22. Marcus
MARCUS
“Preston?”
No reply.
I knock on the bathroom door again, my muscles tightening the more the seconds tick by.
He said he wanted to take a quick shower, but it’s been over half an hour, and there’s no sign of him.
The muffled sound of the running water fills my ears, but the man himself isn’t replying.
Maybe I shouldn’t have let him go to the shower so soon after he woke up from that nightmare. Though I’m not sure if I would have been able to stop him from doing what he wanted.
He looked on the edge, his eyes glassy and his posture tight as he walked to the bathroom with lethargic movements.
“I’m coming in, Preston.”
I turn the knob, and I’m glad he didn’t lock the door. Though, even if he did, I’d smash it down.
The bathroom air is thick, saturated with steam and the metallic scent of running water, hot enough to make the mirror fog and the tiles sweat.
My bare feet step on the damp floor, instantly getting wet, and condensation glues my sweatpants and T-shirt to my body. The shower is still blasting in a noisy cascade behind the translucent curtain, but Preston isn’t in it.
No.
Instead, he’s standing in front the mirror, which is half swiped right where his face is reflected.
A white towel is haphazardly cinched around his hips, but the rest of his body is wet, glistening under the bright vanity light.
A layer of tiny, perfectly formed water droplets clings to the sculpted contours of his chest and abs.
It coats the snake tattoo that looks impossibly alive right now. A riot of black-and-gray scales that nearly slithers out of the skin, shimmering wetly as it moves, its thick body looped all across his right side like a living, deadly sash.
Almost as if it’s strangling him to death.
I approach him slowly, but he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t make a sound.
Just stands there like a statue carved from ice.
His skin is ghost-pale, his lips a stark, unsettling blue against the whiteness.
Damp strands of blond hair plaster themselves to his forehead.
His eyes, which are usually filled with restless fire, are completely dead, staring blankly past his own reflection, unfocused and vacant.
He’s disturbingly zoned out, held captive by whatever phantom he sees in the mirror.
My gaze drags down to his sternum, to the cracked ink, and something in me shifts. I’ve never liked this tattoo, always found it disturbing, but now, I think I know why.
This is a physical representation of something profound splintering inside him.
What, I don’t know. But I’ll find out.
A primal and fierce feeling tears through my bones. An inexplicable gut-wrenching, intrinsic need to shield this fragile creature from the things that live inside his own skin.
And I shouldn’t want that. I shouldn’t give a fuck about Preston.
I’ve always been a goal-oriented person. Illogical feelings have no place in my modus operandi. I’m a planner, which means every decision and step I take has an outcome I calculate for. And that outcome needs to benefit either me or my mom—I don’t give a fuck about anyone else.
And yet as I stare at Preston’s emotionless face, I make the decision to protect him.
From himself, if need be.
And that doesn’t benefit me. At all.
Forget about using him to get closer to the inner workings of the four founding families. Forget about using him altogether.
Not sure when that goal gradually vanished, but it did, and I no longer care for it.
I got so close that I’m making it personal, so how the hell would I ever use him?
He’s not the type to be used, he’s the type to be protected.
And I have no idea what that means. I’ve never wanted to protect anyone other than Mom, and that makes sense, because she’s my mother, who raised me and protected me.
Preston, however, has done nothing for me except piss me off on the regular.
Is it a sense of conquest? A need to make this wild horse fully submit to me?
Whatever the reason, I find myself standing in front of him, blocking his view of the mirror.
But he stares straight through me.
His green eyes looking muddy now, barely alive, as if the light has been stolen from him.
“Can you hear me?” I ask in a clear, firm voice.
He doesn’t move, just keeps staring ahead as a droplet of water falls from his hair and slides down his face like a tear.
“Preston.” I slowly palm his cheek and stroke my thumb along the skin gently. “Baby, look at me.”
No reaction.
Just long, oppressive silence.
I step closer until my chest is fully pressed against his, and his steady, slow heartbeat collides with mine.
My lungs fill with him in a second.
He smells like me—clean soap and a hint of cedar. And I get even closer, wrapping an arm around his lithe waist, fusing my body with his.
“Come on, my prince.” I stroke my thumb over his cheek. “Don’t shut me out. You know I don’t react well to that.”
I lift his chin up with my index finger and brush my lips against his cold ones. “Let me in.”
He shudders in my grip but doesn’t move otherwise, so I do it again, stroking his lips with mine a few times. Then I dart out my tongue, licking a line over his shivering mouth. “Baby…kiss me back like you did the other night.”
