Page 15

B y the time Morgan and Pete—the doorman—got back into the car, over an hour had passed.

“You’re rich enough to have a chauffeur?” Pete asked, half-laughing, half-incredulous.

“Being a doctor has its benefits.”

Half-truths wrapped in lies were Morgan’s easy go-to. It was simply the most efficient way. Lex, on the other hand, worked in near complete honesty, but he had the demeanor to back it up. Sweet and unassuming. Sugar first, detonation second. No one dared bat an eyelash when he opened his mouth.

Normally.

Except now.

Lex’s eyes flicked to the rear view mirror, and even that tiny motion was sharp.

“Where to. ”

Not a question. A command. Flat and clipped, like he’d said it too many times already and was barely clinging to the final thread of civility.

Poor, darling Lex. His nonexistent patience had burned out sometime between the thirty-minute mark and Morgan’s last set of texted instructions.

Morgan should’ve known better. Should’ve accounted for Lex’s inevitable unraveling the moment things didn’t unfold at his preferred, breakneck pace. A child in an adult’s frame, demanding the world spin faster for him.

Unfortunately for Lex, the world didn’t move on Lex time .

Not in Morgan’s world.

Not in any world rooted in reality.

Morgan leaned into the backseat, one arm lazily draped over the headrest behind Pete’s shoulders.

“You remember that trailhead we passed this afternoon? I’m sure it has amazing views of the city.”

“Which?” Lex asked, and there it was—that excitement slipping in, high-pitched and eager beneath the irritation.

Morgan didn’t smile, but the edge of his mouth twitched.

“The one with the little sign, something about historical gardens.”

“I remember it.”

Next to him, Pete shifted. A breath too deep. Maybe still infinitely curious. Maybe trying to figure out if the situation had taken a turn without him realizing.

A little concern bleeding into his tone now.

“ Why are we going there? ”

“Because if I have another drink, I may pass out on your lap,” Morgan said quietly. “Fresh air sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

They reached the overlook just as the wind picked up—low, sharp, storm-slick. Threading through the branches, rustling leaves and errant birds. The scent of rain lingered, sweet and electric, though the sky hadn’t opened yet.

Streetlights blinked behind them, faint and distant through the haze, but out here, on the hill, everything was tinted blue and black. A perfect stage.

Pete stepped up to the low concrete barrier, still talking. Still laughing a little too loud. Nervous.

Morgan didn’t hear a word of it. Not really.

Lex had parked just far enough away to gift them silence, but not so far he couldn’t watch. And he was—watching through the windshield, camera already raised. Morgan could spot that steady red light anywhere. Perhaps even hungrier than Lex himself.

Morgan placed a hand on Pete’s shoulder. Slipped the compact mirror from his blazer pocket and set it in Pete’s hand.

“Would you do me a favor?” he asked softly. “Hold this.”

“Why?”

“Just face the city,” Morgan murmured. “And don’t look down until I tell you.”

Pete huffed a laugh, awkward and breathy, but he looked in front of him anyway.

“Feels stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. This will be fun, I promise.”

And it wasn’t a lie.

Not to Morgan.

Not when he pulled on his gloves and stepped in close enough to brush the back of Pete’s neck.

The blade came free from his inner pocket, seamless and silent. Sleek handle, fitted perfectly to his palm, as familiar as any lover.

Luck had nothing to do with this anymore.

He didn’t plunge the knife in. Not yet.

Instead, he leaned forward, lips touching Pete’s ear.

“Don’t look down. You’ll ruin the surprise.”

Then the blade kissed skin.

He slid it diagonally along Pete’s abdomen—not deep. Just enough to part fabric, then flesh, enough for Pete to feel it—hot, wrong, real.

Pete gasped, breath hitching, eyes darting to the mirror.

Well, Morgan had warned him it would spoil all the fun.

How terrible it must have felt for Pete to see his own face, twisted in shock and pain.

The reflection offered no grace, only truth.

Work shirt already blooming dark, spreading across the cotton.

The first drop of blood hit the mirror’s surface and trailed down, smearing the image with a red streak.

Lex’s phone light flickered—just once—throwing glittering, twisted shapes into Morgan’s peripheral vision.

Shadows turned into kaleidoscopes .

Morgan kept his gaze on the mirror.

Watched Pete tremble, his grip slackening, mouth parting in wordless confusion. He was trying— trying to turn, to see, to understand. His shoes scraped on concrete, knees buckling.

But Morgan kept him pressed tight to his chest. A partner in a dance he hadn’t known he’d joined. And Morgan led.

The second cut went in just above the hip. The blade parted muscle and skin with practiced ease. It barely made a sound.

Neither did Pete.

