Chapter 30
The moment the stripper slipped quietly out of the room, Sorrell’s expression changed. The flirtatious smirk vanished, replaced by a mask of cold professionalism that made Riven’s head spin. It was as if the man had flipped a switch, from provocative host to ruthless negotiator in an instant.
Sorrell leaned forward, fingers steepled on the table. “I assume you didn’t come empty-handed, Thane. Let’s see what you’ve brought.”
Without hesitation, Thane pulled up images on a sleek holo-pad—the dead mage found near the motel, and the man identified as connected to House Glint. The bright, detailed projections flickered in the dim light of the booth.
Sorrell studied them with sharp, calculating eyes, his lips pressed thin. After a long moment, he shook his head. “Neither of these work for my House. Hit squads like these aren’t our style.”
His gaze shifted to Riven. “And why is this one here?” he asked pointedly. “If you didn’t bring him along to entertain me, of course.”
Before Riven could answer, Thane cut in, calm and precise. “I needed to see how you reacted to him. He’s the one who survived the attack by the so-called Glint mage.”
Riven’s heart hammered in his chest, the weight of the unspoken question hanging thick between them.
Sorrell turned to Riven again, his gaze sharper this time, though the edge of mischief lingered in the curl of his lips. “So you’re not fucking him?”
Thane didn’t even blink. “That’s none of your business.”
That drew a genuine smile from Sorrell. “Interesting,” he murmured, sitting back in his chair as if that told him far more than it should have. “And here I thought you’d finally gotten over your whole choke-collar aloofness thing.”
Thane ignored that too, fingers tapping once against the table before he spoke. “Can you think of anyone who might benefit from pushing Virellien and Glint into a war?”
Sorrell tilted his head, considering. “The thing about being a Great House,” he said, voice smooth, “is that you’re never short on enemies. People hate us just for existing. For having power. For keeping it.”
His words carried an easy confidence, but Riven didn’t miss the flicker of calculation behind his eyes.
Sorrell shifted forward again. “But that’s not what you’re really asking. You want to know if someone’s trying to maneuver us into tearing each other apart while they sit back and pick the bones. So.” He arched a brow. “What’ve you stuck your foot into this time, Thane?”
“I’m looking into the Soulglass problem,” Thane said bluntly.
Sorrell folded his hands together, gaze sharpening like a blade unsheathed.
“Ah,” he said quietly. “Now that’s interesting.”
Sorrell leaned back, tongue wetting his bottom lip in thought. “Have you heard the whispers?”
Thane’s expression didn’t shift, but Riven noticed the pause. “Depends which whispers you mean.”
“The ones about the Hollow Hand.”
Riven felt the ripple of tension run through the room, subtle but undeniable. Thane went still.
Sorrell turned his gaze to Riven. “Ah, so no one’s explained that bit to the new pet.” He offered a wry, dangerous smile, but there was no humor in it.
“The Hollow Hand,” Sorrell said, fingers tapping slowly on the table, “was a group of Houseless renegades. Outcasts, mercenaries, bastards born outside the gilded cage of the Great Houses but talented enough to matter. They specialized in hits—political assassinations, mostly. Heads of Houses. Heirs. Anyone high enough on the chain to send shockwaves when they dropped.”
His voice was low, hypnotic almost, and Riven found himself leaning slightly forward despite himself.
“They were brutal, surgical. What made them terrifying wasn’t just their magic, though. No, it was how coordinated they were. They didn’t flinch from blood, didn’t blink at toppling dynasties. They took out three Heads of Houses in under a year.”
He lifted his fingers, three sharp taps. “Bang. Bang. Bang.”
Riven swallowed. “And they were…eradicated?”
“In part thanks to House Virellien,” Sorrell said, inclining his head slightly toward Thane. “Your boy here was instrumental in that little campaign. Took years. Whole families died. Cities burned. But eventually, one by one, the Hollow Hand was snuffed out.”
He paused. “Or so we thought.”
Sorrell’s smile disappeared entirely.
“If they’re back,” he said softly, “that’s trouble for all of us. But mostly?” His eyes flicked to Thane. “For House Virellien. If they’ve crawled out of whatever grave you buried them in, they’ll come for you first.”
Thane was quiet for a moment.
Riven glanced at him sidelong, trying to gauge his expression—but it was useless. Thane’s features were carved from stone. Whatever the name Hollow Hand had stirred inside him, he wasn’t showing it.
When he finally spoke, his voice was level.
“If they’re back,” Thane said, “and this escalates, can House Virellien count on Glint? Or will we find you across the table when the knives come out?”
Sorrell’s eyes flashed with amusement, or simply the pleasure of watching Thane ask for something he didn’t want to need.
He waved a hand lazily, adorned with heavy rings that caught the low light like glints of blood. “Don’t insult me, darling. I’ve no interest in destabilizing all of Atlantis. Chaos may be good for business in small doses, but this? This would be collapse. I enjoy my comforts too much for that.”
Thane’s jaw flexed.
“If the time comes,” Sorrell went on, reclining deeper into the plush leather of the booth, “Glint will stand with Virellien. For now.”
Thane gave him a stiff nod. “That’s appreciated.”
“Oh, don’t be so noble about it,” Sorrell said with a wicked grin. “It’s not altruism. If Virellien falls, there will be no one left who can take on the Hollow Hand. And I don’t intend to end up with a knife in my spine in some bathhouse.”
Riven opened his mouth, maybe to ask something, maybe to breathe—but Sorrell was already moving.
“Well, are we done here?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. A perfectly manicured finger tapped the discreet button embedded in the table’s armrest.
The door opened soundlessly.
And the stripper returned.
Still naked, still glistening, his cock still held upright by whatever spell had been looped around his flesh like a leash.
He walked in without hesitation, steps fluid and confident.
His gaze was vacant, glassy. The mesh thong was gone—there was nothing now to shield him from their eyes.
Every inch of his body was sculpted and smooth, aroused and ready, as if he’d simply paused his performance the moment he’d been dismissed and waited until summoned back.
Sorrell leaned back, already freeing his own cock with the same idle grace he used to sip wine.
Riven tried not to look.
But even as he rose with Thane, his gaze flicked down. Sorrell’s cock was longer than he’d expected. Thick, ruddy, beaded with slick at the head. The stripper stepped forward, turning his back to the booth, and with the ease of someone trained or endlessly used, he sank down onto Sorrell’s lap.
There was no sound but a low groan, too raw to be real, and the slow, slick grind of flesh accepting flesh.
Sorrell exhaled through his nose, hands gripping the dancer’s thighs as he sank deeper and deeper until his ass was flush against the Lord of House Glint’s lap.
“Always a pleasure, Sorrell,” Thane said flatly, already turning.
“Mmm,” came Sorrell’s distracted response, his eyes half-lidded as he began to roll his hips upward with more intent. “Give my regards to your mother.”
Thane was already halfway to the staircase, and Riven followed.
But for a heartbeat, he couldn’t look away.
The dancer had braced himself on the table, head tipped back, mouth open in a soundless moan. Sorrell’s hips snapped up once—sharp, punishing—and the sound of skin striking skin echoed behind them like a gunshot.
Riven turned away fast, but not fast enough.
The rhythm, the obscene intimacy, the way it made his own blood thrum—he carried it with him, the images burned into his brain like magic sigils drawn too deep.
As he descended the stairs behind Thane, the wet slap of Sorrell’s thrusts echoed in his ears like a dark, dirty metronome.