Chapter 25 The Morning After
Cedric woke to sunlight streaming through windows he'd forgotten to close the curtains on and the immediate, visceral memory of last night's conversation pressing down on his chest like a physical weight.
No more lies between us.
He groaned and pulled a pillow over his face, as if that could somehow block out the implications of what he'd agreed to. What he'd admitted. What he'd~fuck~felt standing in that study with Falcone's hands on him and truth hanging in the air like smoke.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Once. Twice. Three times in quick succession.
Cedric ignored it. Whatever it was could wait until he'd had coffee and maybe a lobotomy.
The pillow smelled like the expensive detergent Mrs. Kozlov used on everything in this house~something floral and clean that probably cost more per load than his old laundry budget for a month. Even the fucking pillows were a reminder of where he was. What he'd become.
What you're choosing to become, a voice in his head corrected. It sounded uncomfortably like Falcone.
Cedric threw the pillow across the room with more force than necessary. It hit the wall and fell to the floor with an unsatisfying soft thump.
He sat up slowly, running both hands through his hair. His reflection in the mirror across the room looked exactly how he felt: exhausted, confused, and like he'd been hit by a truck made of complicated emotions and sexual tension.
The hickey on his neck from two nights ago was finally fading to a yellow-green bruise. He'd have to remember to use the concealer Mrs. Kozlov had left in the bathroom drawer. The expensive kind that actually worked, not the drugstore shit that just made you look orange and still bruised.
His phone buzzed again. Four times now. Someone was persistent.
Cedric reached for it, squinting at the screen.
Three texts from Marcus:
Need to move up our meeting. Can you do today instead of Wednesday?
Important. Found something about Falcone you need to see.
Cedric, answer your phone.
One missed call from the same number.
And one text from a number that wasn't saved but that Cedric recognized anyway:
Breakfast is ready when you are. Take your time. -G
He stared at that last message for a long moment. The casual domesticity of it. The assumption that Cedric would come downstairs, that they'd eat together, that last night's confrontation would just... what? Dissolve into normalcy over scrambled eggs and coffee?
Except that wasn't fair. Falcone had been clear. Brutally, devastatingly clear. No more lies. Choose what you want. I'll wait.
Cedric's thumb hovered over Marcus's texts. He should respond. Should confirm whatever meeting Marcus wanted. Should maintain his cover, his exit strategy, his connection to the world outside this gilded mansion.
Instead, he opened Falcone's message and typed: Give me 20 minutes. Need to shower first.
The response came immediately: Take 30. Coffee will stay hot.
Cedric set the phone down and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw spots. What the fuck was he doing? Why was texting Falcone about breakfast times easier than responding to Marcus's increasingly urgent messages?
He knew why. He just didn't want to think about it.
The shower was as obscenely luxurious as always~eighteen settings, water pressure that could strip paint, temperature that stayed exactly where you set it. Cedric stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting the heat work out the knots in his shoulders and the tension in his neck.
He kept replaying last night. The firelight. Falcone's voice, calm and controlled even as he laid out every truth Cedric had been avoiding. The way he'd touched him~possessive but gentle, claiming but not cruel.
I think you want someone to take the choice away from you.
Cedric's hands balled into fists against the tile. Because yeah. Maybe he did. Maybe he was so fucking tired of making impossible choices with incomplete information and no good options that the idea of someone else deciding, someone else taking responsibility, was seductive in a way he didn't want to examine too closely.
But that was the coward's way out, wasn't it? Letting someone else own your life because it was easier than owning it yourself?
He stayed in the shower until the water started to cool, then forced himself out. Wrapped a towel around his waist and stood dripping on the heated tile floors~because of course the bathroom had heated floors~and stared at his reflection in the fog-covered mirror.
He was stalling. He knew it. The mirror knew it. Probably Falcone knew it too, sitting downstairs with his coffee and his patience and his unnerving ability to read Cedric like a book written in his native language.
Cedric wiped a hand across the mirror, revealing his face in sections. Same hazel eyes. Same sharp cheekbones that had filled out slightly now that he was eating regularly. Same mouth that had kissed Falcone last night like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
"You're so fucked," he told his reflection.
His reflection didn't disagree.
He dressed in the clothes laid out on the chair by the window~and when had that become normal? When had he stopped being surprised by the perfectly selected outfits that appeared like magic whenever he needed them? Gray joggers today, softer than sin. A black t-shirt that fit like it had been made for him, which it probably had. Even the socks were nice. Who the fuck had nice socks?
People who lived in mansions with crime lords, apparently.
Cedric checked his phone one more time before heading downstairs. Marcus had sent another text:
If I don't hear from you by noon, I'm coming to Falcone's club. This can't wait.
His stomach dropped. Marcus showing up at Elysium would be... bad. Really bad. The kind of bad that ended with people getting hurt and Cedric stuck in the middle trying to explain why his cover hadn't been blown weeks ago.