CHAPTER 5

SIRE STOOD ALONE before the mirror in the men’s restroom, staring at his own reflection, his face burning a bright, betraying red. He had walked away not out of anger—not truly—but because he could no longer deny the terrifying truth crashing over him: he liked it! He liked what that Spaniard did! For God's sake!

He had loved that shivering, tingling sensation that had raced through his entire body the moment that man had touched him.

He could still feel it—like a thousand surges of electricity, spreading from his fingertips, up his arm, and flooding every part of him, leaving him breathless, trembling, and hard with wanting.

What is happening to me? This is wrong. This is so terribly wrong. I should not be feeling this way—not for another man. This is not who I am! This cannot be! I'm not gay!

Is something broken inside me? he wondered frantically, searching his own eyes in the glass. Has his mind finally given way? Do he need to see a doctor?

That fucking Spaniard—that infuriating, impossible man—how dare he do this to me! Everything shifted the moment he walked into my life. This is all his fault! He is the reason I am unraveling like this.

Fuck it!

Sire drew a long, ragged breath and let it out slowly, forcing himself to steady, to regain control, to be the man he had always known himself to be—strong, certain, untouched. Calm down. This will pass. I am not like this. Not with a man.

“I’m sorry.”

The voice was soft, low, and heavy with regret. Sire looked up sharply. There in the doorway stood Joaquin, his face etched with genuine guilt, his eyes filled with such sorrow that it felt as though he could see straight through Sire’s defenses and into all the confusion roiling beneath.

Sire quickly hardened his expression, schooling his features into something cold and distant. He would not let this man see how deeply he had been shaken. He would not show him how lost he felt.

“Why did you do that?” he asked, his voice flat, stripped of all warmth.

Joaquin took a slow step forward. “I couldn’t stop myself,” he admitted quietly. “I have wanted to touch you for so long… I simply lost control. I am so sorry I startled you. It will not happen again.”

Those words only tightened Sire’s jaw all the more, fear and frustration rising together. “Are you out of your mind! What would people have thought if they had seen us? Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?” His hands curled into fists at his sides. “People were watching! I am not gay! I am not like you!”

Joaquin flinched as though struck. “I… I am truly sor—”

“Shut up!” Sire swung before he could think—his fist striking hard and true against Joaquin’s jaw. “You should never do that to another man! Go find someone else! Do it with someone who wants it—just leave me alone!” His voice cracking.

Joaquin opened his mouth to speak, but Sire cut him off. “Stay away from me. Do not speak to me. Do not come near me.” He spoke without warmth, without inflection, and turned to walk out.

As he passed Joaquin, he caught a flash of deep, raw hurt in his eyes—and something twisted sharply inside his chest. But he kept walking, kept his face hard, and kept his resolve. He had said those things to push him away because every time Joaquin came close, these terrifying, confusing feelings grew stronger, and he did not know how to make them stop.

Joaquin remained rooted to the spot, as though he had been turned to stone. Pain radiated through him—dull, heavy, spreading from his jaw to settle like a weight upon his heart. It felt as though someone had driven a blade straight through him. Sire’s words hurt far more than the blow.

He could not bring himself to move. Slowly he lifted his eyes to the mirror and stared—bruised, wretched, undone. There was no one else to blame but himself. If only he had held back. If only he had kept his hands to himself. None of this would have happened.

“You okay?”

Joaquin looked up to see Demter. She had followed him; she had heard every word. Joaquin gestured helplessly at himself. “Do I look okay?”

Demter shook her head, stepping closer and resting a hand on his shoulder. “You look terrible, Qin. You just surprised him. You know who he is—you know how he sees himself—and you did something that shook everything he believes.”She sighed. “I hate seeing you like this."

Joaquin stared at the floor, his hands clenched. “I just… I couldn’t stop myself.”

“Then don’t.”

He looked at her, bewildered. “I have to! If I don’t, he will pull away completely! He will never speak to me again!”

Demter met his gaze steadily. “I may not know much about love—but I understand how people think and how they feel. Do not hold back. Show him you are still there. Even when he pushes you away, even when he says hurtful things—stay. He has grown used to you being there. When time comes you get tired and you stop being there for. him, that's the moment he will feel the absence. He will notice the silence. He will wonder why something inside him feels empty. Then he will come looking for you.”

She leaned in. “It is not always the heart that falls first—it is the mind. He has grown accustomed to your presence. Do not fight what you feel just because you are afraid. If you hide it away, you will be right back where you started—watching from afar, too afraid to say what is in your heart. How will he ever know how much you care if you never show him? How will either of you ever know if this could be something real if you give up before it has truly begun?”

Joaquin fell silent. She was right. Fear had kept him in the shadows—fear of rejection, fear of loving alone. But he would not hide anymore.

He pulled her into a hug, grateful beyond words. Demter cleared her throat gently and pulled away.

“Come on. They are waiting.”

They stepped outside—and there was Sire, standing apart, refusing to look his way. But he had not left.

“What took you so long?” Creed asked.

“Talked,” Demter said simply. “I am starving.”

“It is your fault for wandering off,” Creed teased.

“Let’s go to Rhythm,” Demter suggested. “Callisto’s restaurant.”

Creed scoffed. “You just want free food.”

“Why not? Everything tastes better when it is free!”

*

*

*

RHYTHM — CALLISTO’S RESTAURANT was world-famous, elegant, breathtaking—fifteen soaring floors, each dedicated to the cuisine of a different nation. They chose the Italian floor, as Demter wished.

“Dem?”

A man approached—handsome, smiling, though his butterscotch eyes held no warmth. Venom.

“Hey, Venom,” Demter replied, unimpressed.

“I have a business with Cal,” Venom said, glancing at Joaquin—lingering on the bruise along his jaw—before shifting to Sire. Recognition sparked. he knows him. he had seen him—in Qin’s wallet.

“Sire, isn’t it?” Venom smiled. “Heard your name once—when he’d had too much to drink." He guestured at Joaquin. "I’m Venom. Glad to finally meet the one who makes my friend happy.”

Sire frowned. “Happy? Who are you talking about?”

Venom chuckled, glancing at Joaquin, whose look clearly said 'not another word'.

“Forget it." Venom murmured. “See you around!" He walked away just as Giovan, the head waiter, stepped forward—discreet. “The usual, my lady?”

“Yes, Giovan.”

Joaquin leaned toward Sire. “What would you like to order? Let me order for you. I know what you like.”

“I told you. Do not speak to me.”

Sire glared—if looks could kill, Joaquin would have fallen dead. Joaquin only smiled and told Giovan, “He will have what I am having.”

Throughout the meal, Joaquin glanced over often. Once—he caught Sire looking back. Sire turned away instantly, cheeks burning.

“Get away from me,” Sire hissed when the Spaniard moved closer to him.

Instead of moving away, Joaquin shifted closer.

“Stop!” Sire’s voice rose. “I told you to leave me alone!” His eyes landed on his bruise. Guilt pricked him. He had hit him. Hard.

Joaquin sighed as he moved a little away from Sire. His phone buzzed. He stepped away to answer.

“Qin—help." It’s Nik, his brother. His voice was full of urgency. "Code red. We need you. Dycan's Airport. Hurry!”

The line went dead. He stood up worried for his brother and he politely excused himself.

Sire watched the Spaniard go—hurried, worried, pale. Where is he going? Something must have happened.

He told himself he did not care. He told himself to be glad he had gone. But as he Joaquin's presence disappeared, a small, foolish part of him hoped he would return soon.