Chapter 4 White Roses #2
Adrian's hand slid to Noah's hip, holding him steady. “Don't move yet.” He shifted position, kneeling behind Noah, and I realised what was about to happen.
Noah's eyes went wide. “Adrian—”
“You can take it. You've done it before.” Adrian's voice was low, commanding. “Trust me.”
Noah nodded, breathing deep, and I felt him relax around me. Adrian pressed the head of his cock against Noah's entrance, right above where I was buried inside him, and began to push in.
The pressure was insane. I could feel Adrian's cock pressing against mine through the thin wall of Noah's body, feel the stretch as Noah took both of us, his hole stretched obscenely wide around both our cocks.
Noah's whole body shook, a high whine escaping his throat as Adrian worked himself in alongside me. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
“Breathe,” Adrian commanded, one hand on Noah's hip, the other on his shoulder, holding him steady. “You can take it. Just breathe.”
Noah did, chest heaving, and slowly, inch by agonising inch, Adrian seated himself fully inside. We were both buried in Noah now, cocks pressed tight together, Noah stretched impossibly full between us.
“Oh my fucking god,” Noah gasped, head falling back against Adrian's shoulder. “I can't—it's too much—”
“You can,” Adrian said firmly. “You are. Look at you, taking both of us. So fucking perfect.”
I couldn't speak, couldn't think. The pressure was incredible, the heat, the feeling of Adrian's cock pressed against mine inside Noah's body. Every small movement sent shockwaves through all three of us.
Adrian moved first, pulling out slightly, then pushing back in.
The friction was unbelievable. Noah cried out, caught between us, impaled on both our cocks.
I gripped his hips, helped him move, finding a rhythm where one of us thrust in as the other pulled back, keeping Noah constantly full, constantly stretched.
“Fuck, fuck, this is—” Noah couldn't finish the sentence, just moaned as we fucked him together, his cock trapped between his stomach and mine, leaking steadily.
Adrian's hand found Noah's throat, held him gently but firmly as we moved. “Tell Dom how it feels. Tell him what we're doing to you.”
“So full,” Noah gasped. “Can feel both of you, every thrust, so deep, can't think, can't—fuck—”
I thrust up harder, and Noah keened, his body clenching around us. Adrian groaned, hips snapping forward, and the three of us found a rhythm that was brutal and perfect and overwhelming.
The wet sounds of our bodies were obscene. Skin on skin, the slick slide of cocks in Noah's hole, his desperate gasps and moans, Adrian's low grunts, my own harsh breathing. It was filthy and raw and exactly what I needed.
“Touch yourself,” Adrian commanded Noah. “Want to watch you fall apart with both of us inside you.”
Noah's hand scrambled between us, wrapping around his cock, stroking frantically. His hole clenched tight around us, making us both groan.
“That's it,” Adrian growled. “Come for us. Show Dom what he does to you. What we do to you.”
I was close, so bloody close, the pressure building at the base of my spine. Noah's body was hot and tight around me, Adrian's cock pressed against mine creating friction that bordered on painful. Every thrust drove me closer to the edge.
Noah came first, shouting, his body clenching impossibly tight around both our cocks as he spilled across my stomach and chest. The pressure was too much. I thrust up one more time and came hard, filling him, my vision going white at the edges.
Adrian followed seconds later, groaning low in his chest, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside Noah alongside me.
For a long moment, we stayed like that, locked together, breathing hard, bodies trembling. Then Adrian carefully withdrew, and Noah collapsed against my chest, both of us still inside him, come leaking out around my cock where we were joined.
“Fuck,” Noah breathed. “That was—fuck.”
Adrian curled around us both, arms tangled, bodies slick with sweat and come and satisfaction. The only sounds were our breathing, the fading thrum of pleasure, and soft, satisfied laughter that bubbled up from somewhere deep.
For a long moment, none of us moved. Just lay there, skin cooling, hearts slowing, utterly wrecked.
Adrian broke the silence first, his hand sliding over Noah's hip. “Better?”
“Don't know.”
“Honest, at least.” Noah reached across to take Adrian's hand, lacing their fingers together over my chest. “You don't have to know. Just stop acting like you're bloody invincible.”
“Invincible doesn't break.”
“No. It just cracks. Slowly. Till there's nothing left.” Noah's voice stayed soft, but steel ran beneath it. “That what you want?”
I didn't answer. Couldn't.
Adrian shifted, his hand leaving my chest to stroke Noah's hair. Then his voice hardened. “Shower. Both of you. I'll sort breakfast.”
Noah kissed me before he left. Brief. Claiming. Then he slipped from the bed, wincing slightly at the movement, and disappeared into the en suite.
I stayed, staring at the ceiling. Adrian remained beside me.
“You good?” he asked after a moment.
“Getting there.”
“Good enough.” He stood, stretched, completely unselfconscious in his nakedness. “Go shower. Then we eat. Then you do whatever you need to do today. Understood?”
“Understood.”
