Smithen barely registered the call from his mother—her voice calm as she told him she was on a plane home after a year abroad with his brother. They had kept in touch through occasional video calls and texts, but he hadn't seen them in months. His throat tightened, but he swallowed it down. "Okay, Mom," he murmured, ending the call. The silence that followed was louder than her voice had ever been.
He moved through the mansion with a quiet purpose. Everything was already packed—the carefully polished suitcases locked tight, standing cold and silent in the corner like metal tombs. He grabbed a piece of bread and warmed milk for breakfast, the routine strangely hollow. Four months had passed since he'd let most of the staff go, except the watchman and Luxan, both still paid by Viran. Viran. Even the name sent a dull ache through his ribs. The emptiness of the house mirrored the void inside him—a void shaped exactly like a man who had never once looked back.
As he drove out of the mansion, crossing a quiet town road, a sudden crash jolted him. A small girl, around seven, riding a tiny bicycle with her mother running behind, had collided with his car. Smithen stopped immediately. A crowd gathered, voices sharp with blame, but the mother insisted it was the child's fault. They settled under a nearby tree, tension easing.
The little girl ran up to Smithen, holding out a small toy. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with that unguarded trust only children possess. "Since you saved my mother, I want to give you this. He's really useful—you can pinch him, scold him, or anything, and he'll always be your shadow. I was going to keep him, but I want you to have him." Her innocent smile touched something deep inside Smithen—a place he thought had gone numb months ago. He tucked the toy into his bag, feeling a rare warmth bloom beneath his sternum. For a moment, he almost smiled back.
Kiren's message popped up—"It's almost time. Come faster. The building's next to that restaurant where we often chat." Smithen pressed the accelerator, the city blurring past into streaks of neon and shadow.
The 25-story building loomed ahead, grand and dazzling with bright banners, twinkling lights, and a sprawling flower boutique like a wedding venue. The air smelled of jasmine and champagne. He moved inside and took a seat, eyes scanning the crowd. Kiren approached, calling out teasingly, "Why are you sitting here? We saved you a front-row seat. You know how hard it was to get it."
Smithen frowned. "Whose wedding is this? Any of our friends?" he mumbled, his voice flat.
"No," Kiren replied, voice tinged with excitement, "It's the cousin of that billionaire heiress—Akanya's cousin."
Smithen's eyes narrowed. "Why bring me here?"
Kiren grinned, sharp and knowing. "Viran Sir will be here, too. You'll see them together—lovey-dovey. Maybe you'll finally forget your one-sided love. You deserve someone who truly cares."
Smithen's jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation flashing through his gaze. His pulse betrayed him with a single, traitorous skip. "I've decided to give up on him," he said, raising one eyebrow. The lie tasted like ash.
Kiren pointed discreetly. "There he is—early, as always. The man who commands every room. Loyal only to one, no side-chicks."
Smithen clenched his teeth, eyes locking on Viran. The man radiated danger and untouchable power, his suit dark as spilled ink, his presence a gravity well that pulled every gaze in the room. Smithen's breath caught—the same stupid, helpless catch it had done for years. His fingers curled into his palms.
Kiren leaned in, whispering against Smithen's ear, "Tonight's the red blood moon—a rare event. We're heading to the tower to watch it. Some say there'll be shooting stars. Maybe you'll see someone new, someone worth liking."
Smithen nodded, expression unreadable. "I'm going to the washroom," he said and slipped away before his voice could crack.
As he walked, a waiter carrying several glasses of red wine suddenly collided with him. The glasses shattered—a symphony of shards and crimson spray. One sharp edge grazed Smithen's hand, and blood welled up instantly, hot and bright, trickling down his wrist in a thin red river. The waiter's voice shifted nervously. "Sorry, sir! Please don't fire me—I'm a family man."
Smithen breathed out slowly, suppressing the anger that usually flared hot behind his ribs. "It's okay," he said quietly and moved on. But the cut throbbed. And somewhere across the ballroom, a pair of dark red eyes had already tracked the glint of blood.
Exchanging glances, the waiter and Akanya shared a knowing look. Akanya reached out to Viran, offering her hand, but he stepped back, refusing to be touched.
Viran's forehead glistened with sweat, his composure faltering. His personal assistant quickly escorted him to a specially prepared VIP room, leaving him alone inside and standing outside. The door clicked shut. But not all doors stayed closed.
