Chapter 228 Chapter 227

Chapter 228 Chapter 227
Clark woke up to a weight against his back.
At first, it barely registered—just warmth, skin against skin, the rough scratch of stubble against his shoulder.
Then, hands.
A firm grip dragging down his waist, fingers digging in with possession rather than affection.
Clark stiffened.
“Morning, sweetheart,” the man behind him murmured, voice thick with sleep, lazy and satisfied. His teeth skimmed the shell of Clark’s ear. “How ‘bout a morning round?”
Clark’s eyes snapped open. \`Fucking hell. ´
He was too hungover for this.
He pushed back, dislodging the man’s hands. “Yeah, no. Get out.”
The guy didn’t move.
Didn’t even hesitate.
Instead, he chuckled, slow and deep, tightening his grip. “Aww, don’t be like that. You were real into it last night.”
Clark exhaled sharply. Peeled the man’s fingers off his hip and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
"I said, get out."
Still, the stranger didn’t move. Instead, he stretched, muscles shifting under last night’s bite marks, eyes dark with amusement.
"You sure?" he murmured, sitting up, the sheets slipping lower on his waist. "Because I remember you begging."
Clark’s stomach curled with irritation, \`Jesus Christ. Not again. ´ He turned, eyes flashing. “I’m not repeating myself.”
The guy’s smirk widened.
And that was when Clark knew.
This one was different.
Not just some faceless fuck looking for a good time. This one had a streak of entitlement. The kind that made Clark’s skin itch.
The man’s hands landed on him again—faster this time, fingers gripping Clark’s waist, pulling him back against his chest.
Clark’s breath hitched.
His pulse spiked.
"Last night, you wanted it rough," the guy murmured, breath hot against Clark’s skin. "So what’s with the act now, huh?"
Clark jerked away.
His voice came out sharp, edged. "Hands. Off. Me."
The guy didn’t budge. Didn’t move. If anything, his grip tightened.
"Come on, baby," he cooed. "You like it when I take charge, don't you?"
Clark’s jaw locked.
And then— The bedroom door slammed open.
The stranger barely had time to react before he was yanked off Clark, spun, and slammed against the wall with a force that made the entire room shake.
A thick forearm pressed against his throat.
Adam.
Expression unreadable.
Body still.
Voice deadly. "What the fuck did you just do?"
The guy choked. Gasped.
"Hey—what the fuck, man?!"
Adam didn’t move. Didn’t ease the pressure.
His voice remained calm. Flat. Unbothered.
"You didn’t hear him?"
The man gasped again. Hands grappling at Adam’s arm.
"You serious?" he croaked, eyes darting toward Clark. “You let me wreck you last night, and now you’re—”
Adam didn’t let him finish.
The stranger barely got half a second of air before Adam slammed him back against the wall.
Clark winced at the sound.
"I don’t give a fuck what happened last night," Adam murmured. His grip tightened. "He said no. That means you leave."
The guy’s face turned red.
His hands shot up in surrender, voice turning less arrogant, more defensive. “Alright, alright! Jesus—”
Adam let go.
The man stumbled, coughing, scrambling for his clothes.
Still, he shot Clark a sharp, resentful glare.
“You weren’t saying that when you were—”
Adam took a single step forward.
The guy shut up real fast.
He yanked his jacket off the chair, muttered something under his breath, then—without another word—stormed out.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Adam let out a sharp breath. Ran a hand over his face.
Clark, meanwhile?
Clark was already up, stretching, completely fucking naked like none of that just happened.
Adam blinked.
Clark didn’t give a shit.
Not about the near-assault, not about Adam, not about the fact that he was now standing there—naked—in front of an active fucking capo.
Adam sighed. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Clark, still completely unbothered, walked toward the dresser, pulling on slacks—no boxers.
Adam looked away. “Put on a shirt.”
Clark smirked. “Why?”
Adam turned, glaring. “Because you look like you just got fucked, and I don’t wanna see it.”
Clark snorted, but buttoned the damn thing anyway.
Adam sighed, shaking his head. “That right there? That’s your problem.”
Clark arched a brow. “What?”
Adam gestured vaguely. “This. Random men. You don’t even screen ‘em, do you?”
Clark rolled his eyes, turning toward the kitchen. “Oh, please. Like I need your input.”
Adam scoffed, following. “Yeah? What would’ve happened if I wasn’t here?”
Clark ignored him.
Opened the fridge.
Stopped.
Adam smirked. “Well?”
Clark stared.

