8. Cane

Cane stood at the window, peering out at the dark, filthy streets. The only light was from the end of his cigarette. The lamps outside had long since burned out and had never been replaced. This area of the city was too close to the warehouse district for anyone to be bothered about the miserable fuckers who lived here, and Cane never bothered with lights in general. He didn't want to broadcast he was home, and it was easier to surveil in the dark anyway.

Which was what he was doing. He wasn't waiting like an overeager dog for the sight of a specific human, whimpering and whining.

He took a deep drag of his cigarette, letting the burn fill his lungs.

He hated needing anyone.

Cane handled his shit with his own two hands. There wasn't a job too dirty or low. He treated it all the same. He didn't owe people favors. The only debts he dealt in were the collecting type. But now he was at the mercy of a curse and begging a cursebreaker for help. It rubbed his insides raw. Like someone had taken a grater to his organs.

This wasn't how the script was flipped.

He wouldn't cower and break under the pressure.

He wouldn't let his world crumble.

Not again.

The headlights of a perfectly clean black car pulled up in front of his building, and Cane pushed himself away from the window, flicking the end of his burned-out cigarette into an ashtray on the coffee table.

He threw his front door open and walked out barefoot in his jeans and white muscle shirt to stand in front of the elevator, waiting for it to rumble to the top floor. A neighbor on his floor opened the door, dressed and ready to head out. One look at Cane and he scurried back inside and slammed the door.

Cane was pretty sure the guy sold drugs.

And he was pretty sure it wasn't his business as long as he kept it away from his territory.

A soft dinging sound pulled his attention back around and the elevator door screeched open, echoing in the empty hallway.

Hart stepped out hesitantly, his eyes darting around before they found Cane and wavered slightly as they took him in. A depth of raw, roiling emotions glimmering there until the shutters came down.

Cane ran his eyes over him from head to toe in return as the tension built.

Gone was the stuffy three-piece suit and colorful tie and pocket square combination. Instead, he was wearing a pair of beige slacks, a dark brown knit sweater, and a matching brown leather belt and loafers. His hair was even a little more relaxed, a few strands lying over his forehead instead of perfectly laid down.

A leather duffle bag was swinging from one white-knuckled hand.

"You tryin' to blend in, sweetheart?" Cane asked, keeping his voice mocking to cover up for the fact that his dick definitely liked the sight of Hart looking more like a human and less like a porcelain doll. He looked softer. More real. Fucking edible.

"I doubt this is blending, but I did try to look more approachable," Hart said, logical as always. "Make it more appropriate for the environment I'm in."

Cane closed the distance between them. "You want to be approached?"

Hart stepped back, eyes wide at the implication. He hit the rusty elevator doors that had closed behind him. "That is not what I meant."

His voice was just a little bit higher, nervous and out of his control, and it scratched an itch in Cane so satisfying he felt himself get a little hard. He reached out and Hart tensed, eyelashes fluttering and pupils growing so large they swallowed his irises.

What a sweet treat ripe for the picking.

He let his hot breath fan over Hart's mouth for a second, watching Hart's lips part like he wanted to breathe it in. And then he plucked Hart's bag from his lax fingers and stepped back.

"It's how I heard it."

He turned and carried the bag inside, listening for the sound of Hart's stuttered breathing and then his shaky footsteps behind him.

Cane smiled to himself and dropped the bag in the living room.

Hart stumbled through the door, closing it behind him. "I didn't say it like that," he repeated.

Cane didn't bother to look at him, just walked to the kitchenette attached to the room, a counter the only thing separating the spaces. He pulled a beer out of the fridge and slammed it shut with his shoulder. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

"And why is it so dark in here?" Hart asked, clearly trying to compose himself.

"Because I like it that way."

Hart located and flicked the switch, lighting the space up with a dim yellow glow, and Cane glowered at him over the lip of his bottle.

"You should be polite to company," Hart said, stepping in farther and glancing around his place with an assessing eye.

"You should be polite in other people's homes," Cane countered, wondering what he saw. Cane wasn't exactly big on home decor. Or cleaning. Or caring.

He'd kept everything pretty much the same as the previous owners including the gray and white color scheme and layout. He'd even kept the furniture they had left over, only adding the necessities. Like the flatscreen. It wasn't big or flashy.

It was just…average.

Hart swung his gaze away from the bookcase that held empty beer cans instead of books and arched a brow. "I can leave right now."

