7. Meditations on Furniture Design
Chapter seven
Meditations on Furniture Design
Riot
The hotel chair had been designed by someone with a personal vendetta against the human spine.
Riot had been sitting in it for six hours ever since he’d carefully extracted himself from under a sleeping Cass around midnight and his vertebrae had progressed from filing formal complaints to threatening class action litigation.
Six hours of watching the kid toss and turn through fitful sleep. Six hours of his lower back screaming mutiny. Six hours of trying not to think about how perfectly Cass fit against him.
He had to move. There was no other option.
Cass had fallen asleep with his head tucked under Riot’s chin, one hand curled against Riot’s chest, making small contented sounds that did absolutely nothing for Riot’s self-control.
And then he started moving in his sleep, little shifts and wiggles, pressing closer, his body seeking warmth and comfort.
By the time Cass’s thigh slid across Riot’s lap for the third time, Riot had been hard enough to pound nails and approximately thirty seconds from doing something unforgivable.
So he moved. Carefully, slowly, holding his breath as he settled Cass onto the pillow and retreated to the chair like the coward he apparently was.
It was the right thing to do. The responsible thing.
It was also the thing that was slowly killing him.
Every time Cass made a sound—a whimper, a sigh, the rustle of sheets—Riot’s entire nervous system snapped to attention.
The kid’s scent was changing by the hour, getting richer and more complex, filling the small room until Riot felt like he would die if he didn’t lick him.
Get back in that bed. Pull him close. Show him what his body is actually for.
Riot dug his nails into his palms, reopening the crescents he’d carved sometime around 3 AM. The pain helped. Marginally.
Cass stirred as morning light seeped through the curtains and Riot stared at him. Flushed cheeks, worse than yesterday. Damp hair clinging to his forehead. His robes were twisted around him from restless sleep, clinging to fever-hot skin in ways that outlined everything underneath.
He had maybe a day or two until full heat, if Riot’s knowledge of corporate suppressant programs was still accurate. Gensyn had run enough “cycle optimization” studies that Riot could probably write a dissertation on Omega biology at this point. Not that he’d wanted that particular education.
He’s burning up. I should be in that bed with him, keeping him comfortable. Helping him.
Riot pressed his palms flat against his thighs and breathed and counted to ten. Then counted again because ten wasn’t nearly enough.
Cass’s eyes fluttered open, hazy and confused for a moment before they found Riot. Something in his expression shifted—hope, then uncertainty, then something that looked uncomfortably like hurt.
“You moved,” Cass croaked out.
“Yeah.”
Cass pushed himself up slowly, wincing at the movement. “Did I... was I bad at cuddling? I know I said I’d teach you, but maybe I’m not actually good at it. I usually wake up with one of Honey’s locs in my mouth, but she never minded….”
Bad at cuddling. Riot almost laughed. The problem was that Cass had been perfect, warm and trusting and completely unaware that every small movement was systematically dismantling Riot’s sanity. “You were fine, princess.”
“Then why did you leave?” Cass’s lower lip caught between his teeth, worrying at it in a way that made Riot want to bite it himself.
“Is it because I smell bad? I know I’m sweaty.
Or—” His eyes widened with sudden horror.
“Can you sense it? My spiritual imbalance? Brother Matthias always said truly evolved people could perceive deficiency in others, and you’re not Elysian but maybe Berserkers can tell when someone is—”
“Cass.” Riot cut him off before the spiral could get worse. “You don’t smell bad. And I can’t sense your ‘spiritual imbalance’ because there’s no such thing.”
“Then why?”
Because you kept pressing against me in your sleep and I was about to flip you over and make you cry those pretty tears again.
“Because I needed some space,” Riot said instead. “It wasn’t about you.”
Cass didn’t look convinced. He hugged his knees to his chest, making himself small, and Riot could practically see him filing this away as another rejection. Another failure. Another piece of evidence that something was wrong with him.
I’m going to find everyone who made him feel this way and I’m going to break them.
The thought wasn’t idle fantasy. It was tactical planning.
“Princess, look at me.”
Cass raised his eyes, and the vulnerability there hit Riot like a fist to the sternum. All that trust, aimed at someone who’d spent the last six hours white-knuckling a chair to keep from climbing back into bed with him.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I moved because I needed to, not because of anything you did. Understand?”
