Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Spiritual Consultation
Riot
Dawn snuck into the hotel like an unwelcome witness.
Riot hadn’t slept. He couldn’t, not with Cass unconsciously scenting him every few minutes, his warm breath ghosting across his throat in slow, even puffs.
Not with the way Cass kept seeking friction against his thigh with subtle movements that had started as small shifts hours ago and gradually become something else entirely.
Around 3 AM, Cass hooked his leg over Riot’s hip, halfway rolled on top of him, and started grinding against him in his sleep.
Slow, rhythmic rolls of his pelvis, accompanied by soft whimpers that went straight to Riot’s cock.
The first time it happened, Riot tried to ease him away.
The second time, he held very still and let it happen.
The third time, his hand had found Cass’s hip and guided him into a better angle.
He hated himself for it.
His cock had been hard for so long the ache had become background noise, a constant throb he compartmentalized along with all the other sensations his body was screaming at him to act on.
What he couldn’t compartmentalize was the compulsion to touch.
To explore. To map every inch of skin he could reach while Cass slept and didn’t know any better.
He traced the constellation of birthmarks and scars across Cass’s left shoulder—seven of them, forming something like Pleiades if he squinted.
He followed the curve of his ear, the line of his jaw, the impossible softness of his lower lip.
He slid his fingers along the hollow where Cass’s hipbones jutted out, dipping into the gap between fevered skin and loose cotton, feeling the sharp architecture of bone beneath.
You’re a fucking predator. He trusts you and you’re touching him in his sleep.
The self-loathing was familiar by now. It didn’t make him stop.
Cass shifted again, making a sound that was less whimper and more moan—throaty, needy, the kind of sound that belonged in a very different context.
His hips rolled forward, his cock pressing hard against Riot’s thigh through thin fabric, and Riot’s hand was on his surprisingly supple ass, fingers digging into soft flesh and pulling him closer.
Fuck. Fuck.
He forced his hand to go still. He didn’t remove it—he couldn’t make himself do that—but he stopped actively groping an unconscious Omega.
The kid’s skin was burning. Three nights of this, and each one had been worse than the last. Riot could feel the heat radiating through their clothes, he could smell the way Cass’s scent was deepening and ripening with each passing hour—less caramel and cinnamon now, more honey and musk, something thicker and more demanding.
Cass’s mouth found Riot’s throat again, his lips parting against his carotid artery, and his hot, wet tongue dragging across scarred skin.
He’s licking me. In his sleep.
Riot’s hips jerked hard, grinding his cock against Cass’s stomach before he could lock them down. His hand tightened on Cass, pulling him impossibly closer, and a sound escaped his throat that was more growl than anything human.
Stop. You have to stop.
But he didn’t want to stop. Every night the lines blurred a little more, every night he took liberties he knew he shouldn’t, and every morning he told himself it wouldn’t happen again.
It always happened again.
The silver circlet sat on the nightstand, catching the first grey light. Riot picked it up twice during the night—once before the grinding started, once after—turning it over in his fingers, imagining how it would look. Both times, he’d put it back.
What am I going to tell him? That I’ve decided he belongs to me? That I spent half the night with my hand on his ass while he humped my leg?
Cass stirred, consciousness surfacing slowly, making Riot grab the circlet and shove it inside his inner jacket pocket before he could see it.
Cass’s hips gave one more slow roll against Riot’s thigh—deliberate or not, it was impossible to tell—and then those eyelashes fluttered.
Impossibly long, brushing his chest. Hazel eyes blinking up at Riot with sleepy confusion that sharpened into recognition.
Into warmth.
“Good morning, Riot.”
He didn’t move away. He didn’t seem to notice—or care—that his leg was half laying on a Berserker, that his morning erection was pressed against Riot’s thigh, that Riot’s hand was still cupping his ass.
“Morning, princess.” Riot’s voice came out wrecked. He cleared his throat and forced his hand to slide up to Cass’s lower back—still too intimate, still wrong, but at least not actively groping him. “How’d you sleep?”
“Really good.” He lifted his head, a bleary smile on his face. “I had good dreams for once. Really good dreams. Usually I have unpleasant ones.” Pink crept into his cheeks. “I don’t remember them exactly, but I woke up feeling... nice.”
