4

Lucian

It was him.

I recognized him immediately—the boy I had spent years trying to forget… and yet, the one I had secretly searched for in every face, in every shadow. The only flaw in my carefully curated image. The single mistake that haunted me, no matter how many walls I built or how much power I accumulated.

Seeing him again at the base of the stairs knocked the air from my lungs.

Halo.

His name echoed in my mind like a warning and a prayer.

He stood there looking far too similar to how I remembered. His features had matured, yes, but the essence remained unchanged. His hair was no longer a messy cascade of wavy bangs; it was pulled back now, slightly rough yet composed—but I remembered how it once fell over his eyes like a veil. His beauty hadn’t faded. If anything, it had sharpened into something more dangerous.

Boyishly cute still, but now laced with an edge that hinted at experience and purpose.

His hooded gaze met mine with unsettling calm, and I saw what I always suspected—he was a mix of races. His skin was flawless, his frame lean and small, but there was nothing weak about him. No, Halo had always carried an unsettling gravity for someone so physically delicate. A quiet storm.

And now, he was in my house.

When my wife, Katie, died, she left me more than grief. She left me with her legacy… and her adopted kids.

I never wanted children. That had always been one of the wedges between us. And yet, even in death, she managed to tie me to them. A portion of her multi-million-dollar enterprise was legally bound to the condition that I accept them into my home—into my life.

So I did.

Not out of love. Out of necessity.

I had so little interest I didn’t even bother to check their names, let alone their faces, before they arrived. I just wanted it over with. Get the paperwork done. Fulfill her final request, secure the company, and move on.

But life has a sick sense of humor.

Because among the two… was him.

The ghost from my past. The boy I thought I’d buried six years ago, along with every memory of that night.

I tried to act normal at breakfast, to pretend like I didn’t know him. But he kept staring—those same eyes burning through me, dragging me back to a night I’ve spent years trying to forget.

I kept calm until I got to my room.

“How is this even possible?” I muttered, laughing bitterly as I poured myself a drink. “What are the fucking odds?”

I was drunk the night we met. Florida. Some upscale club with a VIP lounge. I was spiraling—Katie had just left me, and my business was hanging by a thread. I wanted to drown everything.

He was a waiter.

Young. Beautiful. Dangerous in the way innocence sometimes is.

He smiled at me like I was the most fascinating thing in the room. I touched him. Inappropriately. Testing boundaries I had no business testing. And he didn’t stop me.

He smiled.

I even asked for his ID, just to be sure. Of course, he had one—fake, no doubt—but at the time, I didn’t question it. I wanted to believe it. He was working in a club, after all. I assumed he had to be legal.

And no—I’m not gay. I’m bisexual actually. But the kind of bisexual that leans hard toward women. Which made it all the more frustrating that he—that boy—got under my skin like no one else ever had.

I blamed the alcohol. I blamed the heartbreak. I blamed him. His smile. His body. His fucking dimples.

I blamed everyone but myself.

I felt blood rushing between my legs, and before I knew it, I was rock hard. "Fuck," I muttered under my breath. "That fucking kid."

Even now, after all these years, he still had that effect on me—a mere memory was enough to send my body into overdrive. How was I supposed to survive living with him in this house, in close proximity, without... without completely losing control?

I exhaled, trying to calm myself, but it was useless. If only I hadn’t left him that morning after. If only I hadn’t been so fucking ashamed. If I’d stayed, maybe I could’ve settled this—maybe I wouldn’t be here now, faced with the torment of a past I thought I’d buried.

But I was foolish. I ran, just like I always did when things got too real. And after that night, no matter how hard I searched, I never found him again. It was like he’d vanished, completely erased from the world.

Until now.

Now he was back.

And I was fucked.

I stepped into the bathroom and stood under the cold shower, letting the icy water hit my skin, but it did nothing to cool the heat burning inside me. My cock throbbed, painfully hard, aching for relief. I clenched my jaw, my fist slamming against the tiled wall. Not again.

The cold wasn’t enough. Nothing was. My mind kept drifting back—to him. The way he writhed beneath me, his breath hitching, his voice breaking as he begged. The way his body tensed, then melted, surrendering to me completely.

I didn’t even realize when my hand wrapped around my cock, my grip tight, desperate. My strokes were fast, erratic, matching the wild need clawing at my chest. My breath came out in ragged gasps, water streaming down my face, but I could only hear him. His moans, his whimpers, his cries of pleasure—each sound replaying in my head like a drug I couldn’t quit.

My hips jerked forward into my fist, chasing that high, that feeling of him around me, beneath me. I groaned, my forehead pressing against the cool tiles, my body tense, my muscles coiling tighter with every stroke.

I was close. Too close

I stepped out of the bathroom, my mind still foggy from the tension and frustration. The cold water had done little to clear the haze, and my thoughts were still tangled with memories I couldn’t shake. But nothing could have prepared me for what I found when I emerged.

There, sitting on my bed, looking far too comfortable, was the last person I ever expected to see. Halo.