The bouncer's fingers clamped around his wrist like a shackle.

"Behave," he hissed. "Mr. Smith doesn't mess around. He treats his boys like sons. It's a gift to be noticed by him."

Mr. Smith reached out. Julian flinched, but the bouncer began to drag him toward the man.

A sharp crack echoed as a hand slammed into the back of the bouncer's wrist.

"I told you to be gentle," a man in a leopard-print suit drawled. "Why can't you learn?"

"Boss?" the bouncer recoiled, his face turning ashen.

"Let him go," the Boss commanded. He stepped aside, gesturing to the man standing behind him. "Mr. Frost. Here is the one you requested."

The air rushed out of Julian's lungs. Samuel was here.

No one touched Julian after that. The Boss arranged for him to spend the night with Samuel.

Julian followed Samuel up the stairs to the second floor, his pulse hammering in his throat.

The bedroom was silent, but Julian knew the walls had ears—and eyes. He didn't dare speak.

Samuel pressed him against the wall. The movement was sharp, aggressive.

Their bodies collided with a light switch. The room plunged into darkness.

"How are they doing?" the Boss asked, eyes fixed on the bank of monitors.

"Rooms 1 and 8," Vincent replied. "Room 1 is already in the middle of it. Room 8—the Bunny and the client—just entered the bath."

On the screen for Room 1, the shadows were frantic. Heavy breathing and wet sounds filled the speakers. It didn't look like an act.

Room 8 was a veil of steam. The silhouettes of two men moved against the frosted glass of the shower.

"Both are new, aren't they?" the Boss mused.

"Peacock has done a few shows, but this is his first overnight," Vincent said. "Bunny just arrived today. Do you suspect them?"

The Boss narrowed his eyes. "The timing is too perfect."

"Bunny is an influencer," Vincent reminded him. "A senior client pulled strings to get him. He should be clean."

The Boss leaned back. "Watch the monitors. If they don't go all the way, cancel every other overnight guest."

Vincent hesitated. "Our big events only happen twice a month. The clients have been waiting."

"Safety first," the Boss snapped.

"What if they do finish?"

A long silence followed. "Then the event continues as planned."

Room 8 was a cavern of black. Only two blurred shapes remained on the infrared feed.

Vincent leaned in. The figures on the bed overlapped.

A sharp, high-pitched cry tore through the speaker. It sounded small, pathetic—half-pleasure, half-pain.

"You're too tight," Samuel's voice came through, raw and low. "Relax."

"I'm trying," Julian gasped, his voice breaking into a sob. "It hurts... I can't control it..."

Samuel didn't answer. He moved with a rhythmic, ruthless pressure.

Julian's cries grew more frequent, more desperate, eventually dissolving into wet whimpers.

Vincent felt heat crawl up his neck. He relayed the report. The Boss gave the order: the night proceeds.

Julian's throat was scorched.

Samuel was giving him a full-body massage, his thumbs digging into the pressure points of Julian's feet and back.

Julian's muscles were like knots of wood from hours of tension and sitting still. He'd never had a massage before. Every touch was fire.

Samuel was showing no mercy. He sought out the most painful knots and stayed there, ignoring Julian's muffled pleas for him to stop.

For an hour in the dark, Julian's cries had been constant.

Now, he could only manage cat-like whimpers into the pillow. He was drained, his body limp.

"C-can we stop?" Julian whispered, his face buried in the linen.

Samuel's heavy palm remained on the small of Julian's back. His breathing was ragged, deeper than Julian had ever heard it.

As Julian tried to pull away, Samuel leaned down, his lips brushing Julian's ear.

"Again."

The monitors were a digital mosaic of vice, screens lighting up one by one as the night hit its peak. Vincent rubbed his eyes, the neon glare no longer a thrill. A warm bowl of noodles and a hot shower were the only things on his mind.

Then the world exploded.

Tactical gear slammed through the door.

"Police! Hands where I can see them!"

The raid had begun.

Julian sat in the back of an unmarked car with Samuel, the precinct's chaos muffled by the glass.

Two hundred arrests had turned the lobby into a zoo.

A female officer led them into a private room and worked the knots at their wrists. "Tight work," she noted with a sharp grin. "Deputy Chief Kane will be with you shortly. Then you're free to go."

"Kane?" Julian blinked.

The door swung open. A man in tailored police slacks and a crisp blue shirt strode in. The sharp phoenix eyes were unmistakable. It was the Peacock from the club, his features now hard and lethal without the makeup.

Julian couldn't look away. He had a weakness for order. Neat rows, clean rooms, the rigid authority of a badge—it made him feel safe.

"Thank you for your service," Lennox Kane said, hand outstretched toward Julian.

"I'm Deputy Chief Lennox Kane. The department appreciates the cooperation."

Julian took the hand. "It was... nothing. Just doing my part."

Ethan Reed kicked the door open, two heavy shopping bags swinging from his hands. "Frost, your family is downstairs. Change. Now."

Samuel nodded. He shoved one of the bags into Julian's lap. "Put these on."

Julian ducked into a side stall. The bag was a haul—underwear, a crisp suit, a heavy wool coat, shoes.

No price tags, but the gold logo was the same one he passed every morning on his way to Apex Capital.

I can't afford this.

The weight of the silk felt like a debt against his skin.

Julian stepped out, finding the room empty. Lennox and the others were gone. He headed for the stairs, then stopped at the sound of Ethan's voice echoing in the corridor.

"So. Did you two actually... go all the way in that room?"

Julian froze against the wall. His pulse hammered in his throat.

"You think I'm you?" Samuel's voice was a flat blade.

"Drop the act, Frost," Ethan snapped. "Did you have a private motive for this little rescue mission? Be honest."

The silence in the hall stretched into a thin wire.

"No," Samuel said. The word was cold. Final.

Julian turned and walked away.

Winter rain wove gold threads through the NYC streetlights outside the precinct. Samuel stood by the SUV, his silhouette sharp against the wet pavement. "I'm taking you home."

Julian looked at his shoes. "Thank you, sir, but I have things to do."

"What things?"

"I need to find my phone."

Samuel reached into his pocket and held out the device. "Retrieved."

Julian took it. He didn't move. Samuel's patience snapped. "Get in the car."

Inside, the heater was a blast of mercy. Julian draped the new cashmere coat over his knees, revealing the charcoal suit. Samuel was good at this—buying a new life in a shopping bag. Every detail was accounted for, down to the socks.

"How much were the clothes?" Julian stared at the dash. "I'll wire you the money."

"Don't bother," Samuel said.

Julian shifted, the wool soft beneath his fingers. "I'll clean them and bring them back, then."

"No. I have no use for them."

"But that boy... the one with my build," Julian whispered, thinking of Sonny Frost. "Can't he wear them?"

Samuel's eyes remained on the road. "He doesn't wear hand-me-downs."

Julian went quiet. The rain blurred the NYC skyline into a smear of grey and yellow. He closed his eyes, leaning his cheek against the coarse webbing of the seatbelt.

Nausea curled in his stomach. He didn't want to see the city tonight.