Chapter Sixty Three

Chapter Sixty Three
THUD.

The heavy steel throwing knife embedded itself deep into the center of the wooden target board hung on the exposed brick wall of Saint’s kitchen. The vibration hummed through the blade, a sharp, metallic sound that echoed through the quiet penthouse.

Saint stood in the center of the dimly lit room, his chest heaving. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of dark, low-slung trousers. A light sheen of sweat coated his defined abs and broad shoulders, gleaming beneath the warm amber ambient light. His palms, bound in white medical gauze where the shattered cocktail glass had cut into his skin two hours ago, throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache.

He reached for the bottle of amber cognac sitting on the marble island, pulling it to his lips and taking a heavy, burning swallow directly from the glass.

“Shit,” he whispered under his breath, his voice raspy and slurred at the edges.

His mind was a turbulent, chaotic storm. The combination of high-proof alcohol, a heavy hit of weed, and the residual adrenaline from facing down a loaded pistol had rendered him completely numb and dangerously hyper-aware all at once. He was upset, he was high, and he was deeply, profoundly drunk.

His corporate lawyer, George, had spent the last two hours pulling every political and financial lever available in the Capital. But despite the heavy retainer and the Benson family's immense influence, the magistrate had refused an immediate midnight release. The charges,unlawful discharge inside a crowded lounge, brandishing, and resisting arrest,were too heavy to sweep away in thirty minutes. The best George could secure was a priority morning hearing at 8:00 AM.

The silver lining was slim, but it was there, Tommy wouldn't be sleeping on a cold concrete floor in central booking for an entire weekend. He would be processed, held overnight in a private holding cell, and brought before a friendly judge at sunrise.

Still, it wasn't enough. The thought of Tommy,fragile, manic, privileged Tommy,sitting in a steel cell right now made Saint’s stomach turn into knots.

THUD.

Saint threw a second knife, the blade burying itself an inch from the first. He let out a dark, breathless laugh, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

A sudden, sharp knock echoed at the heavy front door of the penthouse.

Saint paused, his hand hovering over the third knife on the counter. He swayed slightly, blinking against the haze in his eyes. He assumed it was his local plug coming up the freight elevator with the extra stash he had texted for twenty minutes ago.

He fumbled with the latch, pulling the heavy door open with a careless jerk. "Took you long enough—"

The words died in his throat.

Standing on the threshold was not a street dealer. It was Harry Benson.

The patriarch of the Benson shipping empire stood framed by the hallway light. He was a man built like a fortress,broad-shouldered, imposing, and draped in a tailor-made charcoal suit that practically radiated wealth and absolute authority. His dark hair was silvered at the temples, and his jaw was set in a tight, impenetrable line.

Harry didn't speak right away. A man of his stature, a titan of the Capital’s industrial elite, usually commanded every room he stepped into with a single word. His son was currently sitting in a police holding cell because of the young man standing in front of him, and by all rights, Harry should have arrived with an army of security and a voice laced with thunder.

Instead, Harry stood completely frozen in the doorway.

His sharp, dark eyes had locked onto Saint the moment the door swung open. They dragged down from Saint's flushed, handsome face, taking in the glistening, bare chest, the sharp cut of his abs, and the way the low-slung trousers rested against his hips. For a long, suffocating second, the air between them went entirely still. Harry’s chest hitched, a subtle, involuntary reaction that he tried,and failed,to conceal.

Saint let out a slow, wicked breath. He didn't cover himself. He didn't reach for a shirt. He simply stepped back into the shadows of the foyer, holding the door wide open.

"Come in," Saint murmured, his voice thick and velvet-smooth.

Harry slipped inside, the heavy door closing behind him with a solid, definitive click that sealed out the rest of the world.

Saint turned, leaning his lower back against the hallway console table, crossing his arms over his bare chest. He looked Harry up and down, a lazy, provocative smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Brandy?" Saint offered, gesturing with his chin toward the half-empty crystal bottle resting on the kitchen island.

Harry tore his eyes away from Saint’s body, clearing his throat as he forced himself to stand taller, attempting to summon the cold, patriarchal composure that usually made grown men tremble in boardrooms.

"I'm not here to drink, Saint," Harry said, his deep, resonant voice tight and clipped.

Saint chuckled, a low, vibration in his throat as he pushed off the table and walked toward the island. "You sure about that?"

He picked up the heavy bottle, stepping directly into Harry’s personal space. The scent of sweet cognac, warm skin, and expensive cologne filled the narrow gap between them. Saint lifted the bottle, bringing the rim inches from Harry’s mouth. "It's good stuff, Mr. Benson. Might take the edge off."

Harry backed up half a step until his calf hit the plush leather edge of the living room sofa. He looked down at the bottle, then up into Saint’s dark, intoxicating eyes.

"I told you, I'm not here to drink," Harry repeated, though his breath was coming faster now, his composure fraying at the edges under Saint's intense, unblinking gaze. "Besides... I don't drink straight from the bottle."

The moment the words left his mouth, Harry regretted them.

Saint’s eyes lit up with a dangerous, golden warmth. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. "Is that right?"

Before Harry could react, Saint threw his head back, tilting the bottle and pouring a generous, heavy splash of the burning liquor directly into his own mouth. He didn't swallow.

In one swift, fluid motion, Saint set the bottle down on the side table and stepped into Harry’s space, placing a firm palm against Harry’s broad chest and shoving him back.

Harry stumbled over the frame of the sofa, landing heavily against the plush cushions. Before he could recover his footing or protest, Saint straddled his lap, sitting directly on top of Harry’s thighs.

"Saint—" Harry started, his hands instinctively coming up to push the younger man away.

Saint didn't give him the chance. He clamped both of his hands,white gauze and all,around the sides of Harry’s face, holding his head firmly in place.

The physical authority Harry held in the real world vanished beneath the weight of Saint’s reckless, uninhibited hunger. Harry couldn't resist. As Saint leaned down, his dark eyes demanding compliance, Harry opened his mouth.

Saint leaned over him, tilting his head, and poured the warm, fiery alcohol directly from his own mouth into Harry’s.

The hot, sweet liquid hit Harry’s tongue, burning down his throat. Harry swallowed greedily, his hands instinctively shifting from Saint’s chest to wrap around Saint’s bare waist, pulling the younger man down hard against him.

The cognac spilled over their lips, a warm, sticky trail running down Harry’s jaw and dripping onto Saint’s chest.

Saint let out a soft, guttural moan as the physical friction hit them both,the cool silk of Harry’s expensive suit rubbing against the heat of Saint’s bare skin.

Without giving Harry a second to breathe, Saint captured his mouth in a deep, desperate, liquid kiss. The taste of cognac and raw, forbidden desire exploded between them. Harry gasped into the kiss, his fingers digging deep into the muscles of Saint’s back, all thoughts of the precinct, his son, and his status melting away into the dark, intoxicating heat of the room.