Leo's breath caught. He felt pinned, not by force this time, but by the sheer, overwhelming magnetism of that gaze. The illicit fantasies he'd chased alone in his rented room surged violently to the surface. Thorne's proximity, the scent of expensive scotch and cedar mingling with his own clean skin, the memory of sculpted muscle beneath his fingertips – it coalesced into a dizzying wave of desire that warred fiercely with ingrained fear. He remembered the command: *You don't touch*. Yet Thorne's look now was an invitation, a silent demand. Leo's body betrayed him, a flush creeping up his neck, a traitorous tremor running through him. He saw Thorne register it – the slight hitch in his breath, the dilation of his pupils. A ghost of a smirk touched Thorne's lips, cruel and knowing. He knew the effect he wielded.
Thorne closed the distance in one fluid stride. There was no hesitation, no preamble. His hand shot out, not violently, but with undeniable command, tangling in the damp hair at Leo's nape, forcing his head back. Leo gasped, his hands instinctively flying up to brace against Thorne's chest, fingers splaying over the impossibly fine fabric of his shirt, feeling the hard muscle beneath. He felt the tremor in his own limbs, the frantic beat of his heart against his ribs. Thorne's grey eyes bored into his, holding him captive. Then he leaned down.
The kiss wasn't gentle. It wasn't an exploration. It was possession. Thorne's mouth claimed Leo's with bruising pressure, lips firm and demanding against Leo's startled gasp. The taste of expensive scotch flooded Leo's senses, smoky and sharp, mingling with the faint cedar scent that clung to Thorne's skin. Leo froze for a heartbeat, overwhelmed by the sheer force, the unexpectedness, the terrifying intimacy. Thorne's other arm snaked around his waist, pulling him flush against the solid wall of his body. Heat radiated from him, scorching through the thin borrowed shirt. Leo's hands, still pressed against Thorne's chest, clenched involuntarily in the fabric. A low sound escaped him – part shock, part surrender.
Thorne's grip on his hair tightened, angling Leo's head further back. His lips moved with ruthless precision, parting Leo's with insistent pressure. His tongue swept in, hot and demanding, mapping the contours of Leo's mouth with an ownership that left no room for hesitation. Leo's body arched instinctively, pressing closer, the fear momentarily drowned out by a surge of raw, answering hunger. He tasted Thorne back – the dark, complex blend of alcohol and something uniquely, intensely masculine. His hands slid upwards, fingers tangling in the thick hair at Thorne's nape, pulling him down harder. A growl vibrated deep in Thorne's chest, approving, predatory.
But beneath the heat, a cold dread pierced Leo's haze. *This wasn't consent.* This was Thorne taking what he wanted, just like Darren had leveraged his past, just like the alley thugs had taken their pound of flesh. The borrowed clothes, the sterile penthouse, the silent commands – it was all a gilded cage. Thorne's hand slid down Leo's spine, possessive and claiming, and Leo recoiled internally. The kiss, once overwhelming, suddenly felt like suffocation. He wasn't a dancer; he was prey being toyed with. The shame of his earlier fantasies curdled into sharp, desperate anger.
Leo shoved against Thorne's chest with all his strength, twisting his head free from the punishing grip on his hair. He stumbled back, gasping, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Thorne stood frozen, a statue carved from fury and surprise, his lips still parted, eyes blazing with icy shock. Before fear could paralyze him again, before Thorne could react, Leo's hand flew out. The slap cracked through the penthouse's silence, sharp and final. His palm stung against Thorne's cheekbone.
Thorne didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his fingers to touch the faint red mark blooming on his skin. His grey eyes locked onto Leo's, the predatory hunger replaced by something terrifyingly blank. Utterly cold. The air crackled, thick with the promise of violence far worse than the alley, worse than the bed. Leo's stomach plummeted. *Stupid. So stupid.* He'd slapped a man who radiated danger like heat from a forge. A man who'd effortlessly pulled him from a beating and pinned him like a butterfly. Regret flooded him, bitter and sharp. He braced for the blow, the crushing grip, the fury he knew was coming.
