Chapter 7
The hotel bathroom lights blazed too brightly. I stared at my reflection, fingers ghosting over the bruises on my throat. Purple and red bloomed across pale skin like violent flowers. His marks. Finally.
My tablet lay abandoned on the marble counter, its black screen reflecting the harsh lights.
I couldn't recall the last time it had strayed more than arm's length away, but now all I could focus on was the ache in my throat, the lingering taste of copper and whiskey, the swollen heat of my mouth from his kiss.
Three decades of enforced control, measured distance, professional boundaries I'd constructed to shield him from distraction, all shattered in minutes on that plane.
I pressed the darkest bruise until pain flared. A shiver raced through me, straight to my cock. I remained half-hard from the plane, my body refusing to accept that he'd denied us both completion. His fingers had branded me, claimed me, made me his in ways no contract or loyalty oath ever could.
Mine, he'd growled. You've been mine since the day we met.
Yes. Always. Even when he'd refused to see it. Even when I'd forced myself to become the steady foundation for his ambition rather than the distraction I longed to be.
My phone buzzed against the marble. The screen displayed a message:
Video conference with Shaw in 30 minutes. Ensure private location.
I would have to hide these marks and pretend to betray the only man who had ever mattered. The very thought made me feel sick.
The silk of my shirt whispered against the bruises as I moved, sending sparks of pain-pleasure through my body. Each breath reminded me of his ownership, his hands on my throat, the way he'd finally, finally taken what was his.
My cock throbbed insistently, demanding attention I couldn’t give.
Movement echoed through the wall. Algerone was in the adjoining suite.
The connecting door might as well have been tissue paper.
Every footstep, every shifted piece of furniture, every breath carried through.
The bed creaked, and my imagination supplied images of him stretching, undressing…
I stepped out of the bathroom, drawn toward the sound. My hand reached for the connecting door before I caught myself. What would I do? Knock? Beg? Fall to my knees and press my forehead to his feet? My cock throbbed at the thought.
He'd denied me even that.
After thirty-two years of devotion, after building his empire, after sacrificing everything including my own desires to see him succeed, I hadn't earned the right to properly abase myself before him.
I turned back to the mirror and began the ritual of concealment.
Foundation first, carefully layered over the darkest marks.
The makeup sat wrong against my skin, cold and artificial where his bruises burned warm and real.
The foundation dried tight and itchy, making me hyperaware of what lay beneath.
My hands trembled as I worked. Twice I paused when covering the bruises made me dizzy with loss. The makeup reeked of chemicals, nothing like the lingering scent of his skin.
When I finished, I selected a shirt with the highest collar I'd packed. The black silk would photograph well while hiding every mark. The fabric whispered against my sensitive skin, and I bit back a groan.
"Maxime."
I froze. Algerone's voice came from the main room. I hadn't heard the connecting door open.
I stepped out to find him standing in the middle of my suite, leaning on his cane. He must have entered while I was focused on the makeup. His green eyes found mine immediately, then dropped to my throat. His jaw clenched when he noticed the concealed bruises.
"You covered them." His voice sounded flat, unreadable, but I caught the undercurrent of possession and perhaps anger.
"Shaw requested a video call," I explained, hating how defensive I sounded. "I thought—"
"You thought correctly." He moved into my room, each tap of his cane against marble making me flinch. "Can't have him seeing my handiwork. Not yet."
He stopped directly before me, close enough that I tilted my head back to meet his eyes. The movement pulled at the bruises, sending a spike of sensation straight to my groin.
"Where will you take the call?"
I gestured to the desk by the window, ignoring how my voice had roughened. "The lighting works best there. Zurich makes an appropriately neutral background."
He studied the setup, then moved to the wall beside the desk, just outside the webcam's field of view. "I'll be here."
"Algerone—"
"Set up your equipment." His tone allowed no argument. "Show me the camera angle."
I arranged my laptop, angling the screen so he could see what Shaw would: my face and shoulders, the window behind me showing Zurich's skyline in late afternoon light. As I leaned forward to adjust the angle, my collar shifted, and his eyes tracked the movement hungrily.
"Sit," he commanded.
