Morning bled into afternoon before Grayson pulled himself out of bed.
The apartment was too quiet. Holly had already gone — her side of the bed cold, the scent of her perfume clinging to the sheets like an echo. A half-drunk glass of water sat on the bedside table. She hadn't left a note, but she hadn't needed to.
The mirror told him enough.
Red half-moon bruises curled low on his throat, stark against his skin. He touched one absently, remembering the drag of her mouth, the scratch of her nails, the way he hadn't stopped her. The way he'd wanted to feel something. But all he'd felt afterward was hollow.
He didn't bother shaving. Just threw on black slacks and a pressed shirt, the collar turned up too tight against his neck. Habit, maybe. Or camouflage. He left the apartment without looking back.
By the time he reached Elysium, dusk was bleeding into the skyline and the club was already beginning to hum. Inside, the scent hit first — polish, citrus, perfume, liquor — all wrapped in low bass and money. The lights hadn't gone full dark yet, but the glow was gold and deliberate, everything calculated down to the inch.
Connor was already at the front bar, leaning one hip against the marble, clipboard in one hand, paper cup in the other. His eyes flicked to Grayson's collar and paused for just a second too long. Then he looked back down.
"Back of house," he said, handing over the clipboard. "Keep your head down. Kane's in a mood."
That suited Grayson fine. He stuck to the stockroom, hauling crates and stacking cases where no one was watching. The collar felt like armour. He was nearly done when the door shut behind him with a deliberate click.
Kane filled the doorway like he owned the air in the room. Dark shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, jacket gone, tie loose, the top button undone. It should have looked casual. It didn't. There was a precision to it, like every detail had been decided.
"You've been hard to find," he said. His voice was low, unhurried, but something in it carried the weight of a command.
Grayson set down the box in his hands. "Working."
Kane's gaze didn't move from his face as he stepped into the aisle, each footfall slow and deliberate. The space narrowed until Grayson's back hit the stacked liquor crates.
The clean, sharp scent of him cut through the cooler air, the same scent Grayson had tasted when Kane had him pinned over his desk — one hand gripping his jaw, the other pressing the flat of a blade to his throat, the desk edge digging into his hips. That memory snapped into place now, unwelcome but vivid.
Kane's eyes dropped to the turned-up collar. For a moment, he simply stood there, close enough that Grayson could feel the heat coming off him. Then his hand came up, no hurry, no hesitation and hooked a finger into the fabric. He pulled it down slow, dragging a knuckle along the side of Grayson's neck until the marks were visible in the dim light. His gaze stayed on them.
The corner of Kane's mouth moved, not quite a smile. "You walk in here wearing someone else's nails on your throat and think I wouldn't notice?"
Grayson's pulse spiked. He forced his voice steady. "Didn't think it mattered."
Kane's thumb pressed against one of the marks, just enough to make the skin ache. "It doesn't. Not to me." His tone was flat, but the pressure didn't ease. "But it makes you look… undisciplined."
He held there another moment, long enough for Grayson to feel the weight of it, before letting the collar fall back into place.
"Clean this room," Kane said, already turning toward the door. "I'll decide where you belong after that."
The ghost of Kane's thumb against his neck hadn't faded by the time Connor found him in the stockroom. It was still there, a phantom heat under his collar, every time he swallowed.
"You're upstairs tonight," Connor said from the doorway.
Grayson turned, hands still braced on the crate he'd been moving. "Thought Jax had it."
"Not anymore." Connor's tone was neutral, but his gaze lingered in a way that made the air between them feel heavier. "VIP side. Kane wants you on that door."
Grayson held his stare for a beat. "Why?"
"Just do the job." Connor shifted his weight and stepped back into the hall. "And keep quiet."
******************
Upstairs was another world.
Grayson's post was two doors down from Kane's office, at a stretch of hallway that overlooked the club floor. The balcony railing was cool under his hand, the crowd below a blur of shifting bodies and strobing light.
He'd been there maybe fifteen minutes when he heard footsteps on the stairs.
Kane.
No jacket. Shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled, cuffs loose enough to show a sliver of wrist. The woman beside him was all black silk and long legs, her perfume cutting through the warmth like a knife. Her laugh was low, intimate, and it clung to Kane as easily as her arm did.
They passed him without slowing. Kane didn't speak, but his eyes caught on Grayson for a heartbeat, a flicker sharp enough to feel like it had weight.
The office door didn't close.
At first, Grayson kept his eyes on the balcony. Then came the sounds.
The low, even tone of Kane's voice, muffled by the door but still carrying. The shuffle of heels on carpet. The faint drag of fabric sliding up bare skin. A soft exhale from the woman, almost swallowed before it reached the hall.
