Ellis
snapped awake, years of practice overriding his body’s desperate plea for more sleep. The crystal numbers on the bedside clock read 4:17 AM, and his heart clenched—he’d slept longer than intended. His fingers instinctively curled into the sheets, their thousand-thread count Egyptian cotton a world away from his rough, worn linens back at Heart Court that never quite felt clean no matter how many times they were washed.
Every muscle screamed in protest as he tried to shift away from the warmth radiating from Gabriel’s sleeping form. The silken bedding whispered against his bare skin, a luxury that felt almost wrong against his body, like he was tainting something too fine for someone like him.
The full weight of the night crashed over him as he moved. His throat ached from Gabriel’s grip, his hips and thighs burned with finger-shaped bruises, and the deep ache between his legs sent sparks of remembered pleasure mixed with pain shooting up his spine. But it wasn’t just physical. Something deeper had cracked open inside him, leaving him raw and exposed in ways that had nothing to do with his naked skin.
Gabriel’s words echoed in his head: “My perfect little toy.” “Made to be owned.” “Soon, you’ll forget there was ever a time you weren’t mine.” In the darkness, allowed himself one moment of weakness, pressing his palm against his chest where an unfamiliar ache had settled. He’d given up everything Gabriel had demanded, surrendered to him, and for a few precious hours, he’d believed those words.
He turned back, unable to resist one last look. Gabriel lay sprawled across the far side of the bed, all elegant lines and casual dominance even in sleep. realized he’d spent the night clinging to the edge of the mattress, as if his body had known, even in sleep, that he didn’t belong in that massive bed. His skin ached to crawl back into that warmth, to press against Gabriel’s side and pretend, just for a moment more, that all those possessive words had been real.
But he knew better.
The memory of other morning-afters stopped him cold. Rough hands shoving him away, cruel words spat at him, disgust replacing the tenderness of the night before. He’d learned early that no one wanted to wake up to the escort they paid for, no matter how sweetly they’d talked the previous night. It was better to slip away in the dark while they slept.
So he did what he always did: gathered his clothes quietly and prepared to disappear into the darkness of the cat hours. After dressing carefully in his neatly folded clothes, he hesitated, fingers brushing over the raw marks on his throat that his collar wouldn’t quite hide.
scanned the room for his underwear, knowing he couldn’t leave that kind of evidence behind—no client actually wanted to keep souvenirs, no matter what the latest erotic novella claimed. His gaze finally landed on the scrap of black lace near what looked like an en-suite bathroom door, clear across the room. The sight triggered another realization that made his chest tight—while his body ached in the most intimate ways, he didn’t feel the usual sticky discomfort that came with these encounters. Gabriel must have cleaned him while he’d been lost in that hazy space after their final round.
That tenderness, beyond what any client had ever shown, made ’ throat close. It was too much—the careful aftercare, the way Gabriel had held him afterward, how he’d whispered those possessive promises against ’ skin.
His hands shook as he retrieved the torn thong, shoving it deep into his pocket along with his phone he retrieved from Gabriel’s jacket. He had to get out now, before these dangerous feelings could take root any deeper. A man like Gabriel Rohan might enjoy playing caretaker for a night, might even convince himself he wanted to keep a bought boy—but morning always brought clarity. It was better to disappear now while he could still pretend last night’s possession had meant something more than a fantasy fulfilled.
His worn sneakers made no sound on the polished wood of the grand staircase. In the pre-dawn quiet, the mansion felt like another world—all old money, silence, and lurking shadows that reminded just how far this place was from his reality. He’d almost reached the massive front door when a quiet voice froze him in place.
“It was a pleasure to host you, sir. Is there a message you would like to leave for the master?”
startled, spinning to face the butler. Jacob materialized from the shadows like he belonged to them, his bearing as impeccable as if it were the middle of the afternoon. There was no judgment in his voice; it was just polite inquiry as if was any other overnight guest—as if the marks on his throat weren’t clearly visible even in the dim light.
