CHAPTER 7

Kan shoved Timothy back against the same marble mausoleum where the street trash had just expired. He didn't give him room to breathe. He leaned in, the cold scent of the cemetery mixing with the metallic tang of fresh blood on Kan's lips. Timothy didn't flinch. He glared, his jaw set, lavender eyes defiant. A slow, mocking curve touched Kan’s mouth.

"Get your hands off me," Timothy rasped.

"No."

"I'll put a bullet in your head, Nelblack."

"You're welcome to try, ghost." Kan lifted a hand, a single finger tracing the line of Timothy's shoulder, dragging down to the pulse point at his wrist. "I’ve survived better men than you. It won't be that easy to put me down."

Timothy’s skin hummed where Kan touched him. It felt like a low-voltage current. Kan stepped back suddenly, adjusting his top hat with a flick of his wrist.

"What’s with the hat?" Timothy asked, his voice steadying.

Kan flashed a sharp, boyish grin. "It’s a statement."

"And what’s it saying? That you’re a circus act?"

"It says it’s a fatal mistake to think I’m trivial."

Timothy glanced at the corpse. Point taken. His eyes drifted down the long, lean line of Kan’s legs, noting the heavy bulge straining against the black leather. The man was built like a weapon—broad shoulders, corded muscle beneath the tight cotton shirt. In the Nash Rebellion, men were wiry and desperate. They didn't grow them like this.

If he wanted to, he could snap me like a twig. The thought didn't bring fear; it brought a sickening, hot rush of anticipation that made Timothy’s stomach flip.

"What’s with the tactical Goth look?" Kan asked.

"The what?"

"The internet. Ever heard of it?"

"A waste of time."

"Clearly." Kan reached out, capturing a lock of Timothy's red-streaked hair. "The hair. The black liner. The mouth." He dragged his thumb across Timothy’s bottom lip, smearing a trace of the victim’s blood there. "You look like a sin someone’s dying to commit."

Timothy’s skin felt too tight. He was losing his grip on the professional distance he’d spent years perfecting. "I don't dress for anyone."

"Liar." Kan rubbed his chin. "What’s your name?"

Timothy ignored him. "I thought you Blackwell types preferred the suits and the ties."

" suits are for the boardrooms. This?" Kan gestured to the cemetery. "This is for the work. And you, little reaper... you’re an honest killer."

"I’ve never met a dishonest one. They’re all dead."

Kan chuckled. The sound was a low vibration that seemed to settle right between Timothy’s thighs. "What’s your name, ghost?"

"Call me mate."

Timothy’s breath hitched. He forced a dry, jagged laugh. "Don't get cocky. I don't do mafia royalty."

"Don't count us out yet." Kan stepped in again, pinning Timothy’s arms against the stone with his palms on either side of his head. "Not when Gideon and I haven't even had the pleasure of making you scream... yet."

Timothy’s eyes went wide. "Wait. Plural? Both of you?" He shoved against Kan’s chest, but his hands didn't push. They lingered, feeling the rock-hard pectorals beneath the fabric. "That’s insane. The rebellion doesn't... we don't do trios."

Kan didn't argue. He thrust both hands into Timothy’s hair, anchoring his head. He shifted his weight, his heavy, hard erection pressing directly into Timothy's lower belly.

"No more insane than a Blackwell and a Nelblack sharing a bed," Kan hissed.

His mouth crashed onto Timothy’s. It wasn't a kiss; it was a siege. He nibbled Timothy’s bottom lip, his tongue darting out to taste the copper and salt. Timothy let out a muffled squeal of surprise as Kan’s tongue forced his way inside, exploring with a brutal, practiced skill.

Kan’s hand slid down Timothy's neck, over his chest, and dove between his legs. Timothy jerked as a thumb rubbed hard against his tip through the heavy fabric of his tactical pants.

God, that feels... Kan broke the kiss, his eyes glowing that toxic, predatory green. He kept rubbing, his gaze locked on Timothy's blown-out pupils. "You're so close, Timothy. I can feel your heart trying to jump out of your chest."

Suddenly, Kan pulled away. He paced a small circle, his fists clenching and unclenching. Timothy slid down the cold marble of the tomb, gasping for air.

"You're not the only one who didn't want this," Kan said, his voice a dark rasp. He reached down, tilting Timothy's chin up. "But Gideon and I want you. Come to us. We’ll show you what the rebellion never could. Not just the sex. A family. People who will burn the world for you."

He kissed him once more—hard, quick, and final. He reached into his pocket and tossed a card at Timothy’s feet. "That’s the address. Don't make us wait."

"I don't want your life," Timothy spat, though his voice lacked conviction.

"Liar. You're braver than that." Kan turned his back. "You'll come."

Timothy scrambled to his feet, his pride stinging. "I swear to you, Nelblack, I will never join you or Blackwell. Not for all the money in Saati Town."

"Don't make me bring you in by force."

"You can't force a ghost," Timothy shouted, then turned and sprinted toward the gate.

He didn't make it two blocks.

In a dark alleyway behind the Cathedral, a shadow detached itself from the wall. Timothy barely saw the flash of blond hair before he was slammed into the brick. A pair of strong arms pinned him, and a sharp, searing pain exploded in his neck.

"Goddamn it, Kan, what were you thinking?" Gideon paced the length of their bedroom.

"I was thinking he was going to disappear," Kan said, leaning against the doorframe. He’d found Timothy's defiance thrilling until the kid had actually tried to run.

The hunter in Kan had taken over. He hadn't just caught Timothy; he’d claimed him. He’d bitten into the kid's neck, tasting a blood that was pure fire. Timothy had moaned—a wrecked, shattered sound that confirmed everything.

"You drugged him?" Gideon asked, looking at the unconscious man on the bed.

"A sedative in the bite," Kan corrected. "It’s cleaner. We couldn't let him walk away, Gid. You know that."