Page 7 of Into Hell: Prelude (Holding Cell: Return to the Island)
T hat evening, Fabian and Lance slipped off to bed early—an uncommon move for the pair who usually lingered until the last guest left the living room.
Rowan had seized the moment to tease them about being “engaged in the pleasures of the flesh,” his voice echoing down the hallway until the men answered with easy grins.
Too weary for more than a brisk shower, they let the warm water sluice away the day’s tension before collapsing beneath the soft, cotton sheets.
The bedroom glowed in the pale amber light of a single lamp.
A faint hint of lavender hung in the air from Lance’s nightly ritual, mingling with the crisp scent of freshly laundered linens.
Fabian lay rigid on his back, fingers interlaced behind his head, his gaze fixed on the gentle rise and fall of Lance’s chest. All day he’d been wound tight—Lance had felt it in the stiff set of his shoulders, the way his eyes would drift to the window as though searching for answers beyond the glass.
Yet Lance, ever patient, refused to press; he knew his soulmate would speak in his own time.
Something’s eating at him, Fabian thought, letting out a quiet sigh that trembled against the pillow.
With so much unrest at The Base—Ardan’s, Daniel’s, and Dunstan’s sons vanishing into thin air and returning haunted from that island of horrors, then the heated debates about forging ties with the Sanitini family—anyone would be on edge.
Since declaring themselves a couple, Lance had become woven into Fabian’s vast family tapestry: a guardian of teenage anxieties, a kitchen magician whipping up comforting meals, the go-to stylist for anxious boys before a first date.
They’d christened him “Grumpa,” and he’d worn the name like a badge of honor.
When the Crazy Bunch and their rescuers emerged from that nightmare—faces drawn, bodies trembling—it felt like a miracle.
Yet the memory of desperate screams echoing across the jungle canopy refused to stay buried.
For Lance, every echo still rang sharp, stirring a cold knot in his chest that Fabian knew all too well he shouldn’t underestimate.
In the hush of their bedroom, Fabian traced these worries like lines on a map, certain they explained the tension in his husband’s posture.
He blamed Brennan’s vehement objections to an alliance with Nathan Sanitini, the family patriarch they’d ferried back from the island.
Even half-starved and broken by his own son’s betrayal, Nathan retained the chiseled jaw, the imperious carriage, the velvety tones that once set Fabian’s pulse racing thirty-five years ago.
A single flash of those steel-gray eyes had dredged up buried longings—only silence and duty had forced them back under.
Now, with plans circling to invite Clint and the rest to The Base’s summer fête and hammer out an alliance, all those old questions resurfaced with renewed force.
What if, in another life, Fabian had dared to ask Nathan about the true shape of his desires?
What if he’d surrendered, just once, to the ache of his own curiosity?
Lance shifted beside him, and the lamp flickered, casting dancing shadows across the quilt. Fabian closed his eyes, willing himself to patience. No matter what lay behind Lance’s distant gaze, he would be here to listen—ready, at last, to follow wherever their shared heart might lead.
Would he have found the nerve to leave Adele—mother of his son—and walk away from everything he knew for a reckless, forbidden love with someone on the wrong side of the law?
And if he had, would Nathan Sanitini, head of that powerful family, ever do the same?
Those questions buzzed through Fabian’s mind like a swarm of furious bees, each thought stinging more insistently than the last.
He exhaled softly, rolling onto his side.
The satin-silk sheets whispered beneath him, and his breath caught when he met Lance’s worried gaze in the dim glow of the bedside lamp.
Moonlight spilled through the half-drawn curtains, painting Lance’s face in ribbons of gold and shadow—an expression of concern, deep understanding, and that protective love Fabian craved.
His heart loosened, and he decided once more to share the burdens he’d kept hidden.
“What’s troubling you?” Lance murmured, his thumb tracing the high plane of Fabian’s cheekbone. His fingertip felt warm and steady against Fabian’s skin. “You’ve been quieter than usual tonight. Is Brennan still giving Ardan grief over the alliance with the Sanitini family?”
Fabian let a small smile curve his lips in the darkness. “Not my usual quiet,” he admitted. “You know me too well, love. Marrying you was the best decision I ever made—the only one I’ll never regret.”
