Thorn
Belladonna Mansion
Ballroom
Virginia Beach Oceanfront
“I want to thank all of you for another amazing masquerade! Was this a magical night, or what?”
Thorn waited for the cheers and whoops to die down. His men looked regal in their gold masks and black-on-black tuxes. Their guests had come up with some pretty elaborate masks that were the showpieces of the evening.
“The night is still young. Continue to eat, drink, and love!”
Thorn raised his glass one last time while keeping his eyes on the man at the back of the room with the royal-blue mask.
After the raucous cheers died down, Thorn descended the stairs. He accepted hugs and congratulations on another successful event.
The band—Casey had interviewed and selected them—began to play a romantic melody of soft music, and the dancefloor quickly filled up.
Arnold was already waiting at the foot of the staircase, standing tall and proud, but not arrogant, in his immaculate tuxedo.
His mask was black lacquer, cut sharp at the edges with a silver filigree design that caught the light when he tilted his head.
Thorn had chosen Arnold to come to Belladonna as a gentleman after several days of investigation.
He was referred by a prior trusted gentleman who ran his own fitness center and had told Thorn that Arnold was known to favor men of substance, men with breadth and bulk.
Men like Jonah.
Thorn searched the ballroom until he found Jonah—in the same place he’d been all night—half-hidden in the far corner, farthest from the buffet tables.
His tux fit him well. Thorn had sent him to his own tailor, who worked wonders with Jonah’s broad frame, but he still had his head bowed, eyes on the floor, as if it’d make him invisible.
He hadn’t danced, hadn’t mingled, and Thorn was certain he hadn’t eaten a single thing, no matter how many trays of food floated past him.
Thorn’s heart ached with both affection and frustration.
Jonah had lived in the mansion for almost a month, yet still refused to come out of his room until he was confident everyone was asleep.
Tonight, he meant to change that.
The masquerade existed for the timid and uncertain, the men who hadn’t yet found the courage to show their faces.
“Jonah,” Thorn called over the music.
Jonah started, shoulders stiffening before he crossed the room. Even beneath his mask, his hands fidgeted at his sides, and his gaze shot downward any time someone looked his way.
Thorn met him with a warm smile, then stepped aside, presenting Arnold like a gift.
Arnold’s gaze locked onto Jonah the moment he arrived. Through the mask, Thorn could see it. He knew the expression well—mesmerized.
The tall man didn’t hesitate, didn’t assess Jonah with calculation. He reached for Jonah’s hand, bowed his head, and pressed a slow, reverent kiss to his knuckles.
Jonah froze, chest expanding as if he’d forgotten how to breathe.
“Jonah Matthews,” Thorn said, “this is Arnold Williams.”
Arnold didn’t release Jonah’s cradled hand right away. When he did, he extended his arm and waited.
Jonah paused, clearly panicked, until Thorn gave him a small nod.
After a shaky breath, Jonah slid his hand into the crook of Arnold’s elbow.
Thorn watched them walk to the dancefloor, Jonah stiff and uneasy as Arnold guided him with careful precision.
The tall man wrapped his arms around Jonah, as if he were handling something fragile and priceless.
There was no anxiousness in the gesture, no rush. Arnold held Jonah close, but with room for him to breathe, and began to move to the music in the gentlest of steps.
The sight pulled at Thorn’s chest. For all his wealth and influence, it was moments like this that mattered most to him. Watching a man like Jonah, who’d convinced himself for so long he was unwanted and unlovable, be treated as if he were the most beautiful man in the room, warmed his heart.
In Arnold’s arms, it was the first time Thorn saw Jonah look up.