where you are.”
Elliott nodded, pulse pounding visibly in his throat.
Then Marcus turned his attention to Jace.
“And you,” Marcus said, “are going to put your hand on him.”
Jace frowned slightly. “Where?”
Marcus’s voice lowered into something dark and knowing.
“Where it matters.”
Jace took a slow breath.
His hand, still anchored across Elliott’s chest, slid down — not sexual, not graphic — but intentional.
Lower.
Warmer.
Closer.
Elliott’s breath caught.
His body tensed — then, slowly, he let himself soften into the hold.
Marcus watched the shift — eyes sharpening with approval.
“Good,” Marcus murmured.
“Now pull him.”
Jace did.
Just enough for Elliott’s body to shift back into him — not pressed, not pinned, but alignedin a way that felt far more intimate than anything explicit.
Elliott’s gasp broke into the quiet like a confession.
Marcus moved behind them, placing one hand on Jace’s shoulder, the other on Elliott’s spine — guiding them into each other the way a conductor brings instruments into harmony.
“You feel that?” Marcus asked, voice low.
Elliott exhaled. “Yes.”
“And you?” Marcus asked Jace.
Jace’s breath shook for the first time all night. “Yeah.”
Marcus stepped back — giving them room without letting the tension drop.
“This,” Marcus said,
“is intentional contact.”
Jace’s grip tightened slightly.
Elliott’s hips drew back a fraction — involuntary, undeniable.
Marcus’s eyes narrowed with satisfaction.
“Now,” he murmured,
“we take it further.”
The air in the room shifted — thicker, hotter, closer to the edge.
“Elliott,” Marcus said,
“You’re going to reach again.”
Elliott’s hand trembled as he moved it — higher this time — sliding back until it found Jace’s waist, fingers hooking into the fabric of his shirt like a man who finally stopped asking permission to want.
Marcus’s voice dropped even lower.
“There,” he said.
“That was the First Contact.”
He stepped around them, folding his arms.
“And once you reach once…”
He paused, letting the silence thicken.
“…you’ll reach again.”
Elliott’s breathing broke into a rhythm now — fast, hungry, unrestrained.
Jace held him closer, the heat between them unmistakable.
Marcus smiled — slow, proud, dangerous.
“You two are past the point of return,” he said, voice dark with promise.
“Which means Permission Fifteen… is where everything finally changes.”
The room was seconds from crossing into something none of them could undo.
Elliott leaned fully into Jace’s body, breath coming fast.
Jace held him in both arms, steadier than he should’ve been.
Marcus watched with a calm so deep it was almost dangerous, like a man letting the moment crest just to see how it breaks.
Jace tightened his hold.
Elliott gasped and reached back again—
And then—
A sharp knock hit the suite door.
Once.
Twice.
Firm.
Professional.
The room froze the moment the knock hit the suite door.
Not a soft tap.
Not a hesitant visitor.
A firm, deliberate knock — the kind that expected Marcus to answer.
Elliott’s body tensed immediately, breath catching in his throat.
Jace’s hands slipped from Elliott’s sides, fists forming almost on instinct.
Marcus lifted his head slowly, irritation carving through the calm he’d held over both men all night.
The knock came again.
“Mr. DeLeon?”
A voice through the door — controlled, professional, too steady to ignore.
Marcus moved first.
“Do not move,” he said without looking back.
Elliott didn’t breathe.
Jace didn’t either.
Marcus cracked the door open just an inch.
A hotel security officer stood there, black suit sharp, badge clipped at his belt.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” he said, voice respectful. “We received a report about noise on this floor. Management asked me to check in.”
Marcus stared at him — silent, cold, unmoved.
“We’re fine,” Marcus said.
The guard nodded, but didn’t step away.
“There’s something else,” he added. “Someone’s downstairs asking for you. He wouldn’t give his name.”
Marcus’s jaw shifted.
The guard continued:
“He told me to give you this message.”
He unfolded a small slip of paper and read:
“I’m not done with our last conversation.”
Marcus took the note, closed the door, and locked it.
The moment he turned back, the entire energy of the room had shifted.
Elliott stood straighter than before, chest rising too fast.
Jace stepped toward Marcus with a look he’d never given another man — protective, assessing.
Elliott swallowed. “Marcus… who’s downstairs?”
Marcus didn’t answer at first.
He walked deeper into the suite, note crushed in his fist, breathing once through his nose like he was deciding whether to tell the truth or bury it.
Jace’s voice followed him.
Low.
Steady.
Too calm to be comfortable.
“Who the hell is he?”
Marcus finally looked up.
Not afraid.
Not surprised.
Just pulled back into something he clearly thought he’d left behind.
He exhaled once, slow.
Then said the line that closed the night like a blade sliding home:
“I wasn’t finished with either of you… but he wasn’t finished with me.”
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.