32. Maxwell
32
MAXWELL
A little boy, barely five, stands at the iron gates of the St . Dismas Home for Boys , his chubby hands clutching the sleeves of a too-big coat. His parents are arguing just outside the entrance, their voices muffled.
“ He doesn’t talk to anyone. He talks to himself. He plays with knives, Rhonda . He smiles when he cuts things. He’s ... not right,” the father argues.
The woman—the mother—kneels in front of the boy. Her eyes are puffy and red. But she doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t kiss his forehead or press a trembling hand to his cheek like other mothers usually do.
The footsteps of someone approaching echo off the cold stone path.
“ Mr . and Mrs . Callahan ?”
A tall man in a long black cassock steps forward, his salt-and-pepper beard neat, his expression gentle. He doesn’t smile, not exactly, but his voice is calm.
“ I’m Father Calloway . I help oversee the home.”
The parents shift uncomfortably, as if the mere idea of this place is pressing on their skin.
“ We’ll take care of him,” Father Calloway says, his eyes settling on the boy—not judging, just watching. “ We believe every child deserves a safe place to land, even the ones who don't quite fit the mold.”
The mother hesitates. For a moment, she looks like she might say something. Eventually , she does.
“ We tried,” she says to no one in particular. Maybe to herself. Maybe to God . “ He’s just… too much.”
His father won’t even look at him.
And the boy just stands there. Silent . Watching .
His mother gives him his favorite doll, and they leave without a goodbye. The gates close behind them, and the home swallows the little boy whole.
He doesn’t cry or scream. He walks through the halls with his hands in his pockets, his head tilted to the side, like he’s listening for something no one else can hear.
When he’s in the confines of his new room, he gives the doll a name— Vico . He tells Vico everything. About how he loves the feeling of cold metal in his hands. How he doesn’t understand why people are so afraid of blood.
The other boys steer clear of him. They say he’s strange.
Too weird.
Too quiet.
Too dangerous .
And the truth is, he liked it that way.
Because eventually, he realized something.
Monsters weren’t the things hiding under beds.
They were the ones who left you there.
* * *
I sit alone in my office at Madhouse . The music is muted here, drowned out beneath layers of concrete, but I can still feel the beat in my bones.
In one hand, I twirl a knife balanced perfectly between my fingers. In the other, I hold Vico .
The doll is weathered now, the once-bright colors of its painted face faded into muted tones. One of its eyes is chipped, the stuffing around its neck frayed, barely holding it together. Still , I keep him close. I always have.
I should’ve thrown it out years ago. Should’ve burned it, buried it, or left it behind at St . Dismas like everything else.
But I didn’t.
Because Vico is the only piece of my past I ever chose to keep, even if that past tastes like ash in my mouth.
I stare down at the crooked smile painted on his face. Vico doesn’t judge; he never has. He was there when I didn’t speak. When the other kids flinched away. When the fathers whispered behind my back and crossed themselves after catching me carving patterns into the wooden bedposts. He was there when I bled… and when I liked it.
And he was there when my parents left me.
My jaw clenches. The knife stills in my hand.
The mention of them sends something black curling up my spine.
I don’t just resent them. I don’t just hate them.
I loathe them.
For making me feel like I had to be fixed, like I was some kind of defect they didn’t know how to manage.
I rotate in my chair slowly, letting the tension snake through my muscles. My eyes land on the portrait on the wall, a dusty, framed photo I dug up years ago in the town archive like a grave robber searching for bones.
My parents, smiling stiffly in front of a pristine white house, dressed like people who thought appearance was the only thing worth saving.
They died in that house, burned alive in a fire that gutted every inch of their carefully curated world.
The irony still tastes sweet on my tongue. How poetic it was, the flames devouring the perfect life they tried so hard to protect, as if the universe finally agreed they’d built something worth destroying.
My siblings too—they were wiped out in the blaze like they never existed. A whole family reduced to ash and smoke.
And yet, I remain.
Their mistake. Their shame. The son they threw away, still breathing.
I raise the knife and throw it.
The blade spins once—twice—before burying itself deep into the canvas with a soft, satisfying thud.
Right between my mother’s eyes.
The knife still quivers where it landed, humming with the same quiet fury that has been lodged in my chest since I was a kid. I stare at it for another second, then look down at Vico .
“ Always a good shot,” I mutter as I brush a thumb over the doll’s cracked cheek before gently placing him back in the top drawer of my desk, laying him carefully as if he were still fragile, still something to be protected.
My fingers find the hilt of another knife almost instinctively, and without thinking, I begin the rhythm: blade to desk, blade to desk, sliding it expertly between the spread of my fingers.
The hum of it keeps me grounded.
The orphanage comes back in fragments. The early years were the worst. I hated everyone and everything.
Until Julian and Theodore . In no time, they were the most important people in my world. My family, my only constants in a place that never felt safe.
But it was different with Julian .
Julian was my first everything. My first love. My most lasting one. What I felt for him went deeper than blood, deeper than friendship.
And now, there’s Isabel .
I slow the knife down until it’s still, the tip resting between two fingers, my hand steady.
She should’ve been nothing but a pawn, a complication in our carefully laid plans.
But last night…
When she walked into Julian’s room and saw us together, there wasn’t judgment in her eyes. There wasn’t fear. There was heat, curiosity, hunger .
The moment still lingers on my skin. Her mouth, her hands, the way she gasped my name like it belonged to her. The way Julian touched her while looking at me, as if we were sharing something sacred.
It wasn’t supposed to feel like that, and yet, it did.
A knock at the door pulls me out of my thoughts. I don’t move right away; I just drag the tip of the knife back across the wood once before calling out, “ Come in.”
