Chapter 3: The Guest Wing

Chapter 3: The Guest Wing

Adrian felt the cold metal of the door handle bite into his palm as he turned it. He stepped out into the hallway, his father’s eyes narrowing as he took in Adrian’s slightly disheveled state.

"You took your time, Adrian. And your tie is crooked again," Lawrence said, his voice clipped with a familiar edge of disappointment. "Did you find what you were looking for in there?"

Adrian smoothed his lapels, his heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "Just some peace and quiet, Dad. The gala is a bit much tonight."

"It’s a celebration of our future, not a social club. Get your head in the game," Lawrence muttered, turning to lead the way back to the ballroom. Over his shoulder, he added, "The Wexfords are leaving early. We’re heading to their estate tonight for the weekend. The cars are already waiting."

Adrian stiffened. "Tonight? I thought we were leaving tomorrow morning."

"Theodore suggested it. Said it would be better to get a head start on the transition talks. Now, move."

The drive to the Wexford estate, a sprawling, gothic-inspired monstrosity known as Blackwood Manor, was a blur of dark trees and silent tension. By the time they arrived, the moon was high, casting long, skeletal shadows across the manicured lawns.

Miriam Westbrook, the Wexfords’ long-standing estate manager and a woman who seemed to see through walls, met them at the grand entrance. Her eyes lingered on Adrian just a second too long.

"Welcome back to Blackwood, Mr. Hollingsworth," Miriam said, her voice like dry parchment. "I’ve had the staff move your luggage to the West Wing. You’ll be in the Blue Suite."

Adrian gave a stiff nod. "Thank you, Miriam. I think I’ll head straight up. It’s been a long night."

"Actually, Adrian," Theodore’s voice drifted from the top of the stairs, sounding far too satisfied. He was already out of his tuxedo, wearing a charcoal silk shirt with the top three buttons undone. "I took the liberty of moving you. The Blue Suite has a leak. You’re in the Gold Suite."

Adrian’s stomach dropped. "The Gold Suite? Isn't that right next to—"

"Mine," Theodore finished, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. "In fact, they share a connecting parlor. It’ll make the 'bonding' much more efficient, don't you think?"

Miriam tilted her head, her gaze shifting between the two men. "The Gold Suite is ready, then. I’ll leave you to it."

"Theodore, isn't that a bit close?" Adrian asked, trying to keep his voice steady in front of his father.

"We’re going to be family, Adrian," Theodore said, descending the stairs with the grace of a panther. "Besides, your father and mine have a lot of paperwork to go over in the study. We shouldn't get in their way."

Lawrence patted Adrian’s arm. "See? Theodore’s looking out for the efficiency of the deal. Go on, get settled. We have a formal dinner in an hour. Don't be late."

Adrian had no choice. He followed a footman up the stairs, his skin crawling with the awareness of Theodore walking just a few paces behind him. When they reached the Gold Suite, the footman bowed and disappeared, leaving them alone in the wide, carpeted hallway.

"You’re doing this on purpose," Adrian hissed the moment the servant was out of earshot.

"Doing what? Providing my future partner with the best guest room in the house?" Theodore stepped closer, his scent—sandalwood and dominance—filling Adrian’s senses. "It’s a beautiful room, Adrian. Very... sturdy walls."

"I’m locking the connecting door, Theo. Don't even think about it."

"Locks only work if both people want them to stay shut," Theodore whispered, leaning in until his breath stirred the hair at Adrian’s temple. "See you at dinner, sweetheart. Wear the blue silk. It matches your eyes when you’re terrified."

The dinner was an exercise in psychological torture. The table was a massive expanse of polished mahogany, with Lawrence and Arthur Wexford at either end, discussing shipping lanes and liquidated assets as if they were talking about a game of chess. Miriam sat to the side, her sharp eyes darting between the plates and the guests.

Adrian sat across from Theodore. Every time he looked up, he found Theodore staring at him with a look that was anything but professional.

"So, Theodore," Lawrence said, cutting into a piece of rare steak. "Adrian tells me you’ve been looking into the 'Asset Realignment' clause. You think the targets are achievable?"

Theodore didn't break eye contact with Adrian. "Oh, I think they’re very achievable. If the right person is... motivated."

Adrian felt something graze his calf. He jumped slightly, his fork clattering against his china plate.

