Chapter 7

The burger wasn’t artisanal. It didn't have gold leaf, the bun wasn't brioche, and the cheese was a shade of yellow that didn't exist in nature. To Elias, sitting in the passenger seat of the idling SUV with mud still drying in his hair, it was the greatest meal ever cooked by human hands.

"I think I’m having a spiritual experience," Elias mumbled through a mouthful of fries. "Is it the grease? It’s the grease, isn't it? It’s coating my arteries in a hug."

Roderick gripped the steering wheel, his eyes scanning the dark parking lot of the 24-hour diner. "Eat faster. We need to move."

"You’re such a buzzkill, Roderick. We just survived a mercenary ambush led by your terrifying ex-girlfriend. Let me have my trans fats in peace."

"She wasn't my girlfriend," Roderick snapped, his voice tight. "And we didn't just survive an ambush. We found out Dorian Westfall is paying for your funeral. That changes everything."

Elias slowed his chewing. He looked out the window, his reflection ghostly against the glass. The playful light in his eyes hadn't quite returned. "Dorian. He used to give me stock tips for my birthdays. He told me I was like the son he never had."

"The son he never had is currently a five-hundred-thousand-dollar bounty," Roderick said, finally turning to look at him. "Why? What does he gain from you being gone?"

"The Storme board," Elias said quietly. "If I’m out of the way, and my father remains 'unavailable' in his mountain retreat, Dorian becomes the majority proxy. He’s not just killing me, Roderick. He’s hostile-takeovering my life."

"Then we don't hide," Roderick said, a plan forming in the cold, tactical part of his brain.

"We don't?"

"No. We go to him. But not as a target and a guard." Roderick looked at his own reflection, then back at Elias. "We’re going to Aris. That’s where he dines on Tuesdays, right?"

Elias blinked, a slow, mischievous smile spreading across his face despite the smudge of ketchup on his chin. "Oh. I see where you’re going. The 'madly in love' routine. The 'I’m too distracted by my new boyfriend to care about business' play."

"It’s the only way to get close enough to his table without his security flagging me as a threat," Roderick muttered, looking like he’d rather swallow glass. "We’re going as a couple. A real one."

"Roderick Vantrell, are you asking me on a fake date?"

"I’m telling you the mission parameters. Now, get that grease off your face. We have an hour to get you into something that doesn't smell like a swamp."

The interior of the SUV was silent as they pulled away from the safe house an hour later. Elias was transformed—wearing a silk shirt the color of a bruised plum, unbuttoned just enough to be provocative, and trousers that cost more than a mid-sized sedan. Roderick was back in a clean suit, his jaw shaved, looking every bit the high-end accessory Elias claimed him to be.

"We need to practice," Elias said, breaking the silence.

"Practice what? Walking?"

"Practice being 'us.' You’re currently projecting 'I am going to snap your neck if you touch me.' It’s not very romantic, darling."

"I don't do romantic."

"Clearly. Okay, start small. Call me something. Something sweet."

Roderick exhaled through his nose. "Elias."

"No. That’s what you call me when I’m about to fall off a balcony. Try 'Hon.' Or 'Sweetheart.' Or if you’re feeling particularly spicy, 'Baby.'"

"I would rather be shot."

"Roderick, focus! If we walk into Aris and you’re standing three feet behind me with your hand on your holster, Dorian will know within five seconds. You have to be near me. Touch me. Frequently."

"How frequently?"

"Look at me," Elias commanded.

Roderick glanced sideways. Elias reached over, his fingers grazing Roderick’s forearm. He slid his hand down until his palm rested over Roderick’s on the center console. His skin was warm, his touch light but deliberate.

"Your hand is shaking," Elias whispered.

"It’s not shaking. I’m annoyed."

"Liar. Your heart rate is probably in the triple digits. Relax. When we’re at the table, I’m going to lean into you. I might even feed you a piece of asparagus. You have to look like you enjoy it."

"I hate asparagus."

"Then look like you enjoy me. Look at me the way you looked at that mercenary before you shot him—total, undivided attention. Just... minus the murder part."

Roderick tightened his grip on the wheel. "Undivided attention. Fine. Anything else?"

"When I laugh, look at my mouth. When I talk, lean in so our shoulders touch. And for the love of all things fashionable, call me Elias with a bit of... breathiness."

"Breathiness. Right. I’ll get right on that after I finish my 'how to be a socialite' manual."

"You’re doing great, Tiger," Elias teased, patting his hand.

"Don't call me that."

"We're here. Game face on, lover boy."

Aris was the kind of restaurant where the lighting was designed to make everyone look like a Renaissance painting and the hushed whispers of the elite sounded like the rustle of money.

As they walked in, Elias didn't wait. He immediately looped his arm through Roderick’s, pulling him close. Roderick stiffened, then forced his muscles to unlock. He felt the heat of Elias’s side against his, the faint scent of expensive cologne and lingering woodsmoke.

"The table in the corner," Elias murmured, his lips nearly touching Roderick’s ear. "Under the velvet curtain. That’s Dorian."

Roderick scanned the room without moving his head. Dorian Westfall sat alone, swirling a glass of red wine, looking like a man who hadn't a care in the world.