On the other side, Smithen was inside the washroom of a guest room. He scrubbed his hands, water soaking his white shirt until the white fabric clung to his toned chest, revealing every sharp line of his abs, the dusky peaks of his nipples, the hollow of his navel. The cold water did little to soothe the chill that swept over him—a shiver that wasn't from the temperature. It was Viran's gaze, from the phantom weight of eyes that had never once looked at him with want.
"Smithen…"
The voice was a whisper, yet it struck like thunder in the silent washroom. He spun around, heart slamming against his ribs so hard he felt it in his throat.
Viran stood there.
The door was locked behind him—Smithen was certain he'd locked it. But there he was, filling the frame with his impossible presence. His usual icy composure had cracked wide open. Sweat clung to his brow, darkening the edges of his hair. His chest rose and fell too quickly, the fabric of his shirt straining with each uneven breath. And his eyes—those dark-red, unreadable eyes that had always slid past Smithen like he was furniture—were burning with something raw, feral, and terrifyingly intimate.
How did you get in here?" Smithen's voice came out fractured, breathless. His wet shirt clung to his trembling frame like a lover's desperate grasp, the thin fabric molding to every curve and dip of his lean body. The cut on his hand throbbed with a sharp, insistent pulse, a bead of blood sliding down to his wrist and dripping onto the marble floor with a soft, obscene plink that echoed in the charged silence.
Viran didn't answer. He moved.
Each step was slow, deliberate, predatory, closing the distance like a hunter savoring the chase. The air between them grew thick, heavy with unspoken things—tension coiling tighter, laced with the scent of rain and rising desire. Smithen's back hit the cold marble sink, the unyielding edge biting into his spine, and he had nowhere left to retreat. His soaked white shirt clung to his skin like a second layer, translucent and teasing, every contour of his chest visible: the faint ridges of his abs, the subtle peak of his nipples hardening against the chill. The pink heart-shaped birthmark on his right hip peeked through the fabric where his shirt had ridden up, a vulnerable secret exposed in the dim light.
Viran's gaze dropped to it. Lingered. His pupils dilated, darkening with a hunger that made Smithen's pulse stutter.
Then, without a word, he reached out.
His fingers—usually so distant, so untouchable—grazed the hem of Smithen's wet shirt. Slowly, agonizingly, he pulled it up, the fabric dragging over damp skin with a slick whisper. Inch by inch, he exposed the birthmark fully, the cool bathroom air rushing in to kiss the newly bared flesh. Smithen shivered, goosebumps racing across his hip and down his thigh, the chill contrasting sharply with the heat blooming low in his belly. Viran's palm pressed flat against his hip, warm and solid, fingers splaying possessively over the mark. That single touch sent a bolt of heat straight to Smithen's groin, a rush of blood swelling his cock, making his pants feel suddenly constrictive, the fabric tightening around his growing erection like a vise.
Smithen stopped breathing, his chest frozen mid-heave as arousal throbbed insistently between his legs.
"What—what do you want?" he managed, the words barely a whisper, ragged and needy. His voice cracked on the last syllable. "Put me down—how did you—"
But Viran wasn't listening. Or maybe he was listening to something else entirely—the frantic beat of Smithen's heart thundering in his ears, the shallow hitch of his breath, the soft whimper that Smithen hadn't even realized escaped his lips, raw and pleading. He lifted Smithen then, as if he weighed nothing, strong arms cradling him against his chest with effortless power. Smithen felt the heat of him through the crisp suit fabric, the solid wall of Viran's body pressing close, and the frantic rhythm of Viran's heart—matching his own. Faster. Harder. The movement shifted Smithen's hips, grinding his hardening cock against Viran's thigh unintentionally, sending a jolt of pleasure that made his balls ache with need.
He's trembling too.
The realization shattered something inside Smithen, a fragile wall crumbling under the weight of revelation. All those months of cold shoulders and averted gazes, of telling himself he was invisible to this man—and now Viran's arms were wrapped around him, those powerful limbs shaking with barely contained emotion, muscles quivering against Smithen's back.
"I couldn't stay away," Viran finally spoke, his voice raw, stripped of its usual steel, roughened by the storm raging inside him. It cracked on the last word, vulnerability bleeding through like the blood from Smithen's cut. "Not tonight."
Before Smithen could ask what that meant, his mind reeling from the confession and the press of their bodies, Viran leaned in.
The first kiss landed on his temple—soft, almost reverent, like a prayer Smithen had never deserved, lips warm and lingering against the rain-damp skin. Smithen's eyes fluttered shut, the world narrowing to that point of contact. His lips parted on a shaky exhale, breath mingling with Viran's in the scant space between them. Then Viran's lips traced downward, ghosting over his cheekbone with feather-light pressure, the corner of his mouth, teasing, tormenting, leaving a trail of fire on Smithen's rain-chilled skin that made his nipples tighten further against the wet shirt.
