Chapter 6 Wesley
Wesley
The bookstore smelled of paper and coffee beans, a mix I’d always found grounding. I sat tucked into a corner table on the second level, a book open, a cup warm in my hand. As a man set in routine, Sundays were my escape, the days when I could decompress from the stress of the kind of life I lived.
The scrape of the chair across from me sounded grating compared to the quiet I’d been enjoying. I knew who it was without lifting my eyes from the page.
“Didn’t know you were a bookstore kind of guy,” Ro said, sliding into the seat. His voice carried that playful lilt, the kind that made every word sound like both a dare and a flirtation.
I turned the page and glanced across the small table at him. “I’m sure there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
His pale brows lifted, then furrowed, a small scowl twisting his delicate features. “I at least know now what your background is. I’m still mad at that fucker for making me look stupid. But hopefully the other night helped you understand that I’m not? Because I am so not stupid.”
I set my coffee cup down and met his eyes. “You’re more mad at him for making you look ‘stupid’ than you are for him sending you to your probable death?”
That earned me a grin—bright and mocking. “I’m used to that part. It was looking like an amateur that bothered me.” Ro leaned forward, chin resting in his palm, studying me.
“Well, don’t worry, you certainly proved yourself.”
Ro huffed and looked at my book. “Meditations?” he read the title, tilting his head. “Don’t tell me you’re meditating right now?”
“No, doll. And even if I were trying to, you’re a bit too loud.” He pouted at me, making my lip twitch up. “It’s on Stoic philosophy.”
“Sounds positively delightful,” he muttered.
I didn’t rise to it; I didn’t give him the reaction he was looking for. Instead, I went back to my book.
The silence stretched, not uncomfortable for me, but I could feel the twitch of restlessness in him, like a cat flicking its tail.
Ro stretched across the table, his arm brushing mine on purpose to get my attention. “You know,” he said, “I’m probably more interesting than that—prettier, too.”
I didn’t look up from my page. “More annoying as well.”
He smirked, lips parting to deliver another provocation—when I finally set the book down and turned my gaze fully on him.
My voice came out low, edged like gravel. “Shut up, and sit up. You’re not a toddler.”
The words hung between us, heavier than they should’ve been. His eyes widened, and for the first time, he didn’t have a quip ready on his tongue.
“I don’t mind if you stay, but if you do, you will be respectful of my time and how I choose to spend it.”
For a heartbeat, I thought he’d laugh, maybe push back with his false bravado. Instead, a little shudder went through him, his pupils blew out, and he leaned back, lacing his pale fingers together neatly on the table.
So he could listen…
“Good. Thank you.”
I picked my book back up, as if nothing had happened. An hour passed, and every so often I caught the way his leg bounced, or how he fidgeted with the shirt he wore, but he didn’t say a word.
When I finally closed the book, I let my hand linger on the cover and looked at him again. “I think it’s time for lunch. You did well,” I said, letting the satisfaction thread through my tone. “You’ve earned a reward.”
He blinked, blushing at my compliment, then tilted his head with a slyness that didn’t quite hide his surprise. “A reward?” His voice had that silk-slick edge, but it cracked faintly at the corners.
“Yes,” I said, standing and sliding the book under my arm.
He followed me out of the bookstore and down the city block. He wasn’t at my side, but trailing just a step behind, like a shadow unsure of its place.
“Why don’t you just kill me?” he asked finally, his voice quieter than before, carrying a note that wasn’t taunting. “Neutralize the threat while you can?”
I glanced back at him, then kept walking. “Because there’s no need.”
That silenced him again.
When we reached the restaurant—a quiet, refined establishment with white tablecloths and the type of clientele that required discretion—I held one of the doors open and inclined my head. “Your reward,” I told him.
His smile was late in arriving, small and unsettled, but he walked past me into the warmth of the place anyway. He stayed just behind me as I spoke with the hostess, requesting a secluded table.
The young woman smiled, showing picture-perfect white teeth, and led us through the low-lit dining room, past clinking glasses and murmured conversation.