Inside:

\- Four beer cans.
\- Suspicious takeout.
\- An expired milk carton.

Adam crossed his arms. Waiting.
Clark sighed, slamming the fridge shut.
Muttered, “I’ll grab something on the way.”
Adam’s smirk widened. “Yeah. No shit.”
Clark shot him a glare, then he exhaled sharply, “We’re leaving in twenty.”
He had to meet a judge today.
Clark ran a hand through his hair. Already tired.
Adam, meanwhile?
Adam just watched him.
Because for the first time, he wasn’t just irritated by Clark.
He was starting to see him.
And he didn’t like what he was looking at.

\---

Clark stepped out of the car with his usual grace—smooth, unbothered, perfectly composed. The expensive black suit, the crisp white shirt, the polished shoes—all of it screamed a man in control.
But Adam knew better.
Knew that underneath all that polish, Clark Brown was a mess.
Knew that two nights ago, he’d been moaning into a stranger’s mouth.
Knew that this morning, he’d had to pry another one off his bed.
And yet—here he was. Looking like nothing in the world could touch him.
Adam sighed, shaking his head as he followed Clark inside.
The lobby was obnoxiously pristine. Everything sleek, modern, expensive. The kind of place that smelled like old money and power, like people made decisions here that changed lives—ruined them, too.
Clark walked up to the front desk, adjusting his glasses off with effortless precision.
“Clark Brown,” he said, voice smooth, practiced. “I have an appointment with Judge Fitzgerald.”
The receptionist, an older woman with sharp nails and sharper eyes, gave him a polite nod, picking up the phone. Adam, meanwhile, let his gaze wander.
Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. Paintings worth more than a small house.
He let out a low whistle. “Damn. Rich people really love makin’ sure you know they’re rich, huh?”
Clark didn’t react, which, of course, meant he agreed.
The receptionist put the phone down and looked at them.
“Judge Fitzgerald will see you now,” she said.
Clark nodded, already turning toward the hall—
“Oh,” the receptionist added, glancing at her screen. “His office was recently moved. He used to be on the second floor, but he’s now on the fifteenth.”
Clark froze.
It was brief. Subtle. The kind of thing no one else would have noticed.
But Adam noticed.
The way Clark’s fingers tightened around the handle of his briefcase.
The barely-there inhale—slow, measured.
The small shift in his shoulders, like he had to remind himself to keep them relaxed.
Then—just as quickly as it came, it was gone.
Clark exhaled smoothly, nodding like nothing had happened. “Alright. Thank you.”
And then he turned, striding toward the elevators as if nothing was wrong.
But something was wrong.
And Adam?
Adam sure as hell wasn’t about to ignore it.
The elevator doors slid open.
A sleek, modern interior lined with mirrors. Soft, ambient lighting. Completely normal.
Clark stepped in.
Adam followed, leaning against the mirrored wall, arms crossed.
And that’s when he saw it.
Clark wasn’t leaning.
Didn’t shift his weight to one side like he normally did.
Didn’t cross his arms, didn’t tuck a hand into his pocket, didn’t even adjust his damn tie.
He just stood there. Still. Stiff.
Feet planted. Shoulders tense. Jaw locked.
Adam’s gaze sharpened.
His instincts—the same ones that had kept him alive for years in this goddamn business—told him everything he needed to know.
Clark Brown was a man who could talk his way out of anything. A man who could lie without blinking, who could fake a smile while dragging a knife across someone’s throat.
But right now?
Right now, he wasn’t in control.
Adam let the silence stretch.
Watched the minute signs Clark probably didn’t even realize he was giving away.
The faint twitch of his fingers.
The slight shift of weight from one foot to the other.
The way his breathing wasn’t quite as steady as it should’ve been.
Adam didn’t know exactly what the issue was, but he knew one thing—
Clark didn’t want to be here.
And that? That was interesting.
The elevator started moving.
Clark’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the handle of his briefcase.
Adam’s gaze flicked to him. “You good?”
Clark’s jaw tensed, but his expression remained impeccably neutral.
“Fine,” he said, clipped.
A lie.
Adam didn’t push.
Didn’t call him out.
Didn’t need to.
Because as the numbers ticked up—3rd, 5th, 8th floor—Clark’s body betrayed him.
Just a little.
Just enough.
And Adam saw every damn bit of it.
When the doors finally slid open, Clark was the first one out.
Stride measured, gaze sharp, not a single ounce of hesitation in his movement.
Like nothing had been wrong at all.
Adam, still leaning against the back wall, watched him go.
And for the first time since they’d met—
He had questions.