It never landed. Thorne lowered his hand. His expression didn't shift—no anger, no contempt. Just that chilling, glacial stillness. He studied Leo's face: the defiance warring with terror, the flush high on his cheekbones, the slight tremble in his clenched fists. The silence stretched, thick enough to choke on. Then, without a word, Thorne turned. He walked across the vast expanse of polished concrete, his footsteps unnervingly silent. He picked up his half-finished tumbler of scotch from the windowsill, drained it in one smooth motion, and placed the empty glass down with precise finality.
Leo stood frozen, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He watched Thorne stride towards the elevator bank, not towards the hallway or the bedrooms. The man pressed the call button. The doors slid open instantly. Thorne stepped inside, his broad back to Leo. He didn't look back. The doors closed, sealing him away. The soft whir of the descending elevator was the only sound in the penthouse's suffocating silence. He was gone. Just like that.
Panic surged, cold and sharp. *What have I done?* The slap echoed louder than any shout. Thorne had offered shelter, pulled him from the gutter, given him a chance at Azure. Leo's defiance felt suddenly reckless, stupid. He'd confused Thorne's predatory hunger with Darren's cheap exploitation, the alley's violence with Thorne's terrifying control. The borrowed clothes felt like a shroud. He couldn't stay here. He couldn't lose Azure. He couldn't lose… whatever fragile thread connected him to Thorne.
Leo bolted. He wrenched open the heavy penthouse door, sprinted down the silent corridor towards the elevator bank. The polished floor reflected his frantic silhouette. *Too late.* The indicator light showed the car descending rapidly. Floor 40… 35… 30… Despair choked him. He jabbed the call button repeatedly, uselessly. The sleek steel doors remained impassive. The lobby. He had to reach the lobby.
He spotted the emergency stairwell. Leo flung the door open and plunged downward, taking the concrete steps two, three at a time. His breath tore ragged in his throat, echoing in the stark, echoing shaft. The borrowed sweatpants slipped on his hips. He gripped the cold metal railing, swinging himself around landings, the city lights blurring past narrow windows. *Stupid. Reckless.* The slap reverberated louder than his pounding footsteps. Thorne's icy stillness had been worse than rage. He'd offered shelter, pulled him from the gutter, given him Azure. Leo had thrown it back in his face.
He burst through the lobby stairwell door, stumbling onto polished marble. The doorman's head snapped up, startled. Outside, the sleek black car's brake lights glowed crimson as it pulled away from the curb. Thorne was inside. Leo didn't hesitate. He sprinted past the bewildered doorman, out into the cool night air. "Thorne!" His shout ripped through the quiet street, raw and desperate. "Mr. Thorne!" The car accelerated smoothly. Leo ran after it, bare feet slapping the cold pavement, lungs burning. "Stop! Please!" He was gaining nothing. The car turned the corner. Leo skidded to a halt, chest heaving, watching the red lights vanish. Defeat crashed over him, cold and heavy.
He stood gasping in the empty street, the city's hum suddenly deafening. The slap. Thorne's glacial stillness. The borrowed clothes felt like a mockery now. Azure. Laurent's curt acceptance. The fragile respect he'd scraped from dishwater and polished glass. All gone. Because he'd confused Thorne's terrifying dominance with Darren's cheap cruelty. Thorne hadn't demanded favors. He hadn't leered. He'd offered shelter, silence, a path out. And Leo had repaid it with defiance and violence. Shame coiled thick in his throat, hotter than the kitchen steam. He needed to apologize. Not for the kiss – that had been taken – but for the rejection, the slap, the ingratitude. He needed Thorne to understand the fear twisting inside him.
The doorman watched him with impassive eyes as Leo trudged back into the lobby, the marble floor cold beneath his thin socks. The elevator ride back to the penthouse was agonizingly slow. The doors slid open onto the vast, silent space. Empty. Sterile. The untouched tumbler sat on the windowsill where Thorne had left it. Leo wandered aimlessly, the echo of his footsteps mocking him. He paused near a low, minimalist sofa. Thorne's phone lay discarded on the sleek surface, face up. Unlocked. The screen glowed softly.