I lowered myself into the desk chair, achingly aware of his scrutiny. He remained pressed against the wall, safely outside the camera's range, but his presence saturated the room. My skin prickled, every nerve ending screaming for his touch even across the space.
"Remember," he said, his voice carrying clearly despite the distance. "You're tired of my restrictions. Frustrated by my control. Ready for a change."
"Yes." The word emerged strangled. I shifted in my seat, trying to ease the pressure against my erection.
"And if he asks about marks, about bruises?"
"A rough encounter at a club," I recited the lie we'd agreed upon. "Someone I picked up when you weren't watching."
His footsteps approached, the cane tapping against the floor.
He stopped beside my chair, still outside the camera's view but close enough to touch.
His hand found my throat, fingers unerringly locating the hidden bruises through the silk collar.
I swallowed hard against his palm, my pulse racing.
The pressure awakened the marks, sending heat pooling in my groin.
"Good man," he said softly, and those two words ignited liquid fire in my veins. "Don't disappoint me."
The laptop chimed with an incoming call.
Algerone's hand withdrew. He retreated quickly to the wall, his cane marking a rapid rhythm. I straightened, composing my features into professional neutrality while my body screamed for his touch. The phantom pressure of his fingers lingered on my throat as I accepted the call.
Shaw's face filled the screen with his perfectly groomed silver hair, calculating eyes, the kind of surgical smile money buys.
He looked exactly as he had eight years ago when he'd tried to purchase me away from Algerone.
I let him see what he expected, a hint of tension, calculated frustration, while behind the camera, my true god watched.
"Maxime St. Germain," he purred. "You look tense. Is he working you too hard?"
I sensed Algerone's presence across the room, his stillness more commanding than any movement.
In my peripheral vision, he stood against the wall, utterly motionless.
But his eyes... they burned into me, noting every word, every gesture.
My cock throbbed insistently, but I compartmentalized the sensation through decades of boardroom warfare.
"You have no idea," I replied, injecting the right amount of frustration. "He's becoming... insufferable."
The word burned my throat like acid. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Algerone's hand tighten on his cane. My body responded to that tiny movement, nipples hardening beneath silk, but my face remained perfectly controlled.
Shaw leaned forward, interest sharpening his features. "Oh? The great Algerone Caisse-Etremont showing cracks in his armor?"
I allowed a small, calculated smile. "Even titans age, Gideon. And age rarely improves temperament. After thirty-two years, you'd think he'd trust my judgment. But then, trust seems a finite resource in his world."
"Trust," Shaw mused, "is such a fragile thing. Once broken..." He let the implication hang.
"Indeed." I shifted slightly, ostensibly adjusting my position but trying to relieve the ache between my legs. The movement made my collar gap just enough. Shaw's eyes sharpened.
"That mark on your neck," he said slowly. "Did he do that?"
My pulse jumped. In the reflection, Algerone's knuckles whitened on his cane.
"Rough encounter at a club," I said smoothly, allowing a small smile while my stomach twisted. "You know how I like to unwind when he's not watching."
Shaw's expression turned predatory. "Still sampling the local talent? I remember your... appreciation for variety during our dinner in Manhattan."
The reference made my skin crawl. Shaw had purchased that escort thinking he gave me what I wanted. He never knew that all I'd ever wanted was the one man I couldn't have. The man watched from across the room now, his presence a physical weight.
"Variety keeps life interesting," I replied.
"Speaking of variety," Shaw leaned back, "I'm prepared to offer you everything Algerone never could. Creative freedom. Unlimited resources. And..." his smile widened, "a much more understanding approach to your personal needs."
My expression remained neutral, thoughtful. "Attractive promises," I acknowledged, tilting my head. "But I've built Lucky Losers from the ground up. I know every contract, every connection, every skeleton in every closet. That institutional knowledge isn't easily replaced."
Shaw's eyes gleamed. "Name your price."
"It's not about money." I let steel enter my voice, the tone that made hardened mercenaries retreat in boardrooms. "It's about respect. Partnership. Not just becoming another acquisition in your portfolio."
"You'd never be just another acquisition," Shaw assured me, leaning forward. "You'd be my right hand. My equal partner in expansion into markets Lucky Losers hasn't even dreamed of."
I raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious despite myself. "Markets Algerone hasn't considered? That's a bold claim."