Chapter 9

  Maxton woke the next morning feeling heavy, like an aftermath of drowning in liquor. His head swam, his body sluggish, every nerve tingling with exhaustion.

When he tried to sit up, the world tilted. He steadied himself against the bedframe, his breaths uneven.

“Hey, careful, you can’t stand yet.”

Amaretti slipped quietly into the room, balancing a tray with a steaming bowl of soup. Her tone was softer than he’d ever heard it, almost maternal.

“I brought you a healing broth,” she said, setting the tray on the nightstand. “Annette made it.”

“Annette?” Maxton’s voice cracked, his throat dry.

“The sage,” she explained. “She said this will help you recover faster.”

“Oh.” He forced a small smile, taking the bowl from her. “Thanks.”

Their hands brushed as he did, expecting to get the already familiar sizzling, he got nothing.

He grabbed her hand again, testing. Still nothing.

“I can’t feel you,” he whispered, half in disbelief, half in wonder.

Amaretti’s lips curved in relief. “The binding was a success, Maxton. For the next six months, you’re… human.”

Human. The word rang in his head, both freeing and terrifying. No constant hum of power, no flood of emotions that weren’t his.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted.

“That’s because you’re used to living with chaos,” she said gently. “Now, at least for a while, you’ll have peace.” She motioned at the bowl. “Eat before it gets cold. You need your strength. I’ll be leaving soon, and you have to decide where you’re going. This house won’t stay open.”

“Alright.”

He drank the broth slowly, savoring its warmth. His strength returned little by little, though weakness still pulled at his muscles. When he finally stood, his knees wobbled, but he held himself steady. He would have to learn to live differently now.

Outside, his father was issuing commands to his men, his voice sharp and commanding. Yet when Mason turned and saw Maxton, the Alpha’s hard expression melted into tender.

“Before you ask, I’m fine,” Maxton said quickly, heading him off. “I promise.”

Mason studied him, then placed a hand on his shoulder. “Walk with me?”

They strolled in silence until they reached a small coffee shop in town. Mason bought two cups, handed one to his son, and led him to the bus station nearby. They sat on a bench, steam curling from the paper cups into the morning air.

For a while, neither spoke. Then Mason exhaled.

“I’ll be leaving for Seattle today.”

“Yes. Amaretti told me,” Maxton replied quietly.

“What about you? Where will you go?” His father’s voice betrayed a note of worry he rarely allowed anyone to hear.

Maxton shrugged, staring into his coffee. “I don’t know yet. Maybe Las Vegas. Or California. Maybe even Mexico. Somewhere far.” He forced a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t doubt your strength.” Mason hesitated, searching for words. “But…” His eyes flicked away, then back. “I saw your collection in your room. The books, the magazines, the photos. I realized that you’re…”

Maxton raised a brow. “You mean gay? Why? Does it matter?”

“No, no.” Mason’s hands tightened around his cup. “I’m not ashamed of you, son. I just… it’s not always safe out there, especially for people who don’t fit into the world’s expectations.”

Maxton felt an ache in his chest, but also warmth. This man, who’d been a stranger for so long, was trying.

“If you need anything,” Mason continued, his voice low and urgent. “Anything at all. Promise me you’ll call. Promise me you’ll reach out.”

“I promise,” Maxton said.

For a few rare hours, they sat together like father and son, sharing fragments of themselves, learning pieces of each other’s lives. And Maxton didn’t feel entirely alone.

     By afternoon, Mason and Amaretti departed for Seattle, leaving him behind. The house suddenly felt emptier than ever. He wandered through it once more, pausing at the places tied to childhood memories, his mother’s laughter echoing faintly in the halls. With a heavy heart, he left it all behind.

Las Vegas shimmered beneath the desert sun when Dryann arrived. Dust clung to his boots, exhaustion weighed down his frame. He looked every inch the wanderer, rugged, unshaven, desperate for a shower and a bed.

At Caesar’s Palace Hotel, he checked in under his name, Flame. The attendant smiled politely, 

“Enjoy your stay” and handed him his room card 

The moment Dryann entered his suite, he stripped, showered, and collapsed onto the bed. Sleep claimed him instantly, his body surrendering to the weariness of travel.

Five hours later, Maxton arrived in Vegas. The ceaseless noise, the city alive with sin. It was overwhelming, yet strangely inviting.

He pulled up at the first hotel on the Strip. Caesar’s Palace.

Handing over his keys to the valet, he walked inside. His surname—Trawling, was enough to secure him a room without question. The weight of carrying his father’s name still felt foreign, but he was learning to own it.

His suite overlooked the Strip, glittering with temptation. He took a long shower, ate, and tried to nap, but his thoughts kept circling.

Gladys had pushed him to come here. “Go to Vegas,” she’d said. “Live a little. Dance, drink, get laid. Stop living in your head and let your heart take control.”

Tonight, he would try.

Dryann stirred to the rumble of his empty stomach. Darkness had fallen. He glanced at the clock, 9:40 p.m.

“Damn,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his long, damp hair. He called room service, ordered food, then dressed for the night. Faded jeans, a half-unbuttoned shirt with sleeves rolled high, boots scuffed from the road. He looked wild and magnetic, the kind of man who drew eyes without trying.

After dinner, he headed for the club in the hotel.

Maxton woke from a restless nap, haunted by dreams of his mother’s last moments. Shaking the images away, he dressed and answered a call from Gladys.

“Where are you?” she asked over the pulsing music behind her.

“Almost ready. Where are you?”

“At the club entrance. Don’t be late.”

He chuckled nervously. “On my way.”

When he arrived, Gladys eyed him critically and groaned. “You’re dressed for a job interview, not a nightclub.”

He frowned. “Is it that bad?”

Rolling her eyes, she yanked off his tie, unbuttoned four buttons of his shirt, and pushed back his hair. “Better. Now you look like someone ready to live.”

They ordered vodka and water, danced, laughed. Maxton felt almost free.

Then Gladys leaned close, her lips at his ear. “See that man at the bar? He hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night.”

Maxton turned, following her gaze.

And there he was.

The man at the bar was unlike anyone he’d ever seen, ruggedly beautiful, his shirt loose against a lean, powerful body, his long dark hair falling across sharp features. Even in the dim club light, his eyes burned.

Their gazes locked, Heat surged through Maxton, sharp and undeniable.

“Maybe he’s not here for me,” Maxton muttered, looking away, embarrassed by the sudden flush on his cheeks. But his body betrayed him. He suddenly wants to go on his knees for the man, he wants to pull off his…

Gladys smirked. “Tell that to your pants.” 

Maxton risked another glance. The stranger was still staring. Waiting.

“I’ll be right back” Maxton whispered, heart hammering as he made his way toward the bar, toward the man whose eyes promised something more than pleasure.