Page 16

Would I even know how to love without the bite of thorns?

Pan left my bedroom door open, and each step I took was heavy. I slept here when my insomnia loosened its grip. There were high ceilings and large windows, like all the bedrooms. There was a small seating area by the window, with leather armchairs. I imagined morning coffees, watching the sunrise. Perhaps with Pan still sleep mussed, on my lap.

But he never stayed in my bed overnight, and I couldn’t bring myself to sit there alone.

Pan perched on my charcoal duvet. There was a slight bulge in his jeans, and the sight dismayed and excited me. His scent bubbled brightly even as he tore me apart.

How many times had we been in this exact place?

I couldn’t remember the last time we came together for love rather than anger. My chest ached, and I fought past the hollowness. Rage was easier to cling to, and made me feel like I was alive, rather than rotting to a slow death.

What Pan and I had was twisted beyond repair. I knew that. But I couldn’t let go, and neither could he. We were twin hooks in each other’s hearts. We hurt each other, over and over.

“Daddy?”

Pan’s lips kicked up. This was what he wanted. He liked to unravel and provoke me into passion.

To make the methodical Walden Baylark lose his famous cool.

The first time I met Pan, I’d fallen half in love with him.

Ajax and I became friends in college, and I heard so many stories about his musical genius brother. But nothing could have prepared me for Pan Mythos.

His allure was magnetic. It had darkened and twisted over the years. His music became tormented until he stopped playing altogether. Tattoos covered his long pianist fingers.

Pan was a treasure you found in the shadows. Brooding intensity. Startling genius. His muscles were always coiled in readiness to fight. Pan made love dangerous. He made it hurt. Gods, it hurt to fight for him, and my energy flagged.

“You have a look on your face.” Pan scratched his stomach.

His shirt rode up to flash his defined abs. My nostrils flared with a hot exhale. He did it thinking the skin would scramble the sharp words that waited to roll off my tongue. My tongue twisted with righteous anger and my throat burned with sharp hurt.

“Don’t tease,” I growled. “Tonight was important. Don’t even think about being late for our meeting tomorrow.”

I’d poured myself into the One-Hundred-Year-Celebration-Gala. It was a showcase of Esta Hartlock, and her contribution to the law being passed. Tully Hartlock flashed into my mind for a brief, dizzying second. I hadn’t seen her since her parents’ funeral. Her numbness gave way to anger when she’d seen me and I felt the echo of it. How bizarre. I hoped she’d found happiness away from the public eye. It grated on me to be in it.

“What meeting?” Pan arched a lazy eyebrow.

“With the mayor. He wants to discuss his speech.”

“Scope out his competition, you mean?”

A jolt of heat jammed my spine straight.

“It’s not a joke, Pan.” I was preparing to run against our current mayor, and the thought made my stomach clench. It was the right thing to do, the next step. But I wish I could say I was excited about it.

“Gods, Walden, can you relax? We’re throwing a party, not saving the world.” Pan’s lip curl flipped a switch inside me.

How could I look to the future when I was drowning in the present?

“And what was tonight?”

“Don’t be mad at me, daddy,” he protested, with a husky voice and heavy-lidded eyes.

He was trying all his tricks to distract me. The worst thing was, it worked, to an extent. My lower belly flooded with warmth until he leaned closer. The reek of alcohol wafted over to me. Pan blinked, his dark eyeliner smudged under his eyes. His hazel gaze was murky with fatigue. He’d been out all last night. When had he even slept?

This was what it was like between us. Pan pushing, me pulling.

Volatile explosions, as neither of us got what we wanted. I clamped my tongue between my teeth, determined to hold my temper. It was a nearly impossible task. Pan’s grape bubblegum scent turned sharp, and he scuffed the carpet with his boot. Pan was meek and quiet, a small mercy.