He gave a small nod, though the uncertainty didn’t fully leave Cass’s expression.
“Now,” Riot said, forcing himself into practical mode because practical was safe and practical didn’t involve thinking about Cass’s thigh sliding across his lap, “when’s the last time you ate something? And don’t count that breakfast I bought you, because that was two days ago.”
Cass considered this with the kind of serious concentration most people reserved for complex mathematical equations. His brow furrowed. His lips moved slightly, like he was counting backwards through meals.
“Does a protein bar from yesterday count? I only had a few bites before my stomach felt strange.”
“So basically nothing substantial in two days.”
“Is that bad?”
The innocent simplicity of the question hit Riot’s hindbrain like a hammer. His cock, which had finally started to behave itself after hours of determined neglect, twitched back to attention with embarrassing enthusiasm.
What the fuck is wrong with you? He asked about FOOD.
But that was the thing, wasn’t it? The literal way Cass processed information, the genuine confusion in those wide eyes, the complete lack of guile or manipulation—it bypassed every defense Riot had. Cass wasn’t playing games. He was just... Cass.
And apparently Riot’s brain decided that was the most arousing thing it had ever encountered.
Get it together.
“Not great, princess.” Riot stood, grateful for the excuse to turn away and adjust himself before the situation became obvious. “I’m going to get supplies. Food, fever reducers, water. Try not to die while I’m gone.”
The effect was immediate. Cass’s expression crumpled, his whole body curling tighter. “You’re leaving?”
“For an hour. Maybe two.”
“But what if those people come back?” Cass’s voice was climbing toward panic. “What if something happens? What if I do something wrong while you’re gone?”
Every protective instinct Riot possessed roared to life. He crossed the room before he could stop himself, crouching in front of the bed so he was at eye level with Cass.
“Hey. Look at me.”
Cass’s eyes were wet, his breathing too fast.
Stay. Don’t leave him. He needs you. He needs—
“Those people won’t get past the door. I’m going to show you how to barricade it, and I’ll be back before you know it.” Riot kept his voice steady, calm, even though being this close was making his mouth water. “Can you trust me?”
“I trust you,” Cass whispered. “I just don’t want you to go.”
Fuck.
“I know, princess. But I need to get you supplies, and you need to stay hidden. The Syndicate is still watching, and right now you’re—” He stopped himself before in pre-heat and smelling like everything I’ve ever wanted could escape. “You’re vulnerable. I need you safe while I’m out.”
Cass nodded, though he still looked miserable. “You’ll come back?”
“I’ll come back.”
Teaching Cass basic security measures was an exercise in controlled torture. Not because the kid was stupid—he picked up the concepts quickly enough, his hands steady as he positioned furniture exactly where Riot showed him—but because he kept apologizing.
“Sorry, is this the right way to position the chair?”
“Sorry, I know this is probably overkill.”
“Sorry, I should have figured that out myself.”
At one point he apologized to the furniture. He actually said “sorry” to a nightstand he bumped into while moving it.
“Princess,” Riot said, putting his hands on Cass’s shoulders and immediately regretting it when the contact sent heat racing through his palms, even through the fabric.
Cass leaned into the touch like a flower turning toward sunlight, his whole body swaying closer, and Riot had to lock every muscle to keep from pulling him in. “Stop apologizing for existing.”
Cass looked up at him with those devastating eyes. “But I keep making mistakes—”
“You’re asking questions about how to stay alive. That’s called being smart, not making mistakes.”
“Really?” The genuine wonder in his voice made Riot want to burn Elysian to the ground. It made him want to find every person who had ever made Cass doubt his own basic competence and introduce them to creative applications of violence.
“Really. You should trust your instincts.” He forced himself to step back, putting safe distance between them. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t open the door for anyone.”
“What if my instincts tell me to open it?”
Riot paused at the door. “Your instincts told you to help a bleeding Berserker in an alley instead of running away. They might be questionable, but they haven’t killed you yet.”
Cass’s small smile was worth the risk of leaving, but then his brow furrowed.
“Riot? Why do you call me princess?”