"You keep threatening that, but you won't."

Hart clenched his jaw and marched over to his bag to grab it. "Where am I staying? And if you point to that stained couch, I really am leaving."

Cane took a long, drawn-out pull from his beer before setting it aside and moving. "This way."

He led Hart down a narrow hallway to the left of the entrance. The hallway had a large bathroom on the left and three other rooms on the right. The first room was Cane's home office, which he literally never used so he just stuffed whatever shit he couldn't find space for in there. He was pretty sure the place didn't even look like an office anymore. Looked more like a storage room after an earthquake.

The second room was his bedroom. And fuck if he didn't itch to just open the door and herd Hart right in there, throw him onto his bed and make him scream his name.

He wouldn't though. Not yet. Not until Hart asked for it nicely.

He led him to the third door and threw it open, taking in the unused guest bedroom with an attached bathroom. It was done in muted grays and completely nondescript, but Cane had a feeling Hart might like that. It was tidy, at the very least.

Hart marched past him, bathing Cane in the scent of cedar as he took in the room in front of him.

He looked into every corner, turning on the heel of his annoyingly high-end loafers before nodding and placing his bag on the foot of the bed.

"Adequate," he said, unzipping his bag and pulling out a leather-bound notebook and a fancy-ass-looking pen. Cane didn't know they even sold fucking pens like that anymore. Who wrote shit down by hand enough to warrant it?

Hart. That's who.

"Shall we begin?" Hart asked.

"With?" Cane asked, adding a lift to his eyebrow that was as suggestive as his tone of voice.

"Planning how to break whatever curse was placed upon you or your people?" Hart said firmly, walking out of the room and back down the hallway like he owned the place.

Cane followed lazily, letting Hart think he was in control for now. He'd deal with his snippy, prissy ass soon enough. Hart took a spot on the gray couch, moving some of Cane's discarded clothes with the tips of his fingers and a scrunched nose.

Cane wanted to laugh but held it back. It was much more fun to prolong the reaction. To wait until Hart got so ruffled he exploded. It was a beautiful sight.

"Okay, so how do we do this?" Cane asked, sitting next to Hart on the couch. Closer than was actually needed.

Hart tensed at the proximity, and Cane felt something feral raise its ugly head inside his chest. Fuck, but he loved how Hart responded to him.

"I've been thinking about the best course of action," Hart said primly, placing his hands on his knees and folding his fingers together. The picture of serenity and control. "All of the incidents happened at work, if I'm not mistaken?"

"You know you're not," Cane said.

"In that case, I believe the best plan is what you suggested. Just keep going through your regular routine and I'll be shadowing you," Hart said. "I'll stay alert and keep an eye on anything out of the ordinary."

"So," Cane said, pressing his shoulders into the back of the couch and lifting his hips up to fish a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket. He smirked at the quick glance Hart cast at the obvious bulge in his pants. "You'll be glued to my ass, keeping an eye on it?"

"Again, not what I meant," Hart said sharply.

"Again, it's how I heard it." Cane put a cigarette between his lips and lit it. He took a deep pull on it, embracing the sting in his throat and lungs before releasing a puff of smoke into the air between them.

He watched Hart's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Cane smirked and extended the box toward Hart. He saw his fingers flex for a split second before he shook his head.

"How many times do I need to tell you? I quit," Hart said, but the clench of his jaw told a different story.

"Sure you did." Cane let out a short laugh, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. He released perfectly formed rings of smoke into the air and saw Hart watch them longingly even though he tried to hide it.

"We've never discussed something," Hart said, breaking the silence and clearly trying to distract himself.

"What?" Cane leaned his head back against the couch, crossing his ankle over his knee.

"Enemies." Hart cracked the spine of his journal open and uncapped his pen.

"What about them?" Cane asked, acting stupid on purpose.

"I will need to start ruling people out," Hart said.

"The list would be too fucking long, sweetheart," Cane said. "If I had a nemesis, don't you think I would have taken care of that bastard myself before even calling you?"

He ran his fingers over his stomach, tracing a tattoo-covered scar in the middle of it. He used to have a sworn nemesis. Not anymore.

"I still think it's worth creating a pool of names. Start with who hates you the most and work your way down if you want," Hart said dryly. "You can scratch my name off the top for brevity purposes."

Cane snorted, puffing out another lungful of smoke right at Hart at the exact moment the other man inhaled. "Mmm, you'd be at the top of a completely different list, I think."

