Chapter 24 Julian
JULIAN
Sunlight filters through my penthouse windows, casting golden bars across the bed. I blink awake, disoriented for a moment by the unfamiliar weight beside me. Turning, I find Elliot sprawled across my Egyptian cotton sheets, completely naked and sleeping soundly.
What the fuck has gotten into me?
I never bring anyone back here after the Hunt. I fuck them, I move on. Yet here’s Elliot Chambers, the man I publicly claimed for an entire year, sleeping on my three-thousand-dollar pillowcase.
Memories of last night rush back—leaving my own post-Hunt celebration, something I’ve never done before.
Walking into that dive bar to meet his friends.
Playing fucking pool and eating greasy nachos while Victor, Theo, Jenson, and the twins were back at my place, finally crossing that line I’ve been watching Theo try to cross for years.
Theo’s had the hots for Victor’s straight ass forever. Normally, I would have stayed to watch that fantasy unfold, maybe joined in when Victor realized how much he enjoyed a man’s touch. That’s what Julian Frost does—observes, participates, controls, and never, ever gets attached.
Instead, I left to meet the friends of a man I’ve known intimately for all of three days.
I trace a finger along the curve of Elliot’s shoulder, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. He sighs in his sleep, shifting closer to my touch as if he’s been trained to respond to me.
The rules for my participation in the Hunt have always been clear. I pursue. I claim. I enjoy. I don’t bring prey home. I don’t meet their friends. I certainly don’t let them fuck me against alley walls while they whisper that they love me.
Love.
The word alone sends an uncomfortable tightness through my chest. I’ve heard it before, of course—gasped during climax, whispered in desperation, offered like currency from those hoping to extend our arrangement beyond what I’m willing to give.
I’ve always found it pathetic, this need to dress up desire in prettier clothing.
So why didn’t I laugh when Elliot said it? Why did I pull him closer instead of pushing him away?
Elliot stirs beside me, and I slip out of bed before those dark eyes open. I need space to think clearly, away from the disarming warmth of his body and the memory of those three words spoken from his lips.
This isn’t what I do. I don’t fall into... whatever this is. I need structure, boundaries, and control.
I pour myself a neat whiskey despite the early hour and stare out at the Ravenwood skyline. The rules of my claim give me rights to Elliot’s body for a year, but how do I handle this complication?
The bedroom door clicks open behind me. I don’t turn.
“Morning.” His voice carries a hint of uncertainty.
“We need ground rules,” I say, still facing the window. “For the year.”
“Rules?” he asks.
I turn, keeping my expression neutral despite his tousled hair and the marks my mouth left across his chest. “Yes. Rules. I claimed you for a year, which means we have plenty of time to explore your sexuality now that you’ve finally acknowledged it.”
“That’s what this is to you? A sexual experiment?”
I take a measured sip of whiskey. “What else would it be? You’ve never been with a man before. I’m giving you the space to explore that safely.”
The flash of hurt in his eyes makes something twist inside me. I ignore it.
“So, rule one—we’re exclusive physically, but this isn’t a relationship. We’re two men enjoying each other’s bodies.”
“Julian—”
“Two, what happened in that alley last night... the things said in the heat of the moment stay there. Words like that have no place between us.”
He looks down, fingers twisting in my expensive sheets. “And if I can’t agree to that?”
I drain my glass, needing the burn. “You don’t have a choice. I claimed you for the year.”
Elliot stares at me, the hurt in his eyes a breath away from devastation.
For a man who spent decades hiding his emotions, he’s suddenly an open book—one I don’t want to read.
Something sharp twists in my chest as his expression shutters closed, his vulnerability replaced with a blank mask I recognize all too well.
Without a word, he turns and walks toward the bedroom. I expect him to shout, to argue—that’s what people do when I set boundaries. Instead, his silence lands much harder. Devastating in its own rite.
I watch his naked form disappear around the corner. The soft rustle of clothes reaches me, then the brief sound of running water in the bathroom. He’s leaving. Of course, he’s leaving. That’s what I wanted, isn’t it? Space. Control. Distance from whatever happened last night in that alley.
So why does my chest feel hollow as I listen to his movements?
“Fuck,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.
The front door opens and closes with a quiet click that somehow sounds more final than if he’d slammed it.
“Fuck!” I say again, louder this time, hurling my empty glass across the room. It shatters against the wall, the sound breaking the silence Elliot left behind.
I drop onto my couch in nothing but my boxer briefs, feeling suddenly exposed despite the minimal clothing. My penthouse—usually my sanctuary—feels wrong somehow.
What the hell is happening to me? I’ve had dozens of men and women before Elliot. I’ve had women beg to stay. I’ve had them cry when I dismissed them. None of it ever touched me like the quiet dignity of his exit.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars.
What have I gotten myself into? The Hunt was supposed to be simple—a game. Claim him, fuck him, control him. But now the rules feel insufficient, like trying to contain the ocean in a teacup.