7. Chapter 7
Rylen
The toaster pops and the sound is enough to make my skin crawl, echoing through the hollow quiet of the kitchen like a gunshot.
I don't move at first, standing there with my palms pressed flat against the cold marble of the island, trying to force the air back into my lungs.
My hands won't stop shaking, a violent tremor that seems to start deep in my bones and work its way out, as if it's a physical manifestation of the adrenaline still surging through me after seeing Maddox in that state; his limbs heavy and useless, clawing at the air for a man who’s been rotting in the ground for years—it does something to me that I can’t quite put into words.
It feels like watching a building collapse in slow motion, knowing I’m the only thing holding up the roof but feeling the weight of the debris starting to crush me too.
I reach for a plate, but my fingers feel numb and clumsy, like they don't belong to my body anymore and it fumbles in my grasp.
My mind keeps slipping back to the bathroom, to the way the steam clung to Mads skin and the way his pulse was drumming a frantic, terrified rhythm against my palm .
I almost touched him. Not as a friend, and not as the guy who’s been his shadow since we were twelve and fourteen years old.
I wanted to sink my fingers into his skin and anchor him to the earth so deeply that the ghosts of his past wouldn't be able to find him anymore.
I wanted to claim every jagged piece of his grief and swallow it whole just so he wouldn't have to carry it any longer.
"Get it together," I mutter to the empty room, scrubbing a hand over my face and trying to ignore the way the sunlight is burning through the LA haze outside.
I think about the man who did this to him—not just the one who pulled the trigger back then, but the legacy of the men who raised us to be nothing but tools; men who measured worth in blood and fear. That’s why Velvet has to work.
In a city where everyone is busy selling a version of themselves they don’t even recognize, this club is the only fortress we have.
It’s the wall we built to keep the world from getting its hands on us again, because the alternative is becoming exactly like the monsters who broke us in the first place.
My mind drifts back to the night we stopped being soldiers and started being ghosts, back to that dim apartment when we were still rising stars in a crew that didn't allow for things like empathy.
We were debt collectors—efficient, cold, and rising through the ranks until the night we were ordered to kill a man who was nothing more than a name on a ledger.
Except when we got there, Maddox saw the photo on the nightstand, it was of the man grinning with a kid on his shoulders, and I watched the tough guy act die in real time.
Maddox couldn't even speak; his entire body just started to vibrate, his lungs seizing as the memory of his own father’s death collided with the job at hand.
I had to step in because he couldn't, taking over the room while he spiraled, telling the target to disappear forever before I put a bullet between his eyes.
We gathered what repayment the man had for ourselves, took the stash we’d been hiding for years, and fled into the darkness.
We’ve been running ever since, drifting through state lines until we finally landed here in Los Angeles two years ago, where wealth and depravity are just part of the scenery.
It was Maddox’s idea to open Velvet—a place where the elite could indulge in the same darkness we’ve been living in, only this time, on our own terms.
I look down at my hands and realize the shaking has slowed to a dull thrum, though it’s still there, simmering under the surface. I can’t let him see me like this. I have to be the one who doesn't break, because if I snap, there’s no one left to catch him when he falls.
I’m reaching for the butter when the vibration of my phone against the marble sounds like a hive of hornets.
I should leave it and focus on getting this toast into Maddox's stomach, and lean into the way my heart is finally starting to settle into a normal rhythm, but my eyes betray me, cutting to the screen.
My stomach does a slow, sickening roll when I see the name written across it.
brY
I know you're avoiding me, Rylen James.
I stare at the words, my thumb hovering over the glass. I should tell him to fuck off, that I don’t have the bandwidth for whatever game he’s playing, not today of all days.
Except before I can even process the thought, another notification slides down, and this one catches me off guard.
brY
I know I'm supposed to be sorry. I know I should apologize for crossing that line, but I can't. Not when you have the softest lips I've ever tasted.
The air in the kitchen suddenly feels too thin, the smell of the toast turning acrid in the back of my throat. I can feel the heat crawling up my neck, a traitorous flush that has no business being there.
My mind, the wreck that it is, flashes back to the crash of those beer bottles on the floor—the sharp, stinging scent of lager and the way Bry’s hands had felt, firm and certain, against my jaw.
I can still see the look on Maddox’s face when he’d caught us.
That hardened, ice-cold stare that hadn't been about disgust at all, but about a wound I hadn't known how to heal, because I wasn't even sure what it meant.
I’d been so caught off guard by the heat of Bry’s mouth that I’d let a blind spot open up right in the middle of my own living room.
I shove the phone into my pocket, the screen still lighting up against my thigh with more messages; a constant, buzzing reminder that there’s a way out of this debacle with Maddox, if I’m just brave enough—or rather cowardly enough—to take it.
While I stare at the steam rising from the toaster, my mind works through the logic with a cold, clinical detachment. Bry is definitely attractive; he’s a rockstar with a voice like silk and honey eyes that look at me as if I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing.
He’s right there, offering himself up on a silver platter, and the smart thing to do— the safe thing to do —would be to reach out and take him. If I can just focus on Bry, maybe I can stop this rot inside me before it spreads any further.