Hart visibly refused to breathe for a second until the smoke dissipated, keeping his eyes fixed on his notebook. "I'd appreciate it if you could be serious for five seconds."

"Oh, I'm very serious, sweetheart." Cane leaned into his ear to whisper against the shell, "Want me to tell you which list it is?"

Hart slammed the journal shut and turned to face Cane.

"Okay," he said sharply, narrowing his eyes and breathing heavily. "This…whatever it is, isn't going to work."

"What are you talking about?" Cane asked, playing dumb.

Hart pointed at him. "I am here on a business assignment. One you will be paying me handsomely for, I might add."

"I don't get a friends and family discount?" Cane asked, turning to mirror Hart's position, their knees brushing between them. He laid his arm across the back of the couch, his hand falling near Hart's head. The urge to grab him was a tough one to fight.

"Cursebreakers don't have families," Hart said, being obtuse by trying to skirt between the lines.

Hart didn't have a biological family, but he had a family. No other word could describe that fucking madhouse he was a part of. But Cane wasn't going to bother engaging in a fight about the semantics of family with a guy who worked on relationship curses for a living.

"You do have friends," Cane said. "And I'd like to think I fall into that category."

"You can work out your discounts with Ash, in that case. I expect to be compensated in full for my work."

Cane pulled from his cigarette. "Oh, I can compensate—"

"Absolutely not!" Hart interrupted, waving another gust of smoke away. "No innuendos, no smirks, no casual touches, none of it. I'm here to work."

"All work and no play—"

"No." Hart cut him off, inching away and lifting his notebook as a guard. "All I need from you is a list of names."

Cane sighed. Riling Hart up was fun, but it wasn't actually helping him with the problems he was having. He reached toward the ashtray on the table and flicked the cigarette over it, sending a flurry of ash into it, then he leaned back and ran his other hand over his face.

"Like I said, the list might get long," Cane said.

"Okay." Hart accepted the silently offered truce. "Try to narrow it down."

Cane thought about who could be behind it.

"I recently discovered Gloria Santos is trying to make a move on my business," Cane said. "It was the first hint of this being a curse. Jones leaked intel, acted like he had no idea about it, all that jazz. I put an end to it, but she stands to lose a fuckload of money."

"Language," Hart said again, like a reflex, noting the name down.

"It's foul, just like always, sweetheart." Cane winked. He knew Hart didn't actually mind his language. "You know me."

"Next." Hart didn't even look up from his journal, tapping the pen on it impatiently.

"I had a few distributors who tried to overcharge me for their services when I first started out," Cane said. "Weren't too impressed when I called them out on their bullshit."

"Names?" Hart demanded and Cane recited them for Hart to jot down. "Anyone closer to you? Everything that's happened so far has looked to be coming from inside the house."

"Because of this fucking curse."

"So you've had no issues with any of them in the past? Nothing that would cause one of them to try and get revenge on you?" Hart asked.

"I don't make a habit of hiring people who have it in for me. Or who would be quick to turn on me," Cane said. "I learned that lesson already."

Hart narrowed his eyes. "That sounds like a lead."

"More like a dead end. It's buried. History."

"By buried, you don't actually mean…" Hart said carefully.

Cane took another pull from his cigarette and let it out slowly, his jaw tensing. "Best for you not to know."

Hart was silent for a moment after that. Nothing like implied murder to kill the mood. But Cane had never pretended to be anything he wasn't, and he wasn't about to justify the specifics of that can of worms right now.

"So there's nothing?" Hart asked after a time, giving another impatient wave of his hand. "You didn't kill someone's significant other for doing a bad job or miss someone's birthday?"

Cane gave him a dry look. "Those are two extremely different things."

"Some people take their birthdays very seriously."

Cane rolled his eyes. "I pay my workers well. They fuck up, they reap the consequences, but I'm not a murderous tyrant. And I also don't hire fuckups in the first place. Which is part of the reason I called you. When a well-oiled machine starts making noises, you pay attention."

Hart sighed, perusing his carefully constructed notes. Cane flicked his spent cigarette into the ashtray and lit another one. Hart's eyes darted to it, then shifted pointedly away, his leg beginning to jump up and down.

"What about competitors?" Hart said, trying to stay strong even though Cane knew his body was crying out for a hit. "I'm sure you have some competition in your…field."

"Competition is a strong word."