He left, and I forced myself out of bed. My legs felt unsteady, muscles loose and sated. The carpet was soft under my feet as I walked toward the bathroom where I could hear Noah singing off-key.
The shower was already running, steam filling the space. Noah looked up when I entered, smiled, and handed me the soap without a word.
By the time I dressed and left Ravenswood, I'd put myself back together. Grey trousers, black jumper, boots. I looked in the mirror and saw what everyone else saw: stable, controlled, the man you called when things went wrong.
The florist knew me by sight. Had my order ready before I reached the counter: two dozen white roses, stems cut at precise angles, wrapped in brown paper.
“Same as always, Mr. Rourke,” the florist said, her smile sympathetic. “Will that be all?”
“That's all.”
I paid cash, took the flowers, and drove to the cemetery on the city's edge.
A fine rain had started, cold drops biting through my jumper, the wind carrying the smell of wet earth. Her grave was in the fourth row, beneath an oak tree. The headstone was simple:
Lily Rourke. Beloved Sister. Taken Too Soon.
I'd argued for different words. But by the time I'd had any say, she was already buried and the stone was already carved.
I knelt on the grass, still wet from morning damp, and laid the roses across the base of the headstone. White roses. Her favourite. I brought them every week, replaced the dead ones with fresh.
“Hey, Lil.” My voice came out rougher than I intended.
The wind moved through the oak's branches, making them creak. I touched one of the roses, feeling the soft petals.
She'd loved flowers. Used to keep vases of them everywhere in her flat, said they made the space feel alive even when she was too tired from work to do anything but collapse on the sofa.
Used to drag me to garden centres on weekends, making me carry bags of soil and pots while she debated between varieties I couldn't tell apart.
“Sorry it's been a week. Things got complicated.”
Complicated. What a shit word for it.
“Viktor got married,” I said. “Big ceremony. Palace venue. The sort of thing you used to watch on television and make me sit through even though I'd rather have been anywhere else.”
She'd loved those programmes. Royal weddings, celebrity marriages, anything with elaborate dresses and flowers and the promise of forever.
I'd complained every time, but I'd sat through them anyway because it made her happy.
Because making her happy had been easy back then, before everything went wrong.
“I wore a suit. Didn't even complain. Well, complained a bit. But I showed up.”
Showed up. Like that was enough. Like being present made up for being too late when it mattered.
The drizzle turned colder. I stayed kneeling, not caring about wet grass or the cold seeping through my trousers.
“I'm still looking.” My voice dropped. “Still trying to piece together what actually happened. Because the story they told, the one that put him in prison, didn't fit.”
The timeline was wrong. The evidence was too clean. The whole thing closed too fast, like someone wanted it finished before questions got asked. I'd gone through the files a hundred times, memorised every detail, and none of it made sense.
Her husband had been convicted. Domestic violence turned murder. Open and shut case, they'd said. Except it wasn't. Except Lily had never mentioned violence, never showed up with bruises, never gave any indication she was afraid.
“You deserved better,” I said, voice low and certain. “You deserved someone who saw the truth before it was too late. You deserved a brother who paid attention instead of being too busy with his own shit to notice something was wrong.”
The guilt sat in my chest like a stone. Heavy. Permanent. The weight that didn't shift no matter how much time passed or how many times I came here and said the same things.
She'd called me two weeks before she died. Asked if I could come over for dinner, said she wanted to talk about something. I'd said I was busy, promised I'd come the following week.
There was no following week.
“I'm going to find out what really happened.” My throat tightened around the words. “Because you deserved better. You deserved justice that wasn't bought or manufactured or convenient. You deserved the truth.”
By the time I stood, I was soaked through. I placed my hand on the headstone. Cold stone beneath my palm. Solid. Permanent.
“I love you, Lil. I'm sorry I was too late.”
Too late to save her. Too late to see what was happening. Too late to be the brother she'd needed instead of the one who showed up after everything had already gone to hell.
“See you next week,” I said, like I always did. Like she was just away instead of gone.
I walked back to my car, rain soaking me, and sat in the driver's seat without starting the engine. My phone showed three messages from Adrian checking if I was all right. One from Troy asking about training. One from Dmitri with security footage from the wedding.
Dmitri
Found your mysterious guest. We need to talk.
I opened the attachment. The image was grainy, captured from a hallway camera, but clear enough. A man in a dark suit and black mask, walking away from the corridor where we'd collided.
His posture was wrong for a civilian. Too aware. Too controlled. The way he moved suggested training, discipline, the particular fluidity that came from knowing your body was a weapon.
I'd seen that bearing before. In mirrors. In Viktor. In the men Adrian kept close.
This man wasn't a guest. Wasn't someone who'd been invited because of connections or status.
He was hunting someone. Had to be. You didn't move through palace corridors with that kind of focus unless you were tracking a target.
I stared at the image, memorising details. About six foot. Lean. Trained. Movement like that doesn't unlearn itself. The way his shoulders sat suggested comfort with violence.
Who are you?