The silence inside Malcolm Ford's room was a living, breathing weight that pressed against the walls like lead. The master bedroom was bathed in the cold, unyielding silver of the alpine moon, casting sharp and jagged shadows across the hardwood floor. Malcolm stood near the edge of the dark, velvet comforter, his massive chest heaving as he stared down at his own hands. His knuckles were white, his fingers clenched into tight, trembling fists.
He hated himself. The disgust he felt was a physical, nauseating bile rising in his throat. How had he reached this point? He was a Ford, a King of Deviloy, a man whose entire life was built upon the unshakeable pillars of tradition, legacy, and order. He was straight. He had always been straight. The very thought of endearments between men, of soft skin and curves beneath his own weight, was a perversion of everything his family's name stood for.
And yet, minutes ago, he had been on the edge of plunging into the intern.