When he glanced, the gap in the door was angled straight toward him, a perfect slice of view he couldn't ignore.
The woman was bent over the desk, dress bunched high around her hips. Kane stood behind her, one hand clamped at the back of her neck, holding her there. His other hand was between her thighs, fingers moving with deliberate, unhurried precision.
And Kane was looking at him. Not a glance. A fixed, unwavering hold.
His grip on her neck tightened, tilting her head back to bare her throat, the same angle he'd forced Grayson into over that very desk, the edge of it digging into his hips, the cold line of a blade against his skin.
"Grayson," Kane said, voice cutting clean through the quiet. "In here."
Grayson's legs carried him forward before he'd decided to move.
Inside, the air was thicker, warmer. The smell of sex wound itself around the clean, sharp bite of Kane's cologne.
The woman didn't even glance at him. Her palms were flat on the desk, her breath coming unevenly as Kane's fingers worked her in a slow, relentless rhythm.
"Pour me a drink," Kane said, his voice steady. He didn't release her.
Grayson went to the cabinet, every movement deliberate — opening the door, taking down a tumbler, the ice tongs cold against his fingers. Behind him, Kane spoke again, the words for the woman but pitched so low and clear that Grayson could hear every syllable.
"Keep your hands flat on the desk."
A pause.
"Don't flinch. You'll only make me rougher."
Grayson froze for half a second before forcing himself to pour the whiskey.
"Wider." Kane's tone sharpened, and the woman gave a small sound before adjusting her stance.
When Grayson turned back with the drink, Kane didn't take it immediately. He slowed his hand between the woman's thighs until it stopped entirely, then withdrew his fingers — slick, glistening in the low amber light.
Kane stepped toward him, and the space between them seemed to narrow with every measured movement.
His free hand came up and caught Grayson's jaw, fingers firm along the hinge, thumb pressing into the hollow beneath his cheek. "Open," Kane said, the word quiet but leaving no space for refusal.
Grayson's lips parted before he'd decided to obey.
Kane's other hand rose, and those wet fingers slid between his lips, pushing over his tongue with deliberate pressure.
The taste was immediate — heat and slickness, salt and something sharp — filling his mouth as Kane's gaze held him in place.
"Suck," Kane said.
It wasn't loud, but it was absolute.
Grayson's pulse kicked hard enough to feel in his throat. He closed his lips around them, drawing them in, tongue catching along the pads before he could stop himself.
Kane didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched, his eyes dark, unreadable, as if he was counting every shift of Grayson's tongue, every slow pull of breath through his nose.
The woman made a faint, questioning sound behind them, but Kane didn't so much as glance her way. All his focus was on the man in front of him.
When Grayson's breath hitched, Kane pushed his fingers deeper, pressing them toward the back of his tongue. "More," he said, voice low enough that it slid down Grayson's spine.
Grayson's throat worked around them, a muffled sound escaping before he could swallow it.
Kane's mouth curved, not quite a smile. "Good."
He kept them there a beat too long — long enough for Grayson to have to fight the urge to cough, long enough that his chest rose quicker with the effort of breathing through his nose. Only then did Kane ease his fingers out, slow enough to feel every inch of drag past Grayson's lips.
He wiped the dampness deliberately across Grayson's chin, smearing it over skin like a mark, before finally taking the drink from his hand.
A sip. A slow turn back to the woman, his grip finding her again like nothing had happened.
"You can go," Kane said without looking at him.
Grayson left, the phantom of those fingers still heavy on his tongue, the taste lodged in the back of his throat like it was meant to stay.
********************
Grayson left the office without a word, the taste still hot and wrong on his tongue. He didn't head for the floor. Didn't head for his post. He went straight for the staff bathroom at the far end of the hall, shoving the door shut behind him.
The fluorescent light was harsh after the low gold of Kane's office. He gripped the sink, head down, jaw tight, before twisting the tap. The water came cold, sharp. He cupped a handful and rinsed his mouth once, twice, again — until the taste was diluted but not gone. Couldn't be gone.
The door opened behind him.
Grayson froze, fingers gripping the porcelain.
The door shut. A heavy click. Kane's reflection filled the mirror — tall, deliberate, shirt still loose at the throat, sleeves rolled, the calm in his face sharp enough to cut.
Grayson turned from the sink. "Get the fuck out."
Kane didn't move toward the door. He came forward instead, slow enough that the sound of his shoes on tile was the only thing in the room besides Grayson's breathing.
"What's the problem?" Kane asked, voice low, steady. "Didn't seem like you had trouble taking orders a few minutes ago."
