Matthew lay sprawled on the couch, half-watching the TV. The flickering light danced over his face, but his mind was elsewhere. The sound of the door opening caught his attention, and he turned to see Cassidy entering, shrugging off his coat with a calculated ease.
Cassidy’s dark gaze fell on Matthew, lingering as if he was trying to read his every thought.
“Matthew, I’ll be leaving for NewCastle Upon Tyne soon.”
Matthew didn’t bother masking his sarcasm. “What’s the occasion? Vacation? Assassination?”
Cassidy smirked, ignoring the barb. “Business. A capo meeting. Annual reports, territory matters, last year’s successes, next year’s plans. You know, the usual.”
Matthew snorted. “How riveting. Must be nice to have a full calendar of crimes to discuss.”
Cassidy’s smirk widened, and he walked toward the washroom without
Arthur sat at his desk; his brow furrowed as he scribbled notes onto his notepad. Despite the calm atmosphere in the office, his thoughts were anything but. Every noise around him felt amplified… the faint hum of the overhead lights, the shuffle of papers, the clicking of Masahiro’s pen as he worked at his desk. Arthur stole a glance at his boss, Masahiro, who looked as composed and sharp as ever, completely immersed in his work.The sound of a knock at the door broke the rhythm.Masahiro, without looking up, called out, “Come in.”The door creaked open, and Masahiro’s secretary stepped inside. Her heels clicked softly against the tiled floor as she approached his desk.“Good morning, sir,” she said politely, holding out an envelope. “This just arrived from the Newcastle Police Station.”Masahiro looked up and took the envelope from her with a nod. “Oh, it ca
The cab hummed steadily as it made its way through the bustling streets of Newcastle. Arthur sat in the backseat, trying to keep his composure. The city felt different from Middlesbrough… more alive, more vibrant, but also daunting in its own way. Beside him, Masahiro sat with his usual composed expression, his gaze directed out the window.“First time in Newcastle?” Masahiro's voice broke the silence, the sound of it calm yet commanding.Arthur nodded, his gaze a little distracted. “Yes, sir.”Masahiro’s eyes flicked toward him, a faint curiosity in his expression. “In your CV, it said you studied abroad. Arts, if I’m not mistaken. But then you decided to become a law enforcement officer. You mentioned you joined because of a personal matter… What was that?”Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding Masahiro’s gaze. His hands fidgeted slightly, and he felt the weight of the ques
Masahiro’s footsteps slowed as he neared the balcony.Through the glass door, he spotted Matthew leaning against the railing, the city lights framing him like some ironic painting. A lit cigarette rested between his fingers, and smoke curled lazily into the cold Newcastle night air. His chest tightened, anger and longing warring within him. `Why do you always run? he thought bitterly. And why can’t I stop chasing you?´Masahiro stepped closer, his footsteps deliberately soft, his voice low and cutting through the air. “I didn’t know you frequented Newcastle.”Matthew’s cigarette paused mid-air as he froze, the corners of his lips twitching. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder.“Well, well,” Matthew drawled, his voice dripping with mockery as he turned to face Masahiro. “Besides being clingy, guess you’ve graduated to full-on stalking, Detective.” He exhaled smoke dr
Arthur adjusted the earpiece, scanning the VIP section with practiced focus. The dim lighting, soft hum of jazz, and clinking glasses provided the perfect cover for secrets exchanged in hushed tones. His eyes followed their primary target… a man suspected man of having connections to Ashford or being the Ashford himself, the one suspected of leading Newcastle drug trafficking ring.Then, from the corner of his eye, Arthur noticed someone descending the stairs. The figure wore a hat pulled low and a long coat that brushed against his legs as he moved. The man had his left hand to his ear, speaking on his phone. Something about his demeanor made Arthur pause.And then, he saw it.The rose tattoo.Arthur’s blood ran cold. His pulse quickened as memories flooded back… his sister Alexandra’s lifeless body, her blood staining the floor, and a hand with that same tattoo disappearing into the shadows.It wa
Arthur adjusted his jacket as he approached Masahiro, his steps a little too quick, betraying his nerves. He found the senior detective standing by the railing of the mezzanine level, a perfect vantage point to observe the VIP section below. Masahiro’s posture was as sharp as his tailored suit… confident, calculated, and completely in control.“Cooper! You took long,” Masahiro said, not even turning his head as Arthur approached. His voice was low but carried the weight of authority, cutting through the ambient hum of conversation and soft jazz.Arthur hesitated for the briefest of moments, then forced an easy smile. “Sorry, sir. The restroom line was longer than expected.”Masahiro turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just enough to make Arthur’s chest tighten. His piercing gaze lingered for a moment too long, and Arthur felt a bead of sweat forming at the back of his neck.“Hmm,” Masahiro murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’d ju