Maybe if I force myself to lean into the flirtation from Bry, I can build a wall high enough to keep me from tracing the curve of Maddox’s jaw or the way his pulse thrums against my palm in the dark.
Pursuing Bry wouldn't be about lust; it would be a tactical maneuver. The way firefighters set off a controlled burn to save the rest of the forest from catching fire. Because looking at Maddox right now, so raw and stripped thin by his own grief, I realize how dangerously close I am to crossing a line I can’t uncross.
If I let myself feel everything that’s bubbling under the surface, I’ll ruin the only person I’ve ever truly cared about. I’ll become just another monster who took advantage of him when he was at his lowest, and I’d rather rot in hell than be that to him .
And I'll be good to Bry, even if I can't ever love him, because he's sweet and kind and deserves more than I'm offering him.
However, If I have to use him as a shield to protect Maddox from the parts of me that are starting to want too much, then that’s exactly what I’ll do. It’s a hollow, dishonest kind of safety, but it’s the only one I’ve got.
The floorboards creak in the hall, and the air in the kitchen shifts, growing dense with the scent of damp skin and the ghost of the panic we just survived.
I pull my hand out of my pocket, leaving the phone behind, and turn toward the door.
My mask is already slipping into place. The protector is back.
And if I have to lie to myself until I believe what I'm thinking, then I will.
Maddox stops in the doorway, his eyes dark and wary, looking like he’s waiting for the floor to drop out from under him again.
He looks small, even though his lean body is over six-foot—shaken in a way that makes my protective instincts flare up so hard it’s dizzying.
I don’t say anything about the shower or the way his hands are still trembling.
I just offer him the plate, my voice steady, betraying nothing of the war I’m waging behind my teeth.
“Eat, Mads. Before it gets cold.”
Maddox doesn’t move for a long moment, just stays anchored to the doorframe, his hair damp and messy, sticking to his forehead in dark clumps.
He looks at the plate I’m holding like he’s forgotten what food is, his eyes searching mine for a crack—a hint of the pity or the judgment he’s so terrified of finding.
I hold his gaze, keeping my expression flat, even as my heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I need him to believe I’m okay, so he can believe he’s okay too.
Finally, he moves in a slow, cautious trek across the tiles, his movements still lacking that usual predatory grace he carries, and takes the plate from me.
His fingers brush against mine for a split second—a touch that feels like a jolt of electricity straight to my spine.
I do my best not to flinch or pull away, letting the heat of it burn through me, a reminder of exactly why I need to text Bry back the moment I leave this room.
Maddox sinks into one of the stools at the island, his shoulders hunched, staring at the golden-brown bread like it holds the answers to every fucked up question in his head.
"Ry," he starts, his voice still sounding like it’s been dragged through gravel. He stops, swallowing hard, his throat working as he struggles to find the words. He doesn't look up, just picks at the crust of the toast with disinterest. "About the bathroom... I didn't mean to shout. I just—"
"Don't," I cut him off, not unkindly, but with a firmness that leaves no room for an apology.
I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the fact that my hands are starting to itch for my phone.
"You don't owe me an explanation for being human, Mads. We’ve been in this shitshow together since we were kids.
You think a little yelling is going to change that?
" I feign a smirk and a teasing eye roll as he looks up at me through thick lashes, the raw vulnerability in his blue eyes is almost enough to make my mask shatter.
There’s a question there—one he isn’t asking out loud, but I can hear it anyway. Are we still okay? Are you still here?
"Nothing could ever make me turn on you, you're my best mate," I murmur, answering the thought he didn't voice. He nods once but doesn't look soothed by my answer, and finally takes a bite of the toast.
The tension in the room eases a fraction while I watch him eat, my mind already drifting back to the text in my pocket.
The softest lips I’ve ever tasted . The words feel like a dirty secret, a betrayal of the man sitting right in front of me; which is stupid because Maddox isn't and never will be mine. Yet, as I watch the way Maddox’s jaw shifts, the way he seems to be slowly piecing himself back together under my watch, I know I have to do it.
I have to choose the distraction. Because if I keep yearning for him like this—if I keep letting him lean on me while I'm this close to breaking boundaries, I'm going to ruin everything we've built.
"I have to head into the club early," the lie tastes like bile on my tongue. "Nathyn mentioned some issues with the fourth-floor feeds that I want to check out before the night shift starts."
Maddox doesn't look surprised. He never is when it comes to my obsession with the security logs. "Yeah. Go. I'll stay here and... I'll be fine."
"You sure?" I ask, my hand already moving toward the door. "Yeah," he says, and for the first time since the panic hit, there’s a flicker of his usual strength in his voice. "I'm sure."
I turn and walk away before I can change my mind, my phone already out of my pocket before I’ve even cleared the hallway. I desperately fight to not let myself feel the lack of desire as my thumb hovers over the keyboard, as I type the words that will build the wall I need.
RYLEN
I'm not avoiding you. I've just been busy. You want to get a drink tonight?
I hit send and don’t look back, even as the silence of the house feels like it’s trying to swallow me whole.
brY
Thought you'd never ask.