I nibble on his lower lip, and he opens for me like such a good boy. I thrust my tongue inside, finding his, stroking it lightly at first, then I devour him.
A moan rips out of him, like a sound that was buried in a well and was finally set free. He plants both hands to the small of my back, his fingers curling in my T-shirt, clawing at the skin as he blinks.
His eyes widen when they clash with mine, that ethereal green color brightening as if a flash of life has been injected straight into his veins.
He looks disoriented, a bit bemused, like earlier when he woke up and seemed to have forgotten where he was.
But something happens—something that makes me tighten my grip around his waist, my fingers digging deep into his hip.
Preston closes his eyes and kisses me.
Just like at the top of that cliff, he deepens the kiss and I grab his jaw tighter, angling his head to get better access.
He grunts in my mouth as our tongues stroke one another, ripping at each other, but slowly, so slowly, my heartbeat skyrockets.
My entire body is attuned to him, his breaths, his touch, the way he trembles faintly in my arms as if he’s just been resurrected.
“You taste so good,” he grumbles against my mouth. “Why do you taste so good, Marcus?”
I nibble on his bottom lip, still clutching his jaw in my palm. “Do you not want me to taste good?”
He shakes his head once, even as he steals another kiss, dropping a light peck on the corner of my mouth. That’s one of the few times he’s done that—take something from me instead of being along for the ride.
His eyes hood, and his lips part, glistening with saliva and the steam surrounding us.
“No?” I ask, licking my lips, and his gaze zeroes in on it, his nostrils flaring.
“No. I don’t want you to taste good or feel good.” He lets out a shaky breath against my lips. “It messes with my head.”
“Good. You’re doing the same to me.”
“No, I’m not. You already like men, are attracted to men, but this…” His chin trembles, and his eyes fill with horror so deep, it slashes at my chest. “This is not me. I refuse to be drawn to a man.”
“But you are, Preston. Your cock is already performing a standing ovation for me beneath this towel after a mere kiss. You do want me, so much so, you’re struggling to fight it.
If you didn’t want me, or you had the slightest distaste toward me, someone like you who’s so prideful and spiteful would never allow me to touch you like this.
” I dig my fingers into his jaw. “Your internalized homophobia is starting to piss me off and annoy me to no end. I already accepted keeping this a secret for your sake, but I’m not going to deal with your bouts of denial every time we kiss and you enjoy it, got it? ”
I think I imagine a flash of pain in his irises, but it quickly disappears. His lips purse, the dimples creasing his cheeks as he shoves me away, forcing me to let go of him.
“Don’t speak to me in that tone.”
I cock my head to the side. “What tone?”
“As if you’re patronizing me.”
“I’m not. I’m merely setting my boundaries like you did earlier.
” I cross my arms, standing taller. “If you demand that I shove myself back in the closet for you, live on the fringes and in the shadows as if I’m doing something wrong, then I have every fucking right to demand you deal with your denial.
I’m not asking you to label yourself or come out when you’re uncomfortable with that, but I won’t put up with your attitude just because I want to fuck you, Preston. ”
He remains still for a while, chewing at the corner of his lip, then he releases it and lets out a puff of air. “We can’t be public, because Vencor would kill me.”
“Dad told me about all that nonsense.”
“Then you know gay members are punished by death. It’s not good for either of us if you plan to ever join.”
“Who says I do?”
“Jude said your dad gave you until the end of the year to go to his side, isn’t that right?”
I narrow my eyes. Why does Jude know that? But then again, it doesn’t really matter.
“My father can say whatever he wants. Doesn’t mean I’ll follow his orders.”
He frowns, his brows dipping, making another droplet of water slide down his cheek. “You’ll only get hurt.”
I suppress a smile. “Sounds like you’re worried about me.”
He scoffs and throws a hand in the air. “Bitch, please. I just don’t want to be assaulted with the view of your blood.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Anyway, I definitely don’t want to be killed by my dad.” He shrugs. “That’s why we can’t be in public.”
“Fine, but that doesn’t explain the denial when it’s only the two of us.”
He grows visibly uncomfortable, palming his nape, biting the corner of his lip. “I’m new to this and not used to it.”
“Are you saying it’ll get better with time?”
“I guess.” He drops his hand, then makes a beeline to the door before I can stop him.
I run a hand over my face as I let out a sigh.