"Everything alright, Adrian?" Arthur Wexford asked, his voice a low rumble.

"Fine. Just... the chair caught on the rug," Adrian lied, his face heating up.

Under the table, Theodore’s foot moved higher, his dress shoe sliding slowly up the inside of Adrian’s thigh. Adrian gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white.

"As I was saying," Theodore continued smoothly, "motivation is key. Some people need a firm hand to keep them on track. Wouldn't you agree, Adrian?"

Adrian swallowed hard, feeling the heavy pressure of Theodore’s foot pressing against his groin. It was bold, reckless, and utterly hidden by the heavy white tablecloth. "I think... I think transparency is more important than force."

"Transparency is for people with nothing to hide," Theodore countered. His foot shifted, the toe of his shoe kneading the sensitive heat between Adrian’s legs.

Adrian’s breath hitched. He looked at his father, then at Arthur. They were deep in a debate about tax havens. They had no idea. The sheer risk of it made Adrian’s blood boil—and his body betray him. He could feel himself hardening, the friction of the fine wool of his trousers against his skin becoming unbearable.

"You’re awfully quiet, Adrian," Miriam noted, her voice cutting through his fog of sensory overload. "Is the lamb not to your liking?"

"It’s... it’s excellent, Miriam," Adrian gasped, his voice an octave higher than usual. He shot a look of pure murder at Theodore, who only smiled and took a slow sip of red wine.

"You look a bit flushed," Theodore said, his voice dripping with mock concern. "Perhaps the room is too warm? Or maybe you’re just excited about our new... arrangement."

"I think I need some air," Adrian said, abruptly standing up. The sudden movement forced Theodore to retract his foot, but the damage was done. Adrian’s heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his fingertips.

"Adrian, we aren't finished with the third course," Lawrence grumbled.

"I’m sorry, Dad. I have a headache. I’ll... I’ll see you all in the morning."

Adrian didn't wait for a response. He turned and practically ran from the dining room, his footsteps echoing on the marble floors. He didn't stop until he reached the Gold Suite, slamming the heavy oak door behind him and leaning against it, his chest heaving.

The room was opulent, filled with gilded furniture and heavy velvet drapes, but it felt like a cage. He marched over to the connecting door that led to Theodore’s suite. He grabbed the handle and twisted.

It was locked from the other side.

"Bastard," Adrian whispered, a strange mix of relief and frustration washing over him.

He stripped off his jacket and tie, throwing them onto a chair. He needed a cold shower. He needed to wash the scent of Theodore off his skin and the memory of that touch out of his mind. He moved toward the bathroom, but stopped when he heard a soft, distinct click.

He turned around slowly. The connecting door was no longer flush with the frame. It was standing open an inch.

Theodore stepped through the gap, his presence immediately shrinking the massive room. He had discarded his shirt entirely now, his broad, muscular chest gleaming in the soft amber light of the bedside lamps.

"You forgot something downstairs," Theodore said, his voice a low, dangerous hum.

Adrian backed away, his heart leaping into his throat. "I told you to stay out of my room, Theo. This is harassment. I could tell my father—"

"Tell him what? That I touched you under the table and you liked it so much you had to run away before you came in your expensive trousers?" Theodore’s laugh was dark and jagged. He reached back and shut the connecting door, but he didn't stop there. He walked past Adrian to the main hallway door, turned the heavy brass key, and pocketed it.

"What are you doing?" Adrian demanded, his voice trembling.

"Ensuring we aren't interrupted," Theodore said, turning to face him. The look in his eyes was ravenous, the mask of the billionaire heir completely gone, replaced by the man who had promised to ruin him. "You wanted to talk about 'transparency,' Adrian? Let's be transparent. You’ve been wanting me to do this since the moment I stepped off the plane."

"I hate you," Adrian whispered, even as his legs grew weak.

"I know," Theodore said, closing the distance between them in two long strides. He grabbed Adrian by the waist, lifting him off his feet and slamming him back against the locked hallway door. "And I’m going to make you hate me even more before the sun comes up."

Theodore’s mouth crashed onto his, not with a kiss, but with a claim. Adrian groaned into the contact, his hands flying to Theodore’s hair, pulling him closer as the world outside the Gold Suite ceased to exist.

"We aren't finished, Adrian," Theodore growled against his lips. "We’re just getting started."