Leo parked near the entrance, the engine cutting off abruptly. The quiet here was profound, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the distant cry of an owl. He sat for a moment, gathering himself. He wore his own worn jeans and a soft grey sweater, a deliberate choice after Thorne's unsettling confession. He needed to feel like himself. Leo. Not Leo Lust. Not Azure's newest hire. Just Leo. He grabbed his small duffel bag – containing little more than essentials – and approached the heavy oak door. Before he could knock, it swung inward.
Thorne stood framed in the warm light. He'd shed the penthouse armor. No tailored suit, no icy detachment. He wore dark, comfortable trousers and a soft-looking knit sweater, its deep green echoing the surrounding forest. His posture was different too – less coiled predator, more weary host. His grey eyes held Leo's gaze, acknowledging the strangeness of this moment without words. There was no apology repeated, no justification offered. Just a silent acknowledgment of the shared, jagged history that lay between them, and the fragile truce that had brought Leo here. He stepped aside, gesturing wordlessly into the hall.
The room Thorne led him to wasn't ostentatious. It was large, yes, overlooking the dark woods through tall windows, but it felt grounded. Deep oak beams crossed the ceiling. A thick rug softened the polished wood floor. The bed was substantial, piled with soft linens and a thick duvet. A fireplace sat cold but ready. Books lined one wall. It felt like sanctuary, not a cage. Thorne lingered only long enough to point out the ensuite bathroom and assure Leo he'd find everything he needed. "Rest," he said, his voice low and rough, the single word holding more weight than a paragraph. Then he was gone, closing the heavy door softly behind him.
Leo unpacked his meager bag slowly, the profound quiet of the house settling around him like a physical thing. He showered, letting the hot water ease the tension from his shoulders, the memory of the penthouse, the alley, the laundromat, slowly receding in the face of this unexpected peace. He crawled into the impossibly soft bed, sinking into the mattress, the clean scent of linen enveloping him. Sleep pulled him under swiftly, deeply.
He woke much later, disoriented. The luminous dial of the bedside clock read 2:17 AM. The house was utterly silent, wrapped in the deep hush of the countryside night. Then, faintly, it began. A low, rhythmic sound. A groan, deep and guttural, followed by a higher-pitched gasp. It wasn't pain. It was unmistakably pleasure, raw and urgent. It came from somewhere down the hall. Thorne's room.
Leo froze, tangled in the sheets. The sounds grew louder, more insistent – the slap of skin on skin, breathless curses, the creak of a bedframe pushed to its limits. Curiosity warred violently with dread. He shouldn't look. It was another trespass, another violation of the fragile sanctuary Thorne had offered. But the pull was undeniable. He slid silently from the bed, padding barefoot across the cool wooden floor to his door. He eased it open just a crack.
The hallway was dimly lit by a single sconce. Thorne's door, several yards down, stood slightly ajar. Golden light spilled onto the runner rug. Leo crept forward, his heart hammering against his ribs. He pressed himself against the wall beside the doorframe, peering through the narrow gap.
Thorne knelt on the massive bed, naked, his powerful back muscles flexing and rippling with each powerful thrust. Beneath him, pinned against the rumpled sheets, was a young man Leo didn't recognize. Lean, dark-haired, his face turned away, buried in a pillow. His body arched sharply, muscles straining, as Thorne drove into him with relentless, punishing force. The sounds were primal – Thorne's low grunts of exertion, the sharp gasps and choked moans torn from the other man's throat. It wasn't tender. It wasn't gentle. It was raw, animalistic dominance, a display of sheer physical power and control. Sweat slicked Thorne's skin, catching the lamplight. His expression, visible in profile, was intense, focused, utterly absorbed in the act of taking.
Leo watched, transfixed and horrified. This wasn't the weary man who'd shown him to his room. This was the predator from the penthouse unleashed, the force that had pulled him from the alley, the obsessive watcher. The sheer brutality of it stole Leo's breath. He saw the other man's fingers clawing desperately at the sheets, heard a muffled sob swallowed by the pillow. Then Thorne gripped the man's hips, hauling him back harder, driving deeper. A final, guttural groan ripped from Thorne's throat, followed by a shuddering stillness. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by ragged breathing.