The Velvet Crown Casino bustled with its usual energy, the sounds of slot machines blending with the murmurs of high-stakes gamblers. For Arthur, the glitz was starting to wear off, replaced by a growing sense of purpose. Day two was critical. They had a plan, and every step counted.Masahiro was already on edge, his sharp eyes scanning the floor as they stepped inside. “Stay focused, Cooper,” he said without looking at Arthur.Arthur nodded, adjusting his tie nervously. He wasn’t sure if he was more worried about blowing his cover or disappointing Masahiro.“Knight said that the bartender named Max knows the layout and the players,” Masahiro had explained during the briefing. “If anyone can give us actionable intel, it’s him.”Arthur and Masahiro approached the bar, blending into the crowd. Masahiro leaned casually against the counter, but his tone was firm when he addressed Max.“Max, we need
“Do you plan on leaving me outside all night?”Masahiro blinked, his shock giving way to something softer, warmer. He stepped aside, holding the door open wider.Matthew stepped inside, pulling off his cap and ruffling his hair. “Nice place,” he said casually, glancing around.The door clicked shut, and before Matthew could take another step, Masahiro was behind him, his arms wrapping tightly around his waist.Matthew froze, then tilted his head with mock annoyance. “Stop being clingy, Detective.”Masahiro didn’t respond. Instead, he turned Matthew around, pinning him gently against the door. His hands cupped Matthew’s face, holding him in place as he leaned in. The kiss was firm, desperate, full of everything Masahiro couldn’t put into words.At first, Matthew resisted, his hands pressing lightly against Masahiro’s chest. But then he relaxed, his
Masahiro’s gaze lingered on Matthew, his features soft in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. Peaceful and vulnerable, Matthew looked utterly his. Masahiro allowed himself a rare moment of quiet happiness, savoring the thought that, for now, he had Matthew entirely. Then the shrill ring of Matthew’s phone shattered the calm. Masahiro’s jaw clenched as he glanced at the screen.Cassidy.He ignored it, turning his eyes back to Matthew, but the call persisted, growing more grating with each ring. Huffing out a frustrated breath, Masahiro snatched the phone and answered. “Matthew,” came a gruff, impatient voice on the other end. Masahiro’s tone was clipped, laced with mockery. “This isn’t Matthew.” There was a pause before Cassidy’s voice sharpened. “Who the hell are you? Tell Matthew his boyfriend is calling. Where is he?” Masahiro’s lips curved into a smirk. “I’m the guy who’s fucking your boyfriend. And right now, he’s sleeping soundly, thanks to me.” The silence on the other end w
Clark stepped out of the bathroom, hair still damp, glasses fogging slightly as he adjusted them with one hand. A loose t-shirt clung to his frame, baggy pajama pants hanging low on his hips, flip flops slapping lightly against the hardwood as he moved.The scent hit him before he reached the living room—rosemary, garlic, a hint of something sweet. His stomach, traitorous as ever, growled on cue.Adam was at the stove, shirtless, a tea towel slung over his shoulder. The muscles in his back shifted with each movement, smooth and effortless as he stirred something in a pan.Clark hovered at the edge of the room. “You cook like that and still act surprised people want to fuck you.”Adam didn’t turn. “You flirt like that and still wonder why you end up bruised.”Clark smirked, stepping further in. “Touché.”Adam plated without a word, setting two dishes on the table like it was routine. Like they weren’t still bruised from each other in all the wrong ways.Clark raised an eyebrow. “Settin
The low hum of the television filled the living room. Adam sat sprawled on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, remote balanced loosely in his hand. Some news anchor droned on about the latest scandal, but Adam barely glanced at the screen. The sunlight filtering through the windows cast a warm glow over the space, though the tension clinging to the room remained as cold as ever.Clark stood near the kitchen counter, arms crossed, his fingers drumming impatiently against his elbow. He was still in yesterday’s clothes—the wrinkled shirt barely buttoned, the trousers creased from hours spent tangled in bed. He’d rolled up the sleeves at some point, exposing pale forearms that still bore faint impressions of Adam’s grip. Every mark, every ache, gnawed at him."I need to go home," Clark said flatly.Adam didn’t even flinch. His eyes remained on the screen, the glow of the TV reflecting faintly against his dark skin. "No."Clark's jaw clenched. "I wasn’t as
The clock crawled past noon.Clark slouched on the leather couch, whiskey in hand. The ice had melted. He didn’t care. His shirt stuck to his skin, wrinkled and loose from the night before. He hadn’t changed. Hadn’t showered. The bruises on his neck were impossible to ignore. Dark splotches, some shaped like teeth. Others like fingers. A goddamn masterpiece, signed in pain.Adam, though? He looked like he’d just stepped out of a cologne advertising.Shirtless. Loose sweatpants slung low. Muscles on full display, carved deep beneath dark skin. The light caught every scar, every ripple. And those hands — Clark’s gaze kept catching on them. Rough, wide-knuckled, capable of wrecking anything. He knew that better than anyone now.The worst part? Adam wasn’t even trying.He moved through the kitchen like he owned the air. Coffee in one hand, the other lazily resting on the counter. Like nothing happened. Like Clark’s body wasn’t still a battlefield."You act like n