I felt Ro’s presence at my shoulder—close and restless, and a touch too quick on his feet, like an animal who hadn’t decided if he’d pounce or bolt.
As we reached our table, I let him slide into the booth first, watching the subtle flick of his eyes as he noted his surroundings and the nearest exit. I took a seat across from him, settling in as if this were nothing more than another business lunch. A server appeared almost instantly.
“Two filet mignons, medium rare,” I said without looking at Ro, handing over the menus we hadn’t even touched. “House salad on the side, and a bottle of the Malbec.”
The server nodded and vanished.
Across the table, Ro blinked at me, mouth opening as if to argue—then snapping shut, confusion flickering in his gorgeous pale eyes. Irritation followed closely behind, but it was muted and reined in.
“You just ordered for me,” he said flatly.
“Yes.” I unfolded my napkin and laid it across my lap, unhurried.
A beat passed. “You didn’t even ask what I wanted. What if I were vegan?”
“Are you vegan?” My tone was quiet, even, with just enough weight behind it to cut off whatever comeback he was about to attempt.
He leaned back in the booth, arms folded. “No.” He didn’t push it any further.
Interesting.
For a moment, we sat in silence, the hum of the restaurant filling the space between us. Then I asked conversationally, “Do you read much, Ro?”
His eyes narrowed. “What the fuck? Small talk?”
“Yes,” I answered simply. “Do you read?”
He gave a short, sharp laugh, incredulous. “You’re serious. Jesus. Do you normally wine and dine the people who try to kill you?”
I met his stare evenly, letting the corners of my mouth curve just slightly. “You haven’t actually tried yet.”
He stiffened, just a fraction, as if I’d tapped him on the shoulder when he thought he was invisible. His lips parted, but no words came out.
I leaned forward slightly, resting my elbows on the table, voice still low and controlled. “So until you do, we’re having lunch. And you’re going to sit there, eat what’s put in front of you, and make conversation like a civilized man.”
His pupils flared—anger, surprise, maybe something else he hadn’t expected to feel.
I smiled faintly. “Try to enjoy the meal.”
The wine arrived then, the server pouring it into crystal glasses. I thanked him politely and waited until he retreated before raising mine in a small, unhurried toast.
“To unexpected company,” I said.
Ro’s fingers tightened around his own glass. He didn’t clink it against mine, but he still drank from it.
And that was enough.
The wine slid warm down my throat, smooth and rich. Across from me, Ro set his glass down, his movements a tad bit sharper than necessary, showing his nerves.
“You’re crazy,” he muttered.
“Mm,” I hummed, cutting into the bread roll the server had left. “I’ve been called worse.” I spread some butter on it and took a bite, unbothered by the glare aimed at me.
Ro slouched further in the booth, arms crossing. “I don’t get this.”
“What’s not to get? We’re just two acquaintances having a nice meal.”
He reached for his own bread and tore into it with his teeth as though to prove a point. I only arched a brow.
“Can you just tell me what you want?” he huffed.
“I just want to enjoy lunch with you,” I answered, holding back a smirk at his growing irritability.
His lips parted, and then he gave a sharp little laugh, shaking his head. “God, you’re fucking infuriating.”
The steaks arrived shortly later, steaming and perfectly seared. The server set them down, offered a polite smile, and disappeared again into the sea of tables.
I waited until Ro picked up his knife and fork before speaking. “Eat.”
He froze mid-motion, eyes lifting to mine. “I was going to.”
“Then you won’t mind me telling you to.”
There it was—that flash of surprise and something else again, quickly smothered. He cut into the meat, chewed slowly, glaring at me the whole time.
I savored my own bite before speaking. “Good boy.”
The silverware stilled in his hands. His throat worked around the mouthful he swallowed, eyes narrowing as if he hadn’t quite processed what I’d said—or worse, had processed it and didn’t know what to do with it.
“This is some kind of trick, isn’t it?” he asked, voice lower now, almost as if testing the words. “Don’t call me that. And don’t do this cringy, weird-ass Alpha Daddy shtick.”