"Elias! As I live and breathe!" Dorian’s voice boomed as they approached, though his eyes were sharp, calculating. He stood up, smoothing his waistcoat. "I heard you had a bit of a scare at the estate this morning. I’ve been trying to call you all day."

"Oh, Dorian, don't remind me," Elias said, his voice fluttering with a perfect, practiced air of exhaustion. He leaned heavily into Roderick. "It was dreadfully dramatic. All those broken windows. But Roderick kept me quite safe. Didn't you, darling?"

Roderick felt Dorian’s gaze land on him like a spotlight. He didn't flinch. He let his expression soften into something that he hoped looked like possessive adoration.

"It’s my priority," Roderick said, his voice low.

"He’s more than just security now, Dorian," Elias added, casting a 'shy' glance at Roderick. "I’ve decided that life is too short for boring bodyguards. We’re... celebrating tonight."

Dorian’s smile didn't reach his eyes. "Celebrating? Amidst an assassination attempt? That’s very... you, Elias. Bold. Or perhaps reckless."

"Is it reckless to want to be happy?" Elias asked, pulling Roderick down to sit beside him at the booth. "Roderick thinks I should be in a bunker, but I told him I’d rather be with him and a good bottle of Bordeaux."

"I can see he’s quite devoted," Dorian said, leaning back. "Tell me, Mr. Vantrell. How does it feel? Going from the payroll to the inner circle? It’s quite a leap for a man of your... background."

Roderick met Dorian’s stare. "The background doesn't matter. The person does."

"How poetic," Dorian sneered. "Though I wonder, Elias, if your father would approve of you dating the help. He always had such high hopes for your associations."

"My father isn't here, Dorian," Elias said, his tone sharpening for a split second before he smoothed it over with a laugh. "And Roderick is far more interesting than the sons of oil magnates you keep trying to set me up with. He’s very... tactile."

Elias reached out, his hand sliding behind Roderick’s neck, his thumb stroking the short hairs at the nape. It sent a jolt of electricity down Roderick’s spine that nearly made him jump.

"You’re very quiet, Roderick," Dorian noted. "Not much of a talker?"

"I prefer to listen," Roderick said. "You learn more that way."

"Do you? And what have you learned tonight?"

"That the wine here is overpriced and the company is... transparent," Roderick replied, his eyes locked on Dorian’s.

The tension at the table became a physical weight. Dorian’s smile faltered. He looked at Elias, then back at Roderick. "You have a sharp tongue for a man in a borrowed suit."

"It’s not borrowed," Elias chirped, Sensing the edge. "I bought it for him. I like seeing him in things I’ve chosen. It makes him feel like... mine."

"Is that so?" Dorian asked. He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Prove it, then. I’ve lived long enough to know the difference between a real spark and a performance, Elias. You’ve always been a wonderful actor. But this? This feels like a shield."

Elias didn't hesitate. He turned toward Roderick, his eyes searching Roderick’s for a fraction of a second—a silent question. Can we do this?

Roderick didn't give him an answer. He took the initiative.

He reached out, cupping Elias’s jaw with a hand that was surprisingly steady. He pulled the socialite toward him, closing the gap until their breaths mingled.

"Is this proof enough for you, Dorian?" Roderick murmured.

Then, he kissed him.

It wasn't a tentative peck. It was a statement. Roderick felt Elias’s sharp intake of breath, then the way he melted into the contact, his hands clutching Roderick’s lapels. It tasted like the mint Elias had been chewing and the faint, lingering spice of the burger they’d shared. For a heartbeat, the mission, the mercenaries, and the betrayal vanished. There was only the pressure of Elias’s lips and the sudden, terrifying realization that Roderick wasn't entirely faking it.

When they pulled apart, Elias looked dazed, his cheeks flushed a genuine, deep pink.

Dorian watched them, his expression unreadable. He slowly began to clap, a dry, hollow sound.

"Bravo," Dorian said. "A truly moving performance. You almost had me."

Elias cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "It wasn't a performance, Dorian."

"Oh, I’m sure it felt real to you, Elias," Dorian said, standing up and tossing his napkin onto the table. He looked at Roderick, a cruel glint in his eyes. "But I know exactly who your 'boyfriend' is. You see, I did my own background check when your father hired him."

Roderick felt a cold sinkhole open in his stomach.

Dorian leaned down, whispering just loud enough for both of them to hear. "I know about the 'Ghost Unit' in the Special Forces, Roderick. I know about the operation in Mogadishu that went sideways. And I know exactly why you were dishonorably discharged for 'instability'."

Dorian straightened his jacket, offering a thin, predatory smile.

"Enjoy your dinner, boys," Dorian said, turning to walk away. "But be careful, Elias. You shouldn't sleep with ghosts. They have a habit of disappearing when the lights go out."

Roderick sat frozen, Dorian’s words ringing in his ears. Beside him, Elias’s hand was still resting on his chest, he could feel the socialite’s heart hammering against his palm—fast, frantic, and filled with a new kind of fear.

"Roderick?" Elias whispered. "What was he talking about?"

Roderick didn't look at him. He couldn't. "Check's on the table. We’re leaving."