CHAPTER 4

Gideon didn't stop at the railing. He trailed his tongue down the ridge of Kan’s spine, teeth grazing the scarred skin of his shoulder blades. The tiger in his gut was a physical weight now, pacing, claws out. He spread Kan’s cheeks with rough, calloused palms. Kan let out a jagged moan, his own hand working a frantic rhythm against his cock while he rocked back, seeking the friction of Gideon’s mouth.

Gideon reached for the oil on the small bistro table. He didn't do gentle. He slicked his fingers, driving them deep into Kan to stretch him, the heat of the other man’s interior molding to his touch. He coated his own length, the friction making his vision swim. He lined himself up against the entrance, the head of his dick buzzing against the tight heat. Below, the Sopttyi crowd let out a roar of approval. Kan didn't turn; he just flashed a thumb over his shoulder to the gawkers, a defiant grin plastered on his face.

Gideon lunged. He buried himself balls-deep in one heavy, bone-jarring stroke.

"Fuck!" Kan barked the word into the humid night. He white-knuckled the iron railing, his other hand flying back to grip Gideon’s thigh for leverage.

Gideon anchored his palm on the back of Kan’s neck, his right hand locking onto the man's hip to stabilize the rhythm. He drove in slow, punishing slides, feeling every inch of Kan’s heat. It was a dark, territorial claim. No romance—just the raw, grinding reality of two men who lived by the gun finding the only peace they knew in the friction of skin.

He leaned over Kan’s back, the wet slap of their bellies meeting echoing over the Bourbon Street bass. He tangled his fingers in Kan's dark hair, wrenching his head to the side to expose the mating mark on his throat. Gideon’s teeth were sharp, pressing into the skin until Kan’s moans turned into a rhythmic, guttural chant.

"You feel that, Nelblack?" Gideon hissed into his ear.

"Drive it... harder... you bastard," Kan gasped. He clenched around Gideon, a desperate, tight suction that nearly ended the game right there. Kan released his own dick to reach back, clawing at Gideon’s head, twisting his neck to catch Gideon’s mouth in a bruising, desperate kiss. They traded spit and air while Gideon’s hips kept a relentless, sliding pace.

Gideon shoved him forward again, pinning his chest to the rail. It was a display of pure dominance, the kind of submissive posture Kan only ever assumed for him. Gideon reached around, his hand clamping over Kan’s cock, pumping in a brutal sync with his own thrusts. Every time he bottomed out, he stroked Kan to the tip.

The world narrowed to the salt of sweat and the weight of Kan’s body against his. Gideon hit his limit, his muscles locking as he poured himself into Kan with a choked roar. He collapsed against Kan’s back, teeth sinking into the meat of his shoulder to keep from screaming the kid's name—Timothy.

He withdrew with a wet pop, his legs like jelly. He didn't wait. He dropped to his knees on the balcony floor. Precum was already pearling at the tip of Kan’s waning erection. Gideon licked it clean, his tongue swirling around the slit before taking the whole head into his mouth. Kan let out a wrecked sound, his fingers tangling in Gideon’s hair to guide the depth. He thrust his hips, driving into Gideon’s throat with a desperate, final energy.

Kan flew apart. A heavy, broken moan ripped from his throat as he came, the heat of it filling Gideon’s mouth.

"Fuck," Kan whispered, a tremor racking his frame as Gideon’s tongue did a final, slow lap around the sensitive head.

Kan hauled Gideon to his feet, pulling him into a sweaty, panting embrace. Below, the ovation from the drunk tourists was deafening.

Across the street, perched in the shadows of a crumbling brick fire escape, Timothy Gal watched the entire performance. Even with the distance and the roar of the Sopttyi District, the visual was enough to make his skin crawl—and burn.

They were looking for him. He’d heard enough of their conversation at the bar to know they were hunters.

Following Gideon from the pub to the hotel was either the smartest move he’d made or a death sentence. He hadn't decided. He liked the view, but the implications were dangerous. Timothy had spent his life in the Nash Rebellion as a tool, a ghost meant for data and death. Sex was a transaction, a political chess move he’d made a handful of times, never feeling a damn thing.

But watching these two... it was different. There was a weight to it. A brutal kind of respect. And when the blond one—Gideon—had roared, Timothy felt a phantom ache in his own gut.

He watched Gideon bite into the dark-haired one’s neck, right over a scar that looked like a brand. Timothy’s hand drifted to his own throat. He felt a surge of something that wasn't fear. It was envy. Pure, bitter envy for a connection that looked like it could survive a war.

He should have walked away. He should have disappeared into the Sopttyi back alleys and reported back to Eleanor Nash. But his feet wouldn't move. He was mesmerized by the dark-haired one—Kan.

Kan had wavy, chin-length hair and a jawline that looked like it was carved from granite. His eyes were a chilling silver-grey, but they’d flared a vibrant, toxic green in the heat of the act.

What the hell are they? Timothy wondered.

Kan looked directly across the street then. He didn't point. He didn't alert his partner. He just winked—a slow, predatory closing of one eye—and flashed a thumbs-up toward the shadows where Timothy was hidden.

The Blackwell enforcer knew he was there.

Timothy’s breath hitched. He watched Gideon enter Kan again, a hard, deep thrust that wrenched a curse from the man’s lips. Timothy’s own lower stomach tightened, a sharp, throbbing heat bloom in his crotch that made his knees weak.

Holy shit.

He wasn't supposed to feel this. He was a professional. But the delight on their faces, the raw, unashamed hunger they had for each other... it was a drug.

Instead of running, Timothy leaned back against the brick wall, hidden by the darkness, and watched. He noted the way Gideon’s body seemed to hum with a restless, animal energy—something that felt less like a man and more like a predator waiting to be let off a leash.

When Gideon went to his knees to finish his partner, a hot flush swept through Timothy’s entire body. He swiped a hand through his hair, his palms damp.

What is wrong with me? His heart was a hammer in his chest. He needed to move. He needed to get the name Marcus Neol back to the rebellion. But as Kan looked his way one last time, Timothy knew the hunt had already moved past the streets. It was under his skin now.