"Viran…" Smithen gasped, his own voice sounding foreign—low, desperate, aching with a need that pooled hot and heavy in his groin, his cock now fully hard, straining against the zipper of his pants, the seam rubbing teasingly with every shallow breath.
That was all the invitation Viran needed.
He captured Smithen's lower lip between his own, sucking gently at first, then harder, and the world stopped. It wasn't gentle—it was desperate, hungry, a dam breaking after a year of silence, pent-up longing exploding in a clash of mouths. Viran's tongue swept across Smithen's lip, tasting the faint salt of sweat and rain, and something sweeter beneath, something uniquely Smithen that made Viran groan low in his throat, the sound vibrating deep and primal. The vibration passed from Viran's chest to Smithen's, rumbling through him like thunder, and Smithen's hips bucked involuntarily, his erection grinding against Viran's solid form, friction sparking white-hot pleasure that made pre-cum bead at his tip, soaking into his underwear.
When Smithen's lips parted on a shaky exhale, a soft moan slipping free, Viran deepened the kiss without warning. His tongue pushed inside, hot and insistent, stroking against Smithen's with bold, claiming sweeps that explored every corner. Smithen tasted red wine on Viran's breath and something darker—desire, months of it, fermented and explosive, flooding his senses. Electricity—that was the only word for it. A current raced down Smithen's spine, curling hot in his stomach, spreading through his limbs until his fingers dug into Viran's shoulders just to stay anchored, nails biting through the expensive fabric with a sharp scratch. Viran's hand slid from his hip to the small of his back, pulling him impossibly closer until there was no space left—hips pressing against hips, the hard line of Viran's arousal now unmistakable against Smithen's thigh, thick and pulsing through his slacks. Smithen's own body answered with a desperate, helpless surge, his cock throbbing in response, the tight confines of his pants becoming unbearable, every shift sending sparks of need radiating outward.
Their chests pressed together—Smithen's soaked shirt soaking into Viran's expensive jacket, the wet fabric dragging roughly against his sensitive nipples with each heave of breath, neither of them caring as the chill amplified the heat building between them. Smithen moaned into Viran's mouth, a sound he'd never made before, broken and wanton, the vibration humming against Viran's tongue.
Viran answered with a low growl that rumbled from his chest, possessive and feral, his free hand sliding up to cup the back of Smithen's head, fingers threading through damp hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head for deeper access. He kissed like a man dying of thirst, like Smithen was the only water in the world, devouring him with relentless hunger. His tongue swept the roof of Smithen's mouth, teasing the sensitive spot that made Smithen's toes curl, then tangled with Smithen's again, slow and filthy, dragging languidly before turning fast and frantic, plunging deep, then slow again—a rhythm that made Smithen's mind go blank, hips rolling unconsciously to chase more contact, his ass clenching with the urge to be filled.
Smithen's mind went blank. Then nothing but this—the slick slide of Viran's tongue against his, the soft, broken sounds Viran made low in his throat, needy whimpers that betrayed his control, the way Viran's thumb traced small circles on the nape of his neck like he was something precious, cherished. The way their hips ground together, slow and unconscious at first, then more deliberate, a desperate search for friction that had Smithen's cock leaking steadily, the wet spot spreading in his pants, the cold air seeping through the bathroom door brushing his exposed hip and making him shiver even as his body burned.
When they finally broke apart, both gasping for air, Smithen's lips were swollen, glistening with saliva, parted around a question he couldn't form, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. A thin thread of saliva still connected them, stretching taut between their parted mouths, then breaking with a soft snap. His heart pounded so loud he was sure the whole building could hear it, echoing off the marble like a drumbeat of lust.
Viran rested his forehead against Smithen's, their sweat-slicked skin pressing together. Their breath mingled, hot and unsteady, ghosting over each other's swollen lips in warm puffs that sent fresh shivers down Smithen's spine. The cold marble sink dug into his back, a stark counterpoint to the feverish heat of Viran's body, but it only heightened the ache building in his core, his pants now painfully tight, cock straining for release as the draft whispered over his bared hip, teasing the sensitive skin there.
How did Viran manage to enter the locked guestroom's bathroom? Why is Viran here, so close to Smithen, when he usually keeps his distance and shows nothing but cold indifference? Was the waiter spilling red wine on Smithen really an accident, or a carefully planned trap? If it was a trap, who set it—and why? What was the toy the little girl gave Smithen—just a simple gift, or something more?