“Uh, no. Or, I guess, if he wants to call on me again, I’d be happy to—” cut himself off, heat flooding his cheeks. Happy to what? Submit again? Let Gabriel use him until he couldn’t walk straight? What was wrong with him? The butler’s carefully neutral expression only made it worse, like his stumbling response was perfectly normal, expected even.
“Of course, sir. Have a pleasant day.” Jacob bowed slightly at the waist, the gesture as precise and proper as everything else about him.
slipped out the front door, closing it softly behind him. He had only taken a few steps when he heard the massive doors lock with a heavy click that seemed to echo in the morning’s silence. He hurried down the walkway to the street, trying to ignore how the sound felt like finality.
Once a block away and heading to the metro station, pulled out and powered on his phone. His hands were still trembling from the encounter with Jacob when the screen lit up, immediately exploding with notifications: missed calls, texts, and voicemails flooding the display. Confused, scrolled through the missed calls first, panic settling deeper with each swipe of his thumb. Over fifty missed calls glared back at him, most from Donovan, with a handful from Jean.
His heart pounding, skipped the voicemails and went straight for the text messages.
#
8:12 PM: Where the hell are you? Client’s been waiting. Pick up your damn phone.
8:27 PM: I gave you a chance to clean up your act after those complaints. This is your gratitude?
8:40 PM: You’re pushing it, boy. After I let those bad reviews slide, you pull this shit? I should’ve kicked you out weeks ago.
9:15 PM: Guess my generosity was wasted. Heart Court doesn’t need escorts who can’t even show up for work. I’ll blacklist you at every cathouse in Fourth Cat!!
11:36 PM: Want to keep your spot? 8AM tomorrow, my office. You’ll work the worst shifts until you’ve made up for EVERY complaint AND this no-show.
01:45 AM: Since I had to give him Caleb AND refund his money, you’re paying back double - the refund AND Caleb’s rate. 8AM tomorrow if you want to keep working.
#
’s hands shook as he closed Donovan’s messages, his phone nearly slipping from his sweat-slicked fingers. Cold dread washed over him, making him lightheaded as the full weight of his situation sank in.
How had he screwed up this badly? He’d followed his instructions: right time and place, and Gabriel Rohan matched the client’s description perfectly. Dark suit, what he’d thought was the specified maroon shirt—okay, it had been a darker red, but close enough—and everything else: dark hair, blue eyes, clearly in his thirties. Hell, Gabriel had even been sitting by the fountain where his actual client was supposed to be!
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in his throat, quickly stifled by the back of his hand. This was Donovan’s fault. How was anyone supposed to identify the right client with such vague information? But fault didn’t matter now. He’d blown his last chance at Heart Court because he’d approached the wrong man, and that wrong man had... had...
swallowed hard, stumbling down the metro station steps as fresh memories flooded back—Gabriel’s hands on his throat, that commanding voice in his ear, the way his body had betrayed him again and again. Each step sent jolts through his oversensitive body, a maddening mixture of pain and arousal that made him bite his lip to keep quiet. At the turnstile, his trembling hands could barely hold his phone steady enough for the card reader to register. The green light finally blinked, granting him passage into the underground darkness.
He collapsed onto a bench, wincing at the contact, his eyes automatically lifting to the ticker—three minutes until the next train. His numb fingers hovered over Jean’s unread messages, but his mind kept circling back to the magnitude of his mistake. Everything had gone so catastrophically wrong, yet his traitorous body still thrummed. With a shaking breath, he forced himself to tap the message chain, opening Jean’s chat.
#
11:03 PM: , Kevin is raging that you were a no-show for your client. I know that isn’t like you. ?a va? Où êtes-vous? Please let me know you’re safe.
12:32 PM: Starting to really worry about here. No one’s heard anything from you. I know things haven’t been great, but you’d tell me if you were in trouble, right? Send me anything so I know you’re alive.
