The car rolled to a stop in front of the prison gates.
Clark reached for the door.Adam caught his wrist.Clark turned—and before he could speak, Adam leaned in and kissed him. Firm. Sure. No theatrics.Just presence.When he pulled back, he didn’t say much.Just, “Be careful.”Clark blinked. “I always am.”Adam’s voice dropped a note. “I’ll be here. Waitin’.”For a split second, Clark didn’t move. Just stared at him.Then nodded once, adjusted his cuffs, and stepped out.The door shut behind him.He walked with his usual rhythm—straight spine, purposeful steps, tailored coat shifting like a second skin—but something inside him was off.Adam had kissed him like it meant something.Said waitin’ like it wasn’t a joke.Clark frowned slightly, eyes flicking to the gate ahead. He told himself not to read into it. Not to feel anything beyond what was useful.They were a bodyguard and a client.They were good sex and betteThe office was quiet, dim with late afternoon light filtering through closed blinds.Masahiro sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, a cold cup of coffee sitting untouched beside an open report.He was reading, pen in hand, when footsteps broke the silence.Arthur stood at the edge of the office, shifting slightly.“Sir,” he said.Masahiro didn’t look up.“I'm leaving for a while.”That got his attention.Masahiro glanced up, brows slightly raised.“Going to visit Cassidy again?” he asked, voice flat but pointed. “Didn’t you go yesterday—or something?”Arthur hesitated. “Yes. I did, but—”Masahiro cut him off, his tone quiet but firm. “You know you’re not required to check on him. He’s not your case anymore.”Arthur stood straighter. “Sir, I’m worried about him.”Masahiro’s eyes narrowed.Arthur went on, words rushing now. “Cassidy's been beaten. I saw the bruises myself. Face. Wrist. He didn’t want to say anythi
The next day, Clark arrived earlier.Sharper suit. Colder voice. A thin folder tucked under one arm—nothing damning, nothing overt. Just weight. Just pressure.The receptionist didn’t argue this time. She simply stood, picked up the phone, and said softly, “Mr. Brown is here.”Five minutes later, he was walking back into the same office.Michaelis Gray sat behind his desk, just as pristine. Same beret. Same dark coat on the back of the chair. Same glove on one hand, none on the other.Same unsettling handsomeness.Clark took the offered seat.“Back so soon,” Michaelis said without looking up.“I’m not fond of unfinished business.”Michaelis raised a brow. “What business do you imagine we have?”Clark opened the folder and slid one page across the desk. No numbers. No names. Just an offer.One million per year.Five years.Confidential.Untraceable.Michaelis looked at it. Didn't touch it.Then looked at Clark. “You’re b
The car rolled to a stop in front of the prison gates.Clark reached for the door.Adam caught his wrist.Clark turned—and before he could speak, Adam leaned in and kissed him. Firm. Sure. No theatrics.Just presence.When he pulled back, he didn’t say much.Just, “Be careful.”Clark blinked. “I always am.”Adam’s voice dropped a note. “I’ll be here. Waitin’.”For a split second, Clark didn’t move. Just stared at him.Then nodded once, adjusted his cuffs, and stepped out.The door shut behind him.He walked with his usual rhythm—straight spine, purposeful steps, tailored coat shifting like a second skin—but something inside him was off.Adam had kissed him like it meant something.Said waitin’ like it wasn’t a joke.Clark frowned slightly, eyes flicking to the gate ahead. He told himself not to read into it. Not to feel anything beyond what was useful.They were a bodyguard and a client.They were good sex and bette
The cellblock woke up like always—Yelling in the hallway, doors clanking open, the metallic rhythm of another day slamming into place.Cassidy sat up slowly.Faces moved in and out of sight. Some rushed toward the showers, others just dragged their moods into the light.He wasn’t in a hurry. Never was.He pulled on the folded t-shirt from the edge of the bed.Brushed his teeth with bottled water.Wiped his face with a damp towel — no showers. Not before breakfast. Not with that crowd.The main corridor was already alive when he stepped out of his cell.Guards doing rounds. One inmate cursing another over sneakers. Business as usual.Cassidy turned left.Stopped in front of the duty board.A single sheet, taped up crookedly — grimy, creased, bruised by time and too many curious hands.He scanned it.Slow. Deliberate.Cassidy Hills – South Wing – Block Cleaning, Day 17.He read the rest of the names.Saw who’d be wit
