Thanin's office was a world carved out of shadow and indulgence. Black marbled tiles stretched across the floor like spilled ink, their polished surface catching only the faintest gleam from the recessed lights above. The tinted windows bled out the morning, muting the sun to a ghost of itself. A low haze of cigarette smoke coiled lazily near the ceiling, fed by the ashtray on the corner of the desk—half a cigar still burning, its ember breathing like something alive.
The place didn't welcome outsiders. Every inch of it looked like it had heard confessions, made threats, and buried secrets without ever raising its voice.
Thanin sat behind his obsidian desk, broad shoulders draped in a dark suit vest, sleeves rolled just enough to show the black-and-grey ink on his forearms. He held a glass of whiskey he hadn't tasted yet, fingertips pressing the rim like it might keep his thoughts in place. But they didn't stay still.
They went back. To him.
To the boy with the siren eyes and decadent defiance. Raven.
Physically harmless, at least by appearance. Slender, soft-mouthed, skin like temptation pressed into silk. But beneath that harmlessness had been something else—willingness. Not naïve, not clueless. Willing. He wanted to be touched. Controlled. Taken further than he'd ever gone.
And Thanin had held back.
He could still taste the mistake.
" You left without a trace, man."
Dante's voice cut through the silence like a lighter flicking open.
Thanin didn't look up immediately. He blinked slowly, as if dragged back from a dream he didn't want to leave. "Hmm."
Dante strolled deeper into the office, his footsteps unhurried across the marble. He dropped into one of the leather chairs opposite the desk, legs spread, forearm draped across the armrest. He was dressed like the bastard heir to both a law firm and a funeral house—charcoal suit, dark tie loose around his throat, hair still damp from a shower he'd probably taken three hours late.
"Really?" he said, one brow arched. "You've been distracted since the bar. Even in the courtroom, you were gone. You didn't notice how Ice twisted the whole hearing into her little playground."
Another noncommittal sound from Thanin. "Hmmm."
Dante exhaled loudly, head tipping back against the chair. "Fine. What's going on with you, man?"
Thanin set the untouched whiskey down with a gentle clink. He didn't fidget, didn't shift. But something in his jaw moved. "Argh," he muttered eventually. "I'm frustrated."
Dante's grin slanted. "There it is."
"I didn't even get his name," Thanin said, and there was a grit in his tone he rarely allowed out.
"Oh?" Dante leaned forward, elbows on knees. "So it's a guy?"
Thanin shot him a look that said don't start.
Dante ignored it, as usual. "Why don't you just ask around? You know how easy it is to get information if you actually—"
"Huh." Thanin's voice cut across him, low and firm. "Seriously, Dante? This one isn't like us. He comes from a normal world—not the one you and I belong to."
"A normal world," Dante echoed with amusement. He picked up Thanin's cigar from the ashtray, inspected it, then set it down again when the look he got could have ended empires. "But he's willing. You wouldn't be this obsessed otherwise."
Thanin's fingers drummed once on the glass. "He was brave. That's all. If I hadn't held back, he would've broken. I'm sure of it."
Dante's laugh was a low, smoky thing. "And you're upset because you didn't break him just right."
Thanin didn't deny it.
Silence pressed in again, broken only by the soft hum of the air vents and the distant city muffled by tinted glass.
Dante leaned back, folding his arms. "Why don't you just track him down? Try him out again. You already had a taste. Clearly, you're starving for more."
Thanin glanced at him properly this time. "Enough about me. Where were you? You didn't hook up with any random girl again, did you?"
"Of course not." Dante scoffed, mock offense in his tone. Then a sly glimmer took over his eyes. "In fact, it was someone unexpected."
Thanin's brow rose slightly. "Unexpected? How hilarious."
"Oh, don't get jealous," Dante teased, though there was something sharpened behind it. "Besides, I brought you something far more interesting than gossip. I found an investment opportunity. Real potential. Clean front, dirty veins."
Thanin's expression shifted minutely. Approval, interest—something in that territory. "Good."
"More than good," Dante said. "It's profitable, discreet, and gives us reach in three districts we've been eyeing for months."
Thanin nodded once, a silent order to continue.
But Dante didn't. Instead, he watched Thanin watching nothing.
The silence stretched, heavy but not hostile. Familiar.
Thanin's mind drifted again—back to that bar. The throb of bass. The heat in the air. The way Raven had looked over his shoulder, pretending not to be flustered, but his pulse had been visible at the hollow of his throat. That mouth made for sin had parted just so when Thanin stepped closer.
He remembered how the boy shivered when Thanin's hand had brushed the small of his back—barely a touch, but it had lit something under his skin. He remembered the sound Raven made when Thanin caged him against the wall of that private suite—soft, strangled, surprised, and wanting.
He should have asked his name.
He should have taken his number.
He should have marked him.
Even now, the memory of the collarbone he'd almost bitten into clawed at him.
Dante snapped his fingers once. "There he goes again—rewinding the tape."
Thanin exhaled through his nose. "You're irritating."
"And you're obvious."
Thanin shifted the conversation without warning. "The courtroom. Ice. What game is she playing?"
Dante smirked. "You noticed after all."
Thanin's voice cooled. "I notice everything. Even when something else… distracts me."
Dante chuckled. "She was ruthless. Twisted the narrative in under fifteen minutes. Had the defense choking on their own claims and the jury nodding like puppets. It was clean."
"Clean is dangerous," Thanin muttered.
"So are you," Dante countered. "Which is why you find her entertaining."
Thanin didn't reply, but the ghost of agreement flickered across his face.
Dante glanced at the wall clock. "You've got a meeting at twenty."
Thanin didn't move.
"Are you planning to show up, or should I send your regrets and tell them you're too busy having a crisis over a pretty stranger with good bone structure?"
Thanin shot him a killing stare.
Dante raised both hands in theatrical surrender. "I'm helping."
Thanin finally picked up the whiskey and took a slow, measured sip. The burn grounded him.
"There's something about him," he said, almost to himself. "It's not soft. It's restraint, pretending to be soft."
Dante hummed. "Danger comes in pretty packaging sometimes."
"He was… present," Thanin continued. "But not afraid. Not the way he should've been."
"Maybe he doesn't break easily."
"Everyone breaks," Thanin said quietly. "The question is how."
Dante's smile sharpened. "You want to be the one to find out."
Thanin didn't bother denying that either.
He set the glass down again and leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded but alert. Dante watched him the way only an equal could—without fear or flattery.
"Let it go for now," Dante advised. "If he belongs in our world, he'll surface again. If he doesn't… you'll have to decide whether to drag him in."
Thanin's fingers tapped once against the armrest. "He belongs to something. Whether he knows it yet or not."
Dante pushed to his feet, straightening his jacket with a lazy tug. "I'll sort the investment paperwork and check in with the west branch. And I'll keep an ear out for your… phantom lover."
Thanin gave him a narrowed stare that said shut up or die.
Dante grinned wider and headed for the door. "You're welcome, by the way."
He was almost out when Thanin spoke again.
"Dante."
The man paused, glancing back.
"Don't mention him to anyone," Thanin said. It wasn't a request.
Dante's eyes glinted with intrigue. "Wasn't planning to. Not until you give me a name to work with."
Thanin didn't answer. Didn't have one to give.
Dante left with a soft click of the door.
Thanin's office fell silent again—except for the faint hiss of the dying cigar and the whisper of memory he couldn't shake. He picked up the ashtray, snuffed out the ember with slow, deliberate pressure, and stared at the faint curl of smoke rising from its corpse.
He should have gotten his name.
And next time—there would be no holding back.