The door creaks open, and Julian steps inside.
He’s always so damn composed—shoulders squared, chin up, that quiet power he wears like a tailored suit. Not macho, exactly. No , he’s too refined for that. It’s more like a soldier who knows he doesn’t need to raise his voice to command a room.
I smirk. “ You practicing your brooding face for the mirror again, or is this a special visit?”
Julian closes the door behind him without a word, his eyes flicking to the knife in my hand before he crosses the room and heads for the small bar cart in the corner. He doesn’t bother asking; he just pours himself a glass of Theodore’s newest whiskey.
He takes a sip, eyes on me the whole time. There’s something in his stare tonight, a glint of heat that tells me he didn’t come here just to shoot the shit.
I lean back in my chair, folding my arms behind my head and kicking my boots up onto the desk, a grin tugging at my lips. “ You want something, Juju , or are you just here to watch me play with my knives and think about my tragic childhood?”
He raises a brow as he walks around the desk and sits on the edge, nursing his drink, watching me like he’s waiting for the right moment to pounce.
Yeah . He’s not here to hang out. He’s here to play.
And I’m more than ready.
Julian swirls the whiskey in his glass, eyes flicking to the knife still resting between my fingers.
“ You always this jumpy when you’re alone?” he asks casually.
I grin, twirling the blade again, slower this time. “ Only when I’m thinking about you.”
That earns me the faintest twitch of a smile. Not quite a smirk, but close.
He sips the whiskey again. “ I saw your aim,” he says, nodding toward the wall, where my mother’s portrait still hangs, the knife embedded deep between her eyes.
“ Were you watching me through the surveillance, dear brother?”
He shrugs. “ Nice shot.”
“ She earned it.”
Julian just looks at me, long and hard, like he sees past the joke, past the grin I wear like armor. He has always been able to cut through the noise without needing a blade.
“ You alright?” he asks, and the question lands heavier than I expect.
I should say yes and throw back some flippant comment, redirect the conversation, toss the spotlight somewhere else, but I don’t.
Instead , I look up at him. “ Do I look alright?”
“ No , but you don’t look like you need saving, either.”
The calm and steady way he calls me out pisses me off and makes me want to kiss him in the same breath.
Julian leans forward, setting his glass down on the desk between us. He braces his hands on either side of it, leaning in until his face is just inches from mine. His voice drops.
“ Max , if you want me to go, say it now. Otherwise …”
The rest floats between us like smoke.
I lower the knife to the desk, the tip dragging a slow line through the wood grain.
“ I never want you to go. You know that.”
The heat in his eyes flares, and suddenly, the space between us feels much smaller.
Julian straightens, just enough to slide around the desk and into my space, close enough for his thigh to press against mine.
“ Good ,” he murmurs. “ Because I’m not just here to talk tonight.”
He leans in, brushing his lips against mine in that slow, teasing way that always drives me a little mad.
Fuck , I need him.
He grabs the knife off the desk and presses it against my neck, right at the most dangerous spot, and I groan—of course, it turns me on.
Julian knows what I need, exactly when I need it. He must’ve seen something in my eyes tonight, maybe even caught it on the cameras. He came to my rescue without asking, even though he still insists I don’t need saving.
I don’t, but it doesn’t matter.
This is why I’m madly, deeply, irreparably in love with him.
He leans in, his mouth grazing my ear, his voice a low, demanding growl. “ Say it.”
Julian is the only one who can bring me to my knees—literally and otherwise.
“ I burn for you, Julian ,” I breathe, giving him exactly what he’s after. “ Now … hurt me. Please .”
A sound rumbles deep in his chest, and he rips my shirt open, buttons scattering across the floor like shrapnel.
The blade grazes over my chest, tracing the curve of old ink and healed scars.
Then , just over my left pec, where the skin is already marked by memory, he presses harder.
The knife bites in.
I hiss, a sharp intake of breath, but I don’t stop him.
I watch as Julian carves our initials into my skin with the same precision he uses for everything else. Over my heart—where he has always lived.
Blood starts to bead and trail downward.
As Julian cuts into me, each slow drag of the blade burning against my skin, my other hand slips down instinctively. I shove it into my trousers and grip my hard cock, taking it out to relieve the ache, the need.
The pleasure tangled in the pain is too much. His presence, the feel of the knife, the heat in his eyes as he watches my blood seep out—it’s all driving me wild.
He looks down where I’m relentlessly tugging at my cock, then back up at me. His mouth curls at the corner.
“ You always were a beautiful mess,” he murmurs. “ And all mine.”
The words hit harder than the blade.
“ Fuck , Julian ,” I mumble. He’s the only one who can unravel me like this.
I keep stroking my length until I’m whimpering. I press a hand flat against the desk to steady myself, but it’s useless. I’m shaking from the pressure building beneath my skin—the ache only he can draw out of me, the way he always has.
Julian leans closer, close enough for me to feel his breath against my mouth. “ Good ,” he murmurs, low and rough.
My orgasm crests, fast, and my whole body locks up for a heartbeat, then releases.
In that exact moment, Julian captures my mouth with his, and his hand cups the side of my face, grounding me as everything else spirals.
I cling to the kiss like a lifeline, lips moving against his, desperate and grateful all at once.
The kiss is searing, possessive. It swallows the ragged sound that tears from my throat as my whole world tilts on its axis.
Then , Julian releases me and slides his mouth around my cock, taking all of me as hot ropes of cum jet down his throat. I shout, my hands grabbing his head to milk every last ounce of pleasure.
Julian doesn’t pull away, even when my entire body jolts with the remnants of my climax, not able to take any more.
And I let him.
Because he’s the only one I’ve ever wanted to fall apart for.
Until now.