Page 78 of The Associate
Landen snorted. “Artistic temperament. I told you.”
“No,” Jaden corrected, his voice a blade. “Poor discipline. You train for the moment the mind rebels. He wasn’t trained. He was indulged.”
Sebastian listened, his fingers steepled, as he switched the topic. “The board is voting on the new medical protocols next Thursday. The liability waivers are a minefield. Gael, your firm’s review is the final hurdle.”
Gael gave a slight nod. “It’s handled. Don’t worry.”
The meal progressed. Plates of seared meat and roasted vegetables were half-demolished, the wine flowing in a steady, ruby stream. The conversation wound through the familiar channels; a dispute over club dues, a critique of a new dungeon monitor’s technique, a dryly humorous anecdote from Sebastian about a submissive who’d mistaken play for affection.
But Gael’s attention, usually a laser, began to diffuse. The voices of his friends became a pleasant, indistinct buzz, blending into a backdrop of white noise. His gaze, which had been fixed on Adrian as he made a point about contractual arbitration, drifted inward, settling on the stark, minimalist centerpiece; a single, twisted branch in a slab of black marble.
His mind drifted to other things.
The silken texture of Samuel’s hair under his palm, fine and cool. The exact shade of pink his lips were, a blush that spoke of shock, shame, and raw, yielding need. The full-body shudder that had wracked his frame at the simple command to kneel, a seismic release of tension that was more profound than any scene Gael had ever orchestrated. And the sound. That soft, broken whimper, torn from a place of such deep surrender it had vibrated in Gael’s own chest.
The need to see him again was a low, persistent thrum in his blood. Not just to see him, but to have him kneel, to watch the frantic chaos in his eyes still into that perfect calm. To touch the line of his jaw, to feel the jump of his pulse, to kiss him until that whimper became a gasp, to map the limits of that beautiful, terrifyingly natural surrender.
“Earth to Wise.”
The voice cut through the haze. Gael didn’t move.
“You’re zoning out harder than a novice after their first flogging.”
Gael’s eyes remained on the branch, but his awareness sharpened, tuning back into the room.
Landen leaned forward, his elbows on the table, a sly, knowing grin spreading across his face. The candlelight caught the mischief in his eyes. “Thinking about that doe-eyed associate of yours?”
Gael’s focus snapped back into the room with the violence of a slammed door. His head turned, his gaze landing on Landen. Landen had seen Samuel once, weeks ago during a fleeting, five-minute visit to drop off some Club papers. Samuel had been a blur of polite, skittish anxiety and startling, ethereal beauty.Landen, with his predator’s eye for compelling subjects, hadn’t stopped needling him about it since.
He understood the fascination intellectually. Samuel was beautiful, in a way that was almost painful. Soft where they were all honed to a hard edge, gentle where their world valued sharpness, carrying a latent submissiveness of a rare, deep, and instinctual kind. It was a jewel any of them would be drawn to examine.
But Landen’s tone did not feel like intellectual appreciation. It felt like a violation.
A jolt of pure, irrational ire, hot and sharp, shot through Gael’s veins.
“He’s not a topic for discussion.”
His voice was flat, utterly devoid of the dry humor or sharp wit that usually characterized their exchanges.
The faint clink of Adrian’s fork against his plate ceased. The air seemed to solidify.
Jaden, who had been eating, slowly lifted his head. A single eyebrow arched towards his hairline. He said nothing, but the word hung in the air between them as if he’d shouted it:Interesting.
Sebastian watched from the end of the table, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes missing nothing. Adrian’s gaze darted from Gael’s stony face to Landen’s startled one, his negotiator’s mind visibly calculating the sudden shift in power dynamics.
Something in Gael’s expression, the utter stillness, the warning glint in his eyes that promised consequences far beyond a war of words, made Landen lean back in his chair. He raised his hands,palms out, in a gesture of surrender, though his trademark grin was now tight, not quite reaching his eyes.
“Jesus, touchy,” Landen said. “Message received. Crystal clear. He’s off-limits. Topic closed.”
The conversation lurched awkwardly back to the club board’s upcoming party, Adrian seizing on the topic with relieved vigor. But the atmosphere was permanently altered. The easy camaraderie was strained. An unspoken question now hovered over the table, thick and uncomfortable:
Who, exactly, is Samuel Ruiz?
The dinner concluded quieter than usual. The bill appeared, and the heavy velvet curtain to the private room was drawn back, releasing them into the muted bustle of the restaurant’s main hall.
They moved as a loose unit towards the exit, the weight of the unspoken pressing between them. Outside, the night air was cool, carrying the distant scent of the river. To their left, the main entrance of The Crimson Knot glowed with its signature, muted crimson light, a siren’s call to the night’s possibilities.
Landen, ever the one to try and paper over a crack with sheer force of jolly, clapped a hand on Gael’s shoulder. The gesture was meant as a peace offering, but it landed with the subtlety of a gavel.