What kind of nightmares has Elysian been giving him that this is the first good sleep he can remember?
“I’m glad,” Riot said, and he meant it. Even if the reason made him hate himself.
Cass tilted his head, those earnest eyes studying Riot’s face with the particular intensity he got sometimes. “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”
“Didn’t need to.”
“That’s not healthy. People need sleep to function properly. Brother Aurelius always said—” He stopped abruptly, eyes going wide. The color drained from his face. “Oh. Oh no.”
Every muscle in Riot’s body went taut. “What?”
“Brother Matthias.” Cass scrambled upright so fast he nearly elbowed Riot in the jaw, his panic sharp enough to taste. “He’s coming this morning for my consultation. What time is it?”
Riot checked the room’s digital clock, his own pulse kicking up in response to Cass’s fear. “Almost ten.”
“He’ll be here any minute.” Cass was already moving, grabbing his robes from the foot of the bed, and the loss of contact left Riot’s front cold and bereft.
“You have to—I mean, he can’t find you here.
He’ll think I’m being distracted from my spiritual development, and I’m already in trouble for not recruiting anyone, and—”
A sharp knock cut off his rambling.
They both froze. Riot’s hand moved instinctively toward his boot knife, his fingers finding the familiar grip.
“That’s him,” Cass whispered.
Riot was already moving toward the bathroom window, assessing angles. It was barely wide enough for his shoulders—he’d have to exhale completely and go through at an angle.
“I’ll wait for him to leave, then—”
“Don’t wait.” Cass’s voice was tight and wrong. “Just come back in an hour. Brother Matthias will be done by then.”
You’re lying. Your scent just spiked with fear and you’re lying to me. Why are you lying?
“Princess—”
“One hour,” Cass said firmly, small hands pressing against Riot’s chest, pushing him toward the bathroom with surprising strength. “I’ll be fine. Please.”
The knock came again. “Brother Cassiopeia? Are you alright?”
The voice made Riot’s skin crawl—smooth, patient, with the kind of artificial warmth that came from practice rather than feeling. He knew that voice. Handlers used that voice when they were about to do something unpleasant and wanted him to hold still for it.
He wanted to open that door and show Brother Matthias exactly what happened to people who made Cass afraid.
“One hour,” he agreed instead. He squeezed through the window sideways, feeling the frame scrape against his shoulders, and dropped to the alley below.
The impact jarred through his knees, his hips, and his spine. He landed in a crouch, one hand braced against filthy concrete, and stayed there for a moment, breathing through the urge to climb right back up.
Through the thin walls, he heard Cass opening the door.
“Brother Matthias, welcome. Would you like some tea?” The cheerful tone was all wrong. Forced. Riot’s hands curled into fists.
He forced himself to walk away.
One hour. He could give Cass one hour.
In the meantime, he had unfinished business with The Chimera Syndicate.
The safe house occupied the ground floor of a shuttered import business—barred windows, faded signage, the kind of unremarkable decay that made civilians’ eyes slide right past.
Riot circled the building twice, staying in blind spots, keeping track of the fine details: fresh tire tracks in the alley—three vehicles in the last twelve hours.
Recently maintained cameras with clean lenses and steady power lights.
The quality of silence that came from soundproofed rooms and people who knew how to use them.
There were two guards visible through ground-floor windows, both armed—the one on the left favored his right shoulder, probably from a torn rotator cuff, and would be slow on the draw. The other kept touching his hip, checking his weapon compulsively. Nervous. New.
There was a service entrance with an electronic lock and motion sensors along the roofline that he could avoid if he stayed low, only moving during the fifteen-second gap in their sweep pattern.
Forty-seven minutes until he needed to be back.
The lock yielded to techniques from his Gensyn days—a bypass sequence he’d learned from a handler who’d died badly six months later when they discovered the ‘off’ switch on the modifications didn’t work as expected.
It was muscle memory from a life that didn’t feel like his anymore.
His fingers moved through the motions while his mind stayed focused on threat assessment.
The safe house was larger than it appeared from outside, a maze of interconnected rooms carved out of adjacent buildings through carefully concealed breaches.
Storage areas were stacked with unmarked crates.
Military-grade communications equipment hummed with active signals in another room.
There was a medical facility that smelled like antiseptic and old blood and definitely didn’t ask questions about where injuries came from.