"Humility is the solid foundation of all virtues," Hart said primly, in true Hart fashion.

"Humility can kiss my successful ass."

Hart raised a brow. "And how successful are you feeling right now?"

It was a low blow. Purposefully placed. Cane ground his teeth as Hart looked at him in that smug, superior way that made Cane want to take him apart.

"How successful are you feeling?" Cane hit back, leaning into him and making sure it stung just right. He waved the lit cigarette under his nose. "Because to me it looks like you're having a hard time."

Hart scowled, trying to bat his hand away. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Really?" Cane asked, creeping his other hand along the sofa's edge to stroke Hart's neck.

Hart jerked at the soft touch, a gasp falling from his lips involuntarily until he swallowed it back. He turned furious, dark eyes on Cane, throwing his pen and notebook aside with a clatter. Cane lapped up every furious pulse of anger like a greedy beast.

There you are, sweetheart.

"I told you," Hart said, pointing a finger under his nose. His hair had fallen even more from its casual style, disheveled and messy over his forehead and flicking into his eyes.

Cane wanted to run a hand through it and pull. Hard.

Instead, he grabbed Hart's hand, encompassing the whole fist and squeezing. "Told me what? Repeat it."

Hart jerked his hand to no avail. "Don't touch me."

"I don't think you mean that," Cane said. He could see the flush on Hart's cheeks. The want in his eyes, even though his mouth protested. It was a familiar dance that never failed to get Cane hot. "I'm just trying to help you out."

"I don't need anything from you," Hart growled, but Cane could feel his racing pulse under his fingers. The excitement turned his blood electric.

Cane took a deep inhale from his cigarette, still casually holding on to Hart. He made sure to fill his lungs completely, dragging as hard as he could and ditching the remains before yanking Hart forward and slamming their mouths together.

Hart gasped, and Cane used the opportunity to exhale, pushing that burning cloud of nicotine straight into Hart's wanting mouth.

Hart moaned. Wantonly. Needily. Loudly. It was a sound Cane wanted to eat from his mouth, using his tongue to lick at it through the smoke. Hart's free hand grasped desperately at Cane's neck, fingernails biting into his flesh as he dragged him closer and harder because he needed it. Him. Hart needed him.

Cane felt the smoke curl around their faces, tendrils sneaking up their noses. He took hold of Hart's neck and pressed him flat onto his back, feeding the last vestiges of smoke to him. Through his half-closed lids he could see the ecstasy on Hart's face as he gave in to it and finally stopped fighting. Victory had never tasted so fucking sweet. Addiction had never tasted so good.

He slipped his leg between Hart's, feeling his hardness and pressing his own to Hart's hip. He ached to roll his hips but held himself back.

This wasn't about getting off.

He wanted to take Hart apart piece by piece. It was easy to get lost in a moment. To fuck. That wasn't what Cane wanted. Cane wanted to own Hart. He wanted him to beg for it. To be lost without him—an addiction he couldn't quit.

He tightened his grip on Hart's neck, pushing into the soft spot under his jaw to tip his chin up. Hart whimpered. Their lips moved together messily, damp and tasting of smoke, sending tingles of electricity through Cane.

All he needed to do was give in and Cane would give him everything. He could tear the world apart and lay it at Hart's feet if he wanted it.

All Cane wanted in return was him.

Wholly. Completely.

Not the facade he showed the world.

He wanted every ragged, imperfect inch of him. The places he'd seen in glimpses. The places Hart tried to guard from him and lock away.

Cane wanted it.

Cane would have it.

Just…not right now.

He pulled back from Hart and looked down at him. He was splayed out, flushed pink and completely wrung out. At his mercy and beautiful. But there was still fight in him. Cane could see it hovering around the edges as he blinked, his eyes unfocused and hazy.

Not yet, he thought to himself.

He let go and got to his feet, licking the lingering taste of Hart from his mouth. He watched as good sense came back to Hart. Watched all those loose muscles tense again as he prepared to rant at him, rave, deny what was between them, refute what had happened.

Cane reached down and wiped Hart's lower lip for him before he could speak. "You know where to find me if you wanna finish this, sweetheart."

And then he walked away.

He knew Hart wouldn't take him up on the offer. He was still too proud. Still too caught up in denying himself things. But Cane, despite people's impressions of him, could be endlessly patient when he wanted something badly enough.

He'd waited this long, after all.

He just needed to wait for Hart to snap.