The air in the master suite of the West Wing was frozen, the climate control pushed to its lowest setting, yet Malcolm Ford felt as if he were burning alive from the inside out. He paced the length of the room—ten steps toward the window, ten steps toward the mahogany desk—his movements jagged, predatory, and entirely devoid of his usual grace.
His mind was a wreckage of conflicting images. He saw the pale, wet curve of Luca's waist in the pool; he felt the phantom heat of the boy's breath against his neck; he heard that whispered, insolent challenge about his stamina.
"I loathe him," Malcolm hissed to the empty room, his voice a low, vibrating snarl. "I loathe the way he looks at me, the way he breathes, the way he exists."