Clark’s heels clicked down the prison hallway like a countdown.Slate-grey three-piece suit. Cufflinks. Coated anger. He didn’t walk in—he arrived.The guards didn’t stop him.They knew better.Cassidy was already in the visitation room, slouched in the metal chair like it was a throne someone dared to tarnish.His lip was split. Eye still faintly swollen. Knuckles bruised like a story told out of order.Clark sat down across from him. Slow. Elegant. Controlled.Cassidy smiled—barely. “Wow. You showed up without a subpoena.”Clark didn’t return it. “You look like shit.”Cassidy tilted his head. “You should see the other three.”Clark’s fingers tapped once on the table. “I was not informed.”“No one’s ever informed when bodies hit the concrete.”Clark’s eyes narrowed. “Are you always this poetic when bleeding?”Cassidy’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Depends on who’s listening.”Clark’s tone dropped. “Tell me everything.”Cassidy shrugged. “First day in the yard. Hudson crew. One bumpe
Arthur arrived right on time, not a minute early.The visitation room felt colder than before. Too quiet. Too clean.Cassidy was already seated, as always. Same chair. Same posture.But something was wrong.His collar was stiff. His sleeves pushed down to the wrists. And his smile—while intact—felt… wrong.Arthur sat down across from him. “Hey.”Cassidy raised an eyebrow. “You again?”Arthur smiled faintly. “Don’t sound so surprised.”Cassidy leaned back, the picture of lazy confidence. “I figured you’d be bored of me by now.”Arthur chuckled once. Then looked closer.There it was.A shadow of purple beneath his left eye. The faint red split on his bottom lip. A dark mark peeking out where his sleeve met his wrist.Arthur’s smile faded.“Cass,” he said quietly. “What happened?”Cassidy’s eyes didn’t waver. “Nothing.”“Cassidy.”“It’s nothing.”Arthur reached forward. Just touched his hand, lightly.Cassidy didn’t pull away.Arthur’s voice lowered. “Don’t lie to me.”Cassidy looked at
The visitation room was too bright. Sterile. Bleached. The kind of clean that felt fake. Cassidy was already seated at the far end of the room, posture loose, one leg crossed over the other like he owned the place. Like the plastic chair under him wasn’t bolted to the floor. Arthur walked in slowly, shoulders drawn tight with nerves. Cassidy looked up. Smiled. That same dangerous smile that never reached his eyes. Arthur sat down across from him. “They searched me.” Cassidy’s tone was casual. “Of course they did. You’re beautiful. And they’re bored.” Arthur gave a weak smile. “You look... alright.” “I always do.” Arthur hesitated. “So how is it?” Cassidy leaned back. “Air’s dry. Bed’s trash. Food’s unspeakable.” “But you’re okay?” Cassidy tilted his head, studied him. “You care.” Arthur blinked. “Of course I do.” Cassidy said
The van doors cracked open with a mechanical groan.Cassidy stepped down first. Wrist cuffs. Ankle chains. One eyebrow arched like the steel wasn’t even there.The sun hit hard above Middlesbrough Detention Unit. It smelled like bleach and burnt dust.He scanned the walls. Cameras. Layers of wire. Two guards in tactical gear flanking the gate.He smiled.Not out of fear. Out of understanding.The system had swallowed him. But it hadn’t digested him yet.Processing was routine. On paper.The steel doors clicked shut behind him.Cassidy stepped into the intake bay—cool tile underfoot, the walls painted a colorless shade of state-funded beige. Cameras in every corner. Bleach in the air.He was still wearing his clothes from the courthouse—black button-up shirt, sleeves rolled once at the cuffs, fitted slacks, belt already confiscated. No laces on his boots. His style had survived the trial, but only just.“Strip,” the intake guard said, voice
Clark collapsed forward with a breathy groan, body shivering in the afterglow. He let his weight sink onto Adam’s chest, lips parted, eyes half-lidded.Adam didn’t move.One arm wrapped low around Clark’s waist.The other rested firmly over his ass, hand broad and grounding.Neither of them spoke for a moment.Clark exhaled slowly. “God… I needed that.”Adam hummed low, noncommittal.Clark shifted slightly, still not separating them. “Whole damn courtroom felt like pressure. The judge. The press. Arthur trying not to cry. Cassidy whispering nonsense. I swear, if I didn’t ride something today I was gonna start punching reporters.”Adam gave the smallest breath of a laugh—but his chest was still tight.Clark went on, voice loose with satisfaction, words tumbling like they always did after sex. “Also, we need to do something about this mattress.”Adam blinked. “What?”Clark propped his chin on his hand. “It’s loud. Every time I ride you it sounds like we’re breaking furniture. We either