The air between them was suffocating.Clark’s eyes flashed, his bare chest still heaving as he jerked the sheets higher, though there was little point. The bruises were already visible—dark purple splotches along his neck, across his chest, down his sides. Some shaped like teeth. Others like fingers. He felt every mark. Every ache. And the soreness that ran deeper than his skin."You—" Clark’s voice cracked, still rough from sleep, from the night before. He swallowed. "You took advantage of me."Adam stood at the edge of the bed, already tugging his sweatpants back on. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Just pulled the waistband up with that same brute force that lingered in Clark’s bones."I'm just as horrified as you are," Adam muttered, his voice low, stripped of anything that resembled guilt. "I’m making breakfast.""Breakfast?" Clark's laugh was sharp. "You think I care about breakfast? You think eggs and coffee are going to make me forget that you—" His hand flew to the side of his
Adam woke to the sound of his phone vibrating.The dull hum buzzed somewhere on the nightstand, insistent and unforgiving. He ignored it at first, the weight of exhaustion still heavy. His body ached. Not the usual ache—not from fights or workouts or even a bad mattress. This was different. Deep. Lingering. And the sheets tangled around his legs, damp with sweat and something else —something worse. Then it hit him.Clark.Barely covered. Skin marred with darkened bruises and red marks that Adam’s hands—his hands—had left behind. The bite marks at the base of Clark’s neck. The faint outline of teeth against pale skin. The way his chest rose and fell, lips parted, a mess of tangled blond hair sprawled over the pillow. He looked ruined.Adam swallowed hard.`What the fuck did I do?’The memories clawed back like a slow burn. The rough kisses. The bruising grip. Clark’s gasping, stuttering pleas. The bed creaking beneath the relentle
The second bottle was already half empty.Clark’s glass dangled loosely between his fingers, half-forgotten. The amber burn had long since softened to something gentler. Warmer. It dulled the edges, smoothed out the cracks. But the fire inside him? That wasn’t from the scotch.It was from Adam.Barefoot, loose sweatpants slung low... he sprawled across the couch, the muscles in his chest and arms carved deep beneath dark skin. The light brown of his eyes gleamed under the dim lamplight, their sharpness dulled only slightly by the alcohol. Every now and then, Adam’s hand curled lazily around his glass, swirling the drink, his fingers broad and rough. Unbothered. Unapologetically masculine.And Clark? Clark was eating him alive.He wasn’t hiding it anymore.Why should he? The flush on his cheeks wasn’t just from the alcohol. The way his eyes lingered a second too long, traced the line of Adam’s collarbone, the slope of his shoulders—none of it was subtle. And A
Clark’s phone buzzed on the coffee table, vibrating against the glass. He glanced at the screen, Masahiro flashing in bold letters.He sighed, snatching it up. “Masahiro.”“Clark.” Masahiro’s voice was clipped, but not tense. “Good. You’re alive.”“Is that disappointment I hear?” Clark’s tone was effortlessly dry. “Or were you hoping I’d leave you with one less headache?”“We went to your place. It was empty.”“Yes, I’m aware. That’s generally the goal when one isn’t home.”“We heard about the gunfire.” Masahiro ignored the jab. “You alright?”Clark adjusted his glasses with precise, deliberate finesse. “Charmed, as always.”“And where are you?”Clark hesitated. He could practically hear the judgment loading.“Adam’s.”A pause. Just long enough to register the surprise without voicing it.“Of course you are.” Masahiro’s voice was too level. “And this decision was made with the full clarity of your legal genius?”“Obviously. Nothing
Smoke still clung to Clark’s jacket like a ghost he couldn’t shake. He’d barely had time to process the ambush—just flashes of gunfire, Adam shoving him down, the brutal jolt of the car door slamming shut. Now they were speeding down a back road, the city lights thinning behind them.Clark stared out the window, heart still jackhammering under his ribs. Asphalt blurred under the tires. The direction felt wrong.“This isn’t the hotel district,” he said, adjusting his glasses with clipped precision. “Where are we going?”Adam didn’t look at him. His grip on the wheel was tight, jaw clenched. “My place.”Clark blinked. “Your what?”“My place,” Adam repeated. “We’re layin’ low.”Clark snapped his head toward him. “Since when is your house suddenly the panic room? Take me to a hotel.”Adam exhaled, sharp and irritated. “A hotel ain’t safe.”“And your place is?”“Yeah.”Clark scoffed. “That a joke? What’s next, you gonna tuck me in with a loaded Glo
The door clicked shut behind them, soft but final.Clark was the first to move, striding across the room and dropping his file folder onto the table like it had offended him. He didn’t take off his coat. Didn’t loosen his tie. Just leaned forward, both palms on the table, head low.The air felt like it hadn’t been breathed in properly for hours.Masahiro stood near the wall, arms folded, expression unreadable as always. His coat was still buttoned, not a hair out of place, voice low and clipped.“You did well,” he said.Clark didn’t lift his head. “They were the ones who did well.”“Don’t be modest. You controlled the tempo from the moment you stood up,” Masahiro added, voice firm. “Even she couldn’t shake the narrative.”Clark finally straightened. Adjusted his glasses. “She’ll try harder on monday.”“And you’ll handle it,” Masahiro replied simply. “You’re still one of the best in Middlesbrough, whether you’re spiraling or not.”From the corner,