01:58 AM: Have to head out to see my last client now. I’ll be back at Heart Court during cat hours. Just... please be okay.
#
banged his head against the wall behind him, the dull thud matching his heartbeat. So not only had he monumentally screwed up with his client, he’d worried Jean—his best and only real friend at Heart Court. He quickly typed out a message: “I’m alive. Sorry to worry you.”
Jean’s response was instant: ”T’étais où? Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé? ?a va?”
stared at the concerned messages, guilt churning in his stomach. He didn’t have the energy to explain this mess over text, nor did he want a record of his colossal mistake. “Chu corrèc. I’ll explain everything when I get back to Heart Court. Promise.”
When his train arrived, staggered on, dropping into the first available seat with relief that quickly turned to regret. He jerked upright with a barely suppressed gasp, Gabriel’s thorough possession making itself known in ways that sent heat flooding his cheeks. Shifting uncomfortably, he tried to find a position that didn’t make him wince, eventually settling for perching on the edge of the seat. His body ached in ways that would make the next few days interesting, to say the least.
“Long night?” The sympathetic voice carried from down the train car. A petite brunette lounged against one of the poles, an expensive vape sending sweet-scented clouds around her perfectly styled hair. Her outfit walked the line between high-class escort and wealthy patron, every curve strategically displayed. The cat hours timing and her practiced stance marked her as the former, likely heading home or back to one of the Fourth Cat’s upscale establishments.
A classically handsome blonde man beside her, his designer clothes artfully disheveled in a way that spoke of expensive tastes, smacked her playfully on the hip. “Leave the kid alone, Lottie.” His green eyes sparkled with knowing amusement as they darted between ’ careful posture and the visible marks on his throat.
“It’s a 25-minute ride back to the Fourth Cat, and he got on at Lafayette Park. I’m dying to know his story.” Lottie sashayed over, settling next to . “You got bruises, honey.” She pointed at her neck. “Here, use this. It’s the FDA-approved stuff, not that homeopathic arnica nonsense they sell to all the hippies. This stuff will actually make your bruises vanish. I swear it’s magic.” She pressed a half-empty bottle of ‘Smooth’ into his hands. The expensive cream was well-known in their circles—capable of clearing light bruises and cuts within hours, the darker ones within a day or two instead of the usual week.
thanked her softly, trying not to wince as he accepted the bottle.
“You should carry one around if you’re going to take on clients who mark you up like that.” Lottie took another drag from her vape, watching with professional assessment as he dabbed the cream around his throat. Her tone carried no judgment, just the matter-of-fact concern of someone who’d been there.
“I don’t think I could afford to keep something like this in stock,” admitted, carefully recapping the bottle. Even a small container like this would eat up most of a night’s earnings. And with his clients, he’d probably go through them quickly.
“Keep it, honey. I have more. And...” her eyes flickered knowingly over his careful posture, “Looks like you might need it somewhere more delicate later. Our brothel keeps them supplied for us.”
“You work non-union?” The blonde man asked, gracefully sliding into the seat across from them. Even with his disheveled appearance, his clothes screamed money—the kind of quality could spot from years of undressing clients.
“Yeah,” confirmed. “Rough night.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Lottie asked, her voice carrying a gentleness sex workers often reserved for each other.
“Oh, come off it, Lottie. Not everyone wants to share their life story with you.” The man’s eyes rolled, but his tone held fondness.
“I’ll start.” She extended her hand with practiced elegance. “Charlotte Garten. Nashville transplant and failed country-music star.”
couldn’t help but smile as he shook her hand, noting the perfect French manicure that probably cost more than his weekly earnings.
“And I guess I’m Aric Duval.” The blonde offered his own hand. “Former high-school teacher turned prostitute.”
raised an eyebrow. “Former?”