Leo stumbled back from the door, bile rising in his throat. He fled silently down the hall, back to his room, shutting the door with trembling hands. He leaned against it, sliding down to the floor, hugging his knees. The sounds, the image – Thorne's raw power, the other man's submission – replayed in his mind. Sanctuary? This place felt like another gilded cage, built on darker foundations. He buried his face in his hands, the quiet of the house now suffocating, charged with the echo of violence disguised as pleasure. pillow. Then Thorne gripped the man's hips, hauling him back harder, driving deeper. A final, guttural groan ripped from Thorne's throat, followed by a shuddering stillness. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by ragged breathing.
Leo stumbled back from the door, bile rising in his throat. He fled silently down the hall, back to his room, shutting the door with trembling hands. He leaned against it, sliding down to the floor, hugging his knees. The sounds, the image – Thorne's raw power, the other man's submission – replayed in his mind. Sanctuary? This place felt like another gilded cage, built on darker foundations. He buried his face in his hands, the quiet of the house now suffocating, charged with the echo of violence disguised as pleasure.
Morning light filtered through the curtains, cold and accusing. Leo hadn't slept again. He dressed mechanically, the borrowed peace of the countryside estate now a bitter mockery. He needed answers. He needed to see Thorne's eyes. Downstairs, the scent of coffee hung heavy in the air. Thorne sat at the large oak table in the sunlit kitchen, reading a tablet. He looked composed, rested, the predator neatly tucked away behind a facade of normalcy. The young man from the night was nowhere to be seen.
"Morning," Thorne said, his voice level, his grey eyes lifting. They held no trace of the previous night's frenzy, only a cool assessment. "Sleep well?"
Leo ignored the pleasantry. He pulled out a chair opposite Thorne, the scrape of wood on stone loud in the stillness. "Who was he?" The question came out flat, stripped bare.
Thorne didn't flinch. He took a slow sip of coffee, his gaze unwavering. "An arrangement." His tone was dismissive, final. "It doesn't concern you."
"It concerns me when it happens down the hall." Leo leaned forward, his knuckles white on the table edge. "That wasn't... consensual. It sounded like..."
Thorne's expression hardened, a flicker of warning in his eyes. "You misunderstand." He set his cup down with deliberate precision. "Consent is negotiated beforehand. Payment rendered. Expectations clear. What you heard was... release." He paused, his gaze sharpening, pinning Leo. "Is that what frightens you? The sound of surrender? Or the thought of being the one beneath me?"
Leo recoiled, the bluntness a physical blow. Thorne stood, pushing his chair back. "I have work." He walked towards a heavy oak door Leo hadn't noticed before, tucked beside a bookcase. His office. Leo watched him go, the dismissal stinging. Answers weren't freely given here; they had to be taken. As Thorne's hand touched the brass knob, Leo was already moving.
He followed Thorne into the office, shutting the door firmly behind him. The room smelled of leather and old paper, dominated by a massive mahogany desk. Thorne turned, surprise quickly masked by irritation. "This isn't a discussion, Leo."
"I need to understand," Leo insisted, standing his ground near the door. "You brought me here. Offered sanctuary. Then... that. How does that fit?" He gestured vaguely towards the hallway, towards the unseen bedroom. "Am I just another arrangement waiting to happen?"
Thorne walked around the desk, his movements controlled but radiating tension. He stopped before a tall window overlooking the mist-shrouded woods. "You are nothing like them," he said, his voice low, almost rough. He didn't turn. "They serve a purpose. Temporary. Expendable."
"And me?" Leo pressed, taking a step closer. "What purpose do I serve?"
Thorne finally turned. The morning light caught the planes of his face, highlighting the weariness Leo had glimpsed yesterday, now mixed with something darker, more complex. Frustration? Longing? "You unsettle me," he admitted, the words seeming dragged from him. "You defy categorization. You resist. You... *slapped* me." A ghost of something almost like respect touched his lips, gone in an instant. "That purpose hasn't been defined yet. Perhaps that's why you're here." He met Leo's gaze, the grey depths unreadable. "To discover it."
Silence stretched. Thorne broke it, his tone shifting abruptly, becoming pragmatic, almost dismissive. He pulled open a deep drawer in his desk. Inside, stacked neatly, were thick bundles of cash. Hundreds. Thousands. More than Leo had ever seen in one place. Thorne lifted several stacks, tossing them onto the polished wood surface with a heavy thud. They landed like bricks.