“You should’ve said no,” Morgan whispered, against the back of Pete’s neck. “But then, most people don’t know when they’ve gone too far.”

The air smelled like copper now—wet and heady. Blood soaked the concrete, dripping steadily, sliding in thin, sticky lines down the front of Pete’s pants.

Still not dead.

Morgan tilted his head toward the car, gaze slicing through shadow until it found Lex’s lens. Through the dark, through glass and fog, the red light blinked steady. Watching. Recording.

This one’s for you, he mouthed.

Then—finally—the blade plunged deep. Just under the ribs. Upward.

Pete made one last sound, almost a sigh, before his body slackened. His weight collapsed backward into Morgan’s arms, like wet cloth hitting stone.

Morgan lowered him gently, plucking the mirror from Pete’s clawed hand. The fingers were still twitching, just barely—an involuntary spasm, meaningless and final. A personal parting gift. A reflection of his final moments, streaked with fingerprints and blood.

Pete would live forever in this little compact.

The wallet and phone he’d dispose of somewhere else. Another trash can. Somewhere away from the body and restaurant.

So many moving pieces. So many small, careful lies to leave in London.

Morgan wiped the knife on his pants, sliding it back into his jacket as he stood.

Lex was still filming when Morgan turned back to the car.

“Are you done pouting now?” Morgan called, voice just loud enough to carry.

“I’m good!” Lex called back, leaning out of the driver’s side window with his thumb raised.

Morgan nearly laughed.

Spoiled rotten. Lex had no thought for anything except what pleased him. No patience for process, no respect for pace. But he watched. Always.

Back in the car, Lex was already half-twisted in his seat, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed with barely-contained glee. The phone had stopped recording, but the tension itself was a physical, needy thing.

Morgan flipped down the sun visor and opened the vanity mirror. His reflection stared back—plain, lips too chapped. He wiped at the faint fleck of red near his collarbone.

Lex was vibrating.

“Really?” he asked. “That was for me?”

Morgan didn’t look at him .

Lex’s voice dipped into a whine, soft and sharp around the edges. “You mouthed it. You said —”

“I know what I said.”

Lex reached out to touch his wrist and Morgan moved enough to keep it out of reach.

Groaning, Lex flicked the engine on. The hum of it filled the silence, broken only by the hiss of the window sliding down. Night air rushed in, brushing against his face, carrying with it the lingering scent of stone and something still bleeding.

“You’re not gonna tell me what happens now?” Lex asked.

“You didn’t win.”

“What—”

Morgan finally shut the visor.

“You challenged me. You lost. I’ll collect when we’re home. Not before.”

“Will I like it..?”

Teasing his little brother was much too easy.

Morgan turned to him, just enough to meet his eyes.

“Don’t push. Be my good boy.”

Lex buzzed beside him like a fly caught in sugar the entire drive back to the hotel. Fingers tapping, feet bouncing. He hadn’t stopped looking over—eager, twitchy, still drunk on blood.

Morgan didn’t speak .

He let the silence stretch. Let Lex fill it with noise, with questions he didn’t voice, with thoughts running rampant through that pretty, eager head.

Let him bask in the gap between reward and consequence.

The moment they stepped into the suite, Lex didn’t bother hiding it—he was glowing. Practically high. Morgan could almost see the endorphins and adrenaline humming inside of him.

Lex draped the tie over the bed like he couldn’t get it off fast enough, mouth already half-open.

Morgan held up a hand.

Lex stopped. Mid-step. Mid-thought.

“I’d like an audience for my prize,” Morgan said, tilting his head toward the locked door. “Follow me.”

Lex’s lips shut. Opened. Shut again.

Morgan unlocked the second bedroom door, pushing it open. The air inside was thick—sour with too many hours alone, sweat and fabric left untouched. Stale in its silence.

Ollie hadn’t moved from where Morgan left him. Curled awkwardly on the floor, bloody sheets holding his arms firm. For a moment, he wondered if Ollie was even alive.

Morgan brushed aside the heavy curtain, letting moonlight spill in.

Ollie flinched. His entire body rocked to the side, spine twisting, face pressed into his shoulder like it might shield him.

Good.

Not dead.

Lex would’ve been insufferable if their “pet” had expired between this morning and now .

Morgan crossed to him in three steps. Pulled the first-aid kit from the top of the dresser.

Popping open the white case, he tore two strips of medical tape. Exactly long enough to fit what he needed.

He adjusted Ollie’s head, tilting it up just enough to expose the eyes.

“I’m sorry if I—I did something,” Ollie whispered.

“You haven’t,” Morgan said. “But don’t move. You’ll lose more than those lashes."

Then the tape went on.

One eye. Then the other. Peeled taut. Unblinking.