Lance’s own lips curved as he leaned closer, fingers brushing through Fabian’s hair. “Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been if you hadn’t pulled me off those streets, given me a job, a home… The truth is, I’d be long dead and forgotten without you.”
Fabian closed his eyes, listening to the soft rise and fall of Lance’s chest. A surge of warmth pulsed in his chest. “What if…” he whispered.
“I try not to imagine alternate lives, but lately—” He paused, swallowed.
When he looked up, his eyes glittered with something like fear. “I… I have a confession.”
Lance offered a gentle smile. “I’m here. Whenever you’re ready.”
Fabian drew a slow breath, recalling memories he’d packed away.
“About thirty-five years ago, I was on a multinational task force charged with dismantling the largest human-trafficking network in history. It stretched across twenty countries on five continents. We battled language barriers, conflicting legal codes, secret safe houses—the works.”
Lance’s brow furrowed in the lamplight. “Thirty-five years ago? I recall that case. Some of my CIA colleagues were also on the team. I was already in training for another mission, so I missed it. Funny to think: maybe we’d have crossed paths back then if I hadn’t opted for that first assignment.”
“Fate works in strange ways,” Fabian said, voice low and edged with sorrow. “That ring was like a hydra. Lock up one boss, and two more rose to take his place. Every suspect we hauled in clammed up under interrogation. We hit dead end after dead end.”
“Jurisdictional headaches,” Lance muttered, sliding a hand over Fabian’s shoulder. “I know the drill—all those systems tripping you up. A royal pain.”
Fabian nodded, swallowing hard. “Then we got an anonymous tip: the network’s real mastermind was operating out of New York City. But raw intel wasn’t enough—we needed someone inside, shadowing him from within. We were on the verge of giving up when, out of nowhere, a miracle happened.”
Lance leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Let me guess—one of the kingpin’s own men walked into your office begging for immunity in exchange for dirt?”
“That part’s true,” Fabian replied, a faint smile flickering.
“This guy, Nathan Sanitini, was knee-deep in every atrocity except child trafficking. He despised those who profited from the suffering of innocents. He came to us one rainy night in an unmarked car, breath steaming in the cold air, and said he’d lead one of us straight to the monster himself—if we guaranteed his freedom. ”
Lance drew in a slow breath, picturing the dark alleyways, the hushed meetings by floodlit docks, and the tense clandestine exchanges that must have followed.
Fabian reached out, clasped Lance’s hand, and together they lay back into the moonlit hush, two partners bound by love and the ghosts of battles long past.
“Sanitini?” Lance’s words came out as a soft gasp, carried on a tremor that quivered through the dimly lit chamber.
The single dim lamp on the nightstand sent shadows dancing across his wide, astonished eyes.
He lifted a hand to cover his mouth, as if to stifle the rush of emotion in his chest. “You mean… like—” He swallowed hard. “Sorry, it’s just that—”
Fabian smiled, a slow, understanding curve to his lips, his dark-blue eyes glittering with empathy.
He ran a tongue across suddenly parched lips before he spoke.
“It must have hit you like a weight,” he murmured.
“Alexander’s drugs—administered when I was helpless under his heel—wiped out or buried countless memories, this one included.
” He gestured vaguely at the quiet room.
“But for six months, Sanitini and I were inseparable. He taught me every nuance: how to dress in leather and linen that passed for a child trafficker’s coat, how to stride with a predator’s confidence, even the exact way to talk—cold, commanding, utterly convincing. ”
Lance closed his eyes a moment, picturing it. His voice softened with compassion. “I can’t imagine—wearing that role, becoming that kind of monster. The worst of them all.”
Fabian let out a low breath. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Most days I felt sick, physically and to my core.
But Nathan—Sanitini—reminded me to focus on the prize: survival.
In his stern, unwavering way, he offered support, a quiet word of encouragement just when I was about to collapse in defeat.
” His hand drifted to the thin scar at his jawline.
“We understood one another,” he added, his voice thick with memory.
Lance reached out, brushing his fingers against Fabian’s cheek. “What are you saying?” His touch was tender, as though he feared this confession might shatter the man before him. “Did the two of you… end up together?”
Fabian shook his head swiftly. “No,” he said, eyes falling. “But he was the first man who made me question everything—my heart, my desires. I’d convinced myself I loved Adele, that I was drawn to women. Yet spending day after day close to Nathan revealed how false that belief was.”