“No, it’s not a trick. I genuinely brought you here to be my lunch companion, nothing more. And I’ll try to refrain from complimenting you, I guess.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, not a smile but something perilously close. He leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. “I could stab you with this steak knife. Would be real easy,” he purred.
I leaned in too, my tone as steady as ever. “Then do it. No one’s stopping you, babydoll.”
The silence that followed was thick, vibrating with the tension strung tight between us. Ro looked at me like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to claw my eyes out or crawl into my lap. Maybe it was both.
I sat back, returning to my meal as if nothing had happened, giving him space to squirm in the quiet.
Ro shifted in his seat, the knife still in his hand, his fingers tight around the silver handle. His eyes stayed on me, searching, calculating—like he was waiting for me to flinch.
I didn’t. I dabbed my mouth with my napkin. “You’ve got questions,” I said mildly, “but I’ve got one first.”
His brows knit. “What?”
“Who told you to kill me? You mentioned a ‘him’ earlier.”
The question landed like a stone between us. He didn’t even try for a joke this time. His jaw worked, the muscle ticking tight before a brittle smirk appeared. “I’m not telling you that.”
“Of course not,” I answered, cutting another piece of steak and chewing it leisurely. Then I met his gaze again. “But it’s Elias, right? The man who owns your apartment?”
Ro frowned. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” I leaned in, voice pitched low, just for him. “Andreas?”
His name landed heavily. His eyes widened, his breath stuttered, and even though it was only for a second, I could see the lost boy he was inside peeking through. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his napkin, shredding the linen into threads before he noticed and forced them flat again.
“You think you’ve got me figured out?” he asked, tone sharp, but quieter now. “You know nothing.”
“I’m fifty,” I said, watching him closely. “I know a lot more than someone twenty years my junior.”
For a moment, he just stared at me, the fight in him warring with something else he didn’t want to name. “Shut up,” he whispered harshly.
“Did Elias take you that night, or did someone else? Or maybe you ran on your own?”
“Shut up.”
“You really need to work on keeping a poker face,” I chuckled.
Ro’s bottom lip quivered, going still so quickly that I half-wondered if I’d imagined it. “It’s not—I’m not—”
“Is it just me, doll? Do I throw you off? I wonder why that is.”
His knuckles whitened around the knife. “Stop it. Stop calling me cutesy nicknames like we mean something to each other. Stop pushing me.”
I tilted my head, unhurried. “Would you rather me call you by your real name?”
The silence between us thickened, swallowing the restaurant’s gentle clatter of forks and murmured conversation. Ro’s pale throat worked as he swallowed hard, his gaze darting briefly to the side—as though the exit had suddenly grown very far away.
“Elias didn’t prepare you for this, did he?” I asked, voice smooth as the wine.
“Shut the fuck up.” It was shaky, nothing like the sharpness he’d walked in with.
I smiled and cut into my steak, savoring another bite before replying. “I could, but then you’d miss out on the truth. And despite all that pretty bravado, I think you crave the truth more than anything.”
His lips parted, a protest forming—then dying. He shoved another bite into his mouth just to fill the silence.
“Good boy,” I murmured again.
The fork nearly clattered from his hand. He slammed it down instead, glaring daggers at me, but his face betrayed the tremor at the edges.
“You keep saying shit like that, and I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” I asked softly, leaning forward just enough to feel him pull in closer, despite himself. “Prove me right? Run back to Elias and tell him you couldn’t even sit through a meal with me without shaking?”
His chest heaved, breath uneven. “Fuck you.”
“No, not yet.” The words landed with the weight of inevitability, and I watched him freeze, pupils blown wide, anger mixing with raw heat in his gaze. “Finish your steak, Ro. You’ve done well so far. Would you like to order dessert?”
“Fuck off. I’m done,” he muttered angrily, slipping out of the booth and throwing one last seething glare my way. His teeth clenched, and he turned, striding out of view without a backward glance.