Chapter 27
The weight in Riven’s hands trembled, not from exertion but from agitation.
The gym was too quiet, save for the rhythmic clink of metal and the buzz of overhead fluorescents.
It was supposed to clear his head, burn off the unease tightening his chest ahead of the meeting, but clarity remained out of reach.
“You’re tense,” came a voice behind him, unmistakable in its silken drawl.
Riven didn’t turn. “Not in the mood, Asterian.”
“That’s a shame.” Asterian’s footsteps padded silently across the rubber flooring. “I was hoping we could get to know each other better. Given how…close you’re getting to my brother.”
Riven racked the weights with a clatter and straightened. “I don’t need to get to know you.”
“But I already know you,” Asterian said, circling around him now, just out of reach. “I’ve seen the look in your eyes when Thane walks into a room. You like getting fucked by danger, don’t you?”
Riven moved to walk past him, but Astarian stepped in front of him like it was effortless. “Don’t,” Riven said sharply.
“Don’t what?” Asterian’s silver-blur eyes gleamed.
“Tell you what you already know? That you’re in over your head?
” His hand drifted down, deliberately slow, to the front of his trousers.
He adjusted himself through the fabric, sighing just a little.
“You ever wonder what it’d feel like to be touched by someone who actually knows what they’re doing? ”
Riven’s jaw clenched. “I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not.” Asterian’s voice lowered. “I told you to stop.”
And Riven…did. His feet froze against his will, compulsive obedience threading through his spine. Shame pooled low in his gut. His hands curled into fists.
Astarian smiled like he’d tasted something sweet.
“See? It’s not just Thane who can make you behave.
Maybe I’m better at it. Gentler. More thorough.
” He stepped closer, the air between them going charged.
“Thane likes to bruise what he breaks. I like to savor it. Draw it out. You’d scream for me differently. ”
He let his fingers trail up his own stomach, slowly lifting the hem of his shirt just enough to show the cut lines of his abdomen.
Then lower, down to the waistband of his pants, pushing it down until the smooth base of his cock was visible.
“You ever been on your knees for someone who made you beg for it first?”
Riven jerked back as Asterian reached for him, his breath catching in his throat.
Asterian didn’t look disappointed—only amused. “Still pretending you don’t want it? That’s cute.” He leaned in, his mouth inches from Riven’s ear. “You won’t last long in my brother’s bed. None of them ever do.”
Riven’s body was hot and cold all at once, sick with fury, with the threat and temptation braided through every word Asterian had said. His lips parted to snap back—but a soft voice cut in.
“Lord Asterian.”
Both of them turned. Maris stood in the doorway, her tone perfectly neutral.
Asterian straightened with a lazy shrug. “You always ruin my fun, Maris.”
“I’m very sorry,” she said, clearly not, “but Riven needs to get cleaned up. He’s expected.”
Riven seized on the exit like a lifeline, shouldering past Asterian. As he stepped into the hall, his skin still tingled where Asterian had nearly touched him. His stomach turned. There’d been a moment—just a second—when his body had betrayed him.
Maris walked beside him for a few steps, glancing his way. “You all right?”
Riven didn’t answer right away. “Do they always talk like that in this House?”
She smirked faintly. “Just the pretty ones.”
They walked in silence for a few paces, the tension still clinging to Riven like a second skin.
His pulse hadn’t settled. His skin buzzed with residual anger and shame.
Maris didn’t rush him. She had the same easy pace and unruffled demeanor she always did, though her eyes flicked to him now and then, like she was assessing damage.
“Should’ve left when I had the chance,” Riven muttered.
Maris glanced at him sidelong. “I’d say you handled yourself just fine. You’re still in one piece.”
“Barely.”
They turned a corner, passing a few servants who bowed subtly before continuing on. Maris waited until they were out of earshot before she spoke again.
“Word of advice?” she said. “Find a way to steer clear of Asterian.”
Riven didn’t answer.
“He’s persistent. Doesn’t like being told no. He’d happily drag you into the mess just because you’re…connected to Thane.”
“Connected,” Riven echoed bitterly.
Maris arched a brow. “Don’t look at me like that. You think people haven’t noticed? Half the estate heard what went down with the two of you. And Asterian listens when he wants to. You’re on his radar now.”
Riven exhaled sharply through his nose. “Great.”
They stopped in front of his door, and Maris keyed the lock open before turning to face him fully. “I’m serious. He’s dangerous in ways Thane isn’t. Thane is brutal, but predictable. Asterian will smile while he guts you.”
Riven’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t want to be connected to either of them.”
Maris studied him for a beat, her expression unreadable. “Sure you don’t.”
He opened his mouth to snap something back, but she turned into the room ahead of him and gestured toward the bed. “Outfit’s been delivered.”
Riven followed her in and stopped. A carefully arranged ensemble lay spread across the duvet—dark slate-gray slacks, a tailored deep green button-down, and a high-collared black jacket cut to his size with razor precision. It was clearly expensive.
He stared at it for a moment. “Do I have a choice?”
Maris shrugged. “Sure. You can wear it and make things easy. Or don’t, piss Thane off, and end up wearing it anyway—with extra bruises for the trouble.”
He muttered under his breath and reached for the buttons on his shirt.
Maris turned for the door. “Ten minutes. Then I walk you to meet your future.”
Before he could respond, she was gone, leaving him in the quiet hum of the room with a pile of perfectly selected clothes and the knowledge that nothing about this night was going to go how he wanted.
He stared at the outfit on the bed like it might bare its fangs. The fine lines, the careful tailoring, the polished perfection—it all reeked of Thane. Of ownership dressed up as elegance.
Riven dragged a hand down his face.
Ten minutes, Maris had said.
He stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside, then paused before reaching for the clean one. The sight of his bare torso caught his eye in the mirror—bruises bloomed low on his hips, some older marks fading yellow-green, others newer and darker. A fresh one near his collarbone throbbed faintly.
He turned his gaze away.
The jacket waited, silent and unrelenting, just like everything else in this place.
As he dressed, his fingers slowed at the cuffs. His hands clenched once at his sides before smoothing the fabric down. He looked at himself in the mirror again—too polished, too tamed. Like a doll someone had dressed up for display.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t his world—not the estates or the strategizing or the sex that bled into violence.
He reached up to touch his neck, fingers brushing over the skin just below the line of the collar.
You’re here as long as you have the brand, he reminded himself. As long as her debt exists, they own you. Do what you came to do. Get them the answers, follow the trail, and when they remove it—you walk.
You disappear.
And you never have to hear the name House Virellien again.
He pulled the jacket on, buttoned it up slowly. By the time he was done, the mask was back in place—expression neutral, stance squared.
A knock came at the door. Maris again.
“Time’s up,” she said through the wood.
Riven inhaled once, sharp and bracing, then stepped toward the door like a man walking into battle.