“Well, I did both for a while.” Aric’s green eyes tracked the passing lights outside. “God knows the sex work paid more than teaching in the Third Cat. Had to get a Master’s degree to teach for the public schools in PDC. Worked at a non-union joint while in college, but wouldn’t you know it? Turned out sex work paid nearly twice as much as teaching.” He settled back, his casual posture at odds with his designer clothes. “In my second year on the job, I was caught servicing the vice principal’s wife. Been doing this ever since.”
“I’m sorry,” said, not knowing what else to say.
“I’m not. Teaching paid pennies. I make six figures a year with sex work, and I don’t even have to pay for my housing.”
Lottie shifted closer, her expensive perfume a contrast to the vape’s sweetness. “As I said, washed-up country singer. Made the mistake every wannabe with a dream does and slept with a man who promised to make me a star. Turns out, he didn’t think I could be one. Left a decent bartending gig behind in Nashville and came to PDC looking for a new start. Not surprisingly, singing gigs, and even bartending jobs are a hard market to get into. Started doing the singing escort thing a few months into my stay here. That was eight years ago.”
“She got pretty popular,” Aric said, smiling at her fondly.
“Damn straight, I did.” Lottie returned his smile before turning her attention back to . “What about you, kid?”
took a deep breath, steeling himself. “Pretty typical PDC story, really. Mom and Dad died in the chemical plant fire fifteen years ago—”
“I heard about that, nasty stuff. The area is still condemned, isn’t it?” Aric asked, leaning forward in his seat.
nodded, the familiar ache of that loss dulled by time. “Yeah, most of the kids in my neighborhood ended up in foster care. Foster parents weren’t exactly clean—what with it being the Third Cat and all. The guy was a small-time member of some gang. Had me running drugs a few months after I got there. Ran away at twelve when I overheard him telling his buddies he was going to sell me to the gang. Been on the street ever since. Got the non-union gig a few years ago. Just trying to keep it.”
Aric’s expression darkened. “Did you finish high school?”
shook his head, fighting the familiar shame. “Never went. Self-taught. Easy enough to do with the libraries. The librarians always took pity on me. Bought me lunch more often than not. One taught me basic math when he realized I wasn’t in school.”
Lottie rested her delicate hand on his. “I’m sorry. That’s rough.”
shrugged, uncomfortable with the sympathy. “It’s not so bad. I survived. Made it this far.”
“So then, what has you looking so upset?” Lottie leaned in, her perfectly highlighted hair catching the fluorescent train lighting.
told them the entire story, start to finish. The pair listened intently, Lottie’s soft gasps and concerned murmurs punctuating his story, while her hand occasionally flew to her mouth in surprise.
“It’s your proprietor’s fault,” Aric said, his green eyes flashing angrily. “Sucks it’s not a Union brothel. They wouldn’t have allowed the anonymity bullshit. You would’ve been given his full name and face, not just some basic description.”
managed a sad smile. “I know. But no union brothel will take a kid without a high school degree. I didn’t even technically finish middle school.”
Lottie squeezed his shoulder, then reached into her designer purse and pulled out her calling card—one of those fancy electronic ones that was quickly becoming the new standard. Not that could ever afford them. She tapped it against his phone, her information immediately syncing to his contacts.
“If you ever need anything, you call me, you hear? Especially if that proprietor of yours gives you the business.” Her delicate features had hardened with determination.
The conductor’s voice crackled over the speaker, announcing Moulin Coeur, the heart of the Fourth Cat.
“This is our stop. You?” Aric asked, offering Lottie his hand as she stood.
“Four more, then a transfer to red. Five after that.”
Aric nodded knowingly. ’ stop being closer to The Docks spoke volumes about his normal clientèle.
“Good luck, ,” Lottie called as they disembarked.
just waved, watching as their well-dressed figures disappeared into the station. He wasn’t looking forward to the confrontation with Donovan, but his mind drifted back to the mansion he’d left behind. To Gabriel. He pushed the thought away—he had bigger problems to deal with now.