Grayson's chest tightened. "You think you can just—"
Kane's hand came up fast, closing around his throat before the sentence was finished. The wall caught Grayson's back with a dull thud.
The grip wasn't crushing, but it was solid — fingers at the side of his neck, thumb pressing into the hollow just below his jaw, tilting his chin up. The kind of hold that reminded you it could tighten at any second.
Kane's gaze dropped, scanning down his frame, pausing low. His mouth tilted into something that wasn't a smile. "You came in here to rinse me out of your mouth. Should've started with what's in your jeans."
Heat hit Grayson's face. "Go fuck yourself."
"You don't get to tell me where to be," Kane said, calm and controlled.
Grayson's breath hitched, sharp through his nose.
Kane's free hand moved over Grayson's ribs, his hip, and then lower — pressing full into the shape straining against his jeans.
"Interesting," Kane murmured, applying the slightest pressure. "Guess you didn't hate it as much as you're pretending."
Grayson's jaw worked. "Get your hands off me."
Kane's thumb stroked once along the line of his throat, slow, almost absent. "No."
The word was quiet, final.
Grayson's hands came up to his wrist, not enough to force him off, just braced there.
"Hard for me," Kane said, voice low, almost curious. "Doesn't matter if you hate it. Your body knows exactly what to do when I'm close."
Grayson's breath caught.
He squeezed, his grip at Grayson's throat shifting just enough to tilt his chin higher.
"I could take you apart right here," Kane murmured, leaning in until his mouth was at Grayson's ear. "Could make you come with one hand and you wouldn't be able to stop me."
Grayson's breathing grew heavier, heat pooling low, every nerve screaming to move and not move at the same time.
Kane's palm shifted against him — slow, deliberate, maddening, feeding the ache without giving enough.
"You'd hate yourself for it," Kane said. "But you'd still give it to me."
The smallest, involuntary push of Grayson's hips sealed it. Kane's grip on his throat tightened, a brief, sharp reminder of who was in control, before he let go entirely.
The sudden space felt jarring. Kane stepped back like nothing had happened. "Two minutes and you're back on post."
Then he was gone, leaving Grayson against the wall, pulse still hammering, every inch of him tense and unsatisfied, Kane's cologne still thick in the air.
******************
When Grayson stepped back into the club, the air hit him like a furnace. His shirt clung to the sweat along his spine, the ghost of Kane's grip still pressing into his throat. His pulse hadn't settled, each beat a hard thud in his ears that made the music below sound distant and warped.
He made it to the VIP rope, forcing his shoulders square, trying to look like nothing had happened in the last fifteen minutes. But the memory clung stubbornly — Kane's voice low in his ear, his hand…
Grayson exhaled hard through his nose and fixed his eyes on the room, determined not to think about it. He gritted his teeth. He wasn't security. He wasn't a fucking doorman.
Twenty minutes dragged by, the crowd blurring into background noise, until Jax appeared at his shoulder. "You're done for the night."
Grayson didn't move. "Why the hell am I even here? I'm a bartender, not a fucking—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "This isn't what I signed up for. Any more of this bullshit, and I'm out."
Jax's expression stayed easy, but there was a flicker in his eyes. "Walk with me."
They moved down the hall. Here the noise dulled, the air cooler, the scent of wood polish and faint tobacco replacing sweat and liquor.
Jax leaned against the wall, folding his arms. He let the quiet stretch just long enough to make Grayson shift his weight.
"Listen," he said finally. "I don't know what you did, or what Kane sees in you. I don't want to know. But if you walk out that door without him telling you you can?"
The pause that followed wasn't casual.
"You're a dead man, Grayson."
The words landed heavy in the space between them.
Grayson stared at him. "You're serious."
"Dead serious." Jax's tone didn't change. "People out there will put a bullet in you for less than walking out on Kane Blackwell. So unless you've got a death wish, you're gonna keep your mouth shut, do what you're told, and thank him for the opportunity."
He didn't explain further. He didn't have to.
Jax pushed off the wall, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder — not hard, not friendly, but enough to make the point. "See you tomorrow."
Then he was gone, swallowed by the noise of the club.
Grayson stayed in the shadowed hallway, Jax's words circling in his head like a locked door. Whatever game Kane was playing, it wasn't one he could walk away from.
Footsteps sounded behind him — steady, unhurried.
Kane appeared from the other end of the hall, expression unreadable. He didn't break stride as he passed, but his gaze caught on Grayson's and held just long enough to make it clear: I know exactly what Jax told you.
And then he was gone, leaving his cologne in the air like a chain around Grayson's neck.