9. Hart

"Awatched pot never boils," Hart said, leaning against the large desk in Cane's office.

He said it just to fill the silence between them. Just to give his mind something to focus on other than that kiss.

The kiss that had felt familiar with the rough, demanding lips claiming his. It had tasted just like he remembered—of smoke and Cane and the depravity he could deliver. The piercings that had brushed against the skin of his face had reminded him just who was stealing his breath and replacing it with pure, molten desperation.

Hart had barely slept. He'd spent the night hard, tossing and turning in the unfamiliar bed, wishing it wasn't empty. Wishing he was pinned down against it. And he'd spent the day hiding in Cane's guest room, refusing to go out until it was time for Cane to work in the evening. If he were being honest with himself, he'd confess it wasn't because he didn't want to see Cane. It was because he didn't trust himself not to ask Cane to finish what they had started.

Hart knew all too well what Cane could do to him. Or better yet, what he could do for him. He knew just how quiet the voices in his head got around Cane. Just how freeing it felt to let Cane know what he needed and trust Cane to give it to him. To take control. To allow Hart to just be, without the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. Even in the midst of a maddening case, he knew Cane could get him there.

His mind refused to let him forget he'd never gotten it from anyone else. And Cane was right. He craved it. He was one charged look and one casual touch away from caving and asking for it.

He had to get himself together. So he went back to what he knew best. Offering advice and pretending he was much more grounded than he was.

Cane didn't make it easy on him when he grunted in answer, never taking his eyes from the view outside his office window. He had his shirt off, his jeans slung low, the shifting patterns of his tattoos over carved muscle a vivid distraction that Hart pointedly ignored. A cigarette had burned down between his fingers without Cane taking a single pull. The sight of it threw another flash of last night into Hart's brain, and he moved forward, closer to the window to find something to distract himself.

He focused on the purple and red LEDs through the window. The thumping bass of the music as the crowds that formed some of the deepest underbelly of the city gathered. Currently two ‘fighters' were trying to make mincemeat out of each other, slamming each other against the bars of the cage. Even from this distance Hart could see the blood spray. He would normally have turned away, but he had a job to do, so he concentrated and tried to spot anything abnormal while Cane silently brooded.

There had been a few people in and out of the office since Cane had opened the place. Employees and guards who gave regular updates, exchanged money, and took the bets from the floor.

Cane had given each of them a hard time, double-checking every action they took in case they were afflicted with whatever curse this was. And when he wasn't doing that, he surveyed his kingdom, hoping it wouldn't crumble and burn around him.

Hart felt a small amount of sympathy, despite his jabs to the contrary.

While he didn't agree with much of what Cane got up to, there were far worse people in Slatehollow in the grand scheme of things. People who were probably in this warehouse right now. Cane wasn't exactly at the top of the list of people who needed retribution paid to them.

"Busy night," Hart said, trying to initiate conversation again, tired of the tension and the silence around them, needing it to stop making his palms clammy and sticking strands of hair to his neck in a nervous sweat.

"One of the larger fights this month is scheduled to close," Cane said, finally using his words. "These smaller ones are like appetizers."

"Still a full house," Hart said.

"We gotta offer something to the bottom of the barrel."

Hart turned his head, arching a brow at Cane's harsh profile. His strong features were half shadowed, the other half bathed in red. "Excuse me?"

Cane shrugged, unapologetic as always. Infuriating. It made Hart's skin crawl for all the wrong reasons. Made excitement rise that he tried to hold back.

"Smaller fights, smaller bets," Cane said, crossing his arms over his bare chest. "But it's entertainment for the masses. We cater to everyone."

"How noble." Hart rolled his eyes. "How many fights do you have scheduled tonight? How many people do you expect to show up, and will I have to pay specific attention to any of those people in attendance?"

Cane dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed it under his boot before turning toward him. He leaned a bare shoulder against the glass, close enough for Hart to feel the heat from his skin emanating outward with beckoning hands. Tempting him close.

"Three small fights," Cane said. "Not expecting anyone of importance there."

"And the big one?"

"It's my biggest fighter against an up-and-coming kid from out of town," Cane said. "The kid is a signed fighter with a…shall we say, acquaintance of mine."

"And will the ‘acquaintance' be here tonight?" Hart asked, catching the subtle shift in tone at the word.

"He sure will," Cane said. "And he doesn't really like me."

"Shocking."

Cane tilted his head, a wide grin revealing his teeth. "Now, now, sweetheart," he said, voice low and rumbling. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his skin prickle. "Pretending is pointless."

"Pretending what?" Hart asked, breaking their eye contact and focusing on the fight.

"That you don't like me," Cane said, taking a step closer until his naked chest was touching Hart's shoulder, his mouth at his ear. "Or that you don't know what I can do to you."

Hart sucked in a breath, biting his lip to keep himself from moaning, setting his face into a hard expression he hoped hid just how affected he was. He refused to fall back into Cane. Last night had been a mistake.

"I'm here to work," he said, short and sharp.

"Oh, I know," Cane said, lifting his hand up and flicking one errant lock of hair at the back of Hart's neck with his pinky. "But I'd be an idiot to have you this close without getting under your…"

He paused to run his gaze all over Hart, undressing him the way he always did. Like he could see beneath the slacks and the cashmere and the fancy boots. Like Hart's skin was his for the taking.

Like Hart's entire being was his.

"Stop it," Hart whispered. "You took enough."

"But I also gave you a lot, didn't I, sweetheart?" Cane said, stepping even closer, but turning his body so his chest was glued to Hart's back, caging Hart between him and the glass.

"It's in the past."

He could feel Cane's breath on his neck, could feel his nose brushing through his hair. He was everywhere.

"For now," Cane said, dropping a barely there kiss onto Hart's neck before stepping away with a satisfied smirk on his face.

Hart wanted to argue. He wanted to kick back and protest and reestablish his boundaries, but he realized he had very few left when it came to Cane. He just came barreling in and Hart let him. Every time, it seemed.

He took a deep breath and tried to re-center himself. Find his lost balance. No, not lost. Stolen. He closed his eyes and thought of the task ahead, the job he had to do, the clues he had to find and the puzzle he had to solve. He had no time to fall apart. Not now.

The fight outside came to an end, the sea of people moving as one as the current spectators left the warehouse and a new group took their place.

Like a tide, synchronized as they traded places. A dance.

Hart stared, trying to pick out individual faces in the mass, trying to focus on details so he'd forget his own body and the reactions Cane woke in him.

Hart spotted a tall, thin, light-haired man slinking through the crowd, looking completely out of place. His face was partly hidden by his shoulder-length hair, but Hart noticed him glancing around, a little melancholy, a little lost. He moved with everyone else, but it looked like he hadn't learned the dance just yet. Like he hadn't been practicing long enough.

He gave the impression of innocence surrounded by darkness. His shine muted and discolored.

"Who is that?" Hart asked, pointing.

Cane followed his finger, getting his face way too close to the finger for it to be necessary. "Light hair? Looks like arm candy?"

Hart frowned at the description and fought back the surprising and aggressive jealousy in his chest. "Yes. The man with light hair."

Cane smiled. "Something wrong with my other descriptor, sweetheart?"

"Who is he?" Hart repeated, refusing to be baited.

"Exactly who I said he was," Cane said, finally stepping away from him and allowing him to breathe. "Arm candy. To whoever wants to buy him for the evening."

Hart startled slightly, looking back down and seeing a man suddenly pull the guy onto his lap. "Is he… Does he work for you?"

Cane grunted. "I don't dabble in that sort of work. He makes his own business. Isn't permanently tied to any crime boss I know."

"He's alone."

"He won't be for long," Cane said. "Once the walking ATMs are in, someone will buy his attention."

"Right," Hart said, turning away from the window and regretting it instantly when he found Cane finally putting on a shirt.

He bit down on his lip viciously to stop himself begging him to just keep it off. To stay half naked and tattooed and warm by his side even through his protests. It was sick. He was sick. The way he wanted Cane to push even as he protested. The way he needed it.

"Problem?" Cane whispered, pausing with his shirt bunched under his armpits. Those dark eyes were practically glowing with understanding, getting their hooks into his soul and tearing.

Hart tasted blood as Cane's abs flexed. The dim light of his office made the shadows on his body more pronounced. He looked like the beast Hart knew him to be.

"No," Hart said, harsher than he intended. So unlike him.

But so like the Hart Cane knew.

"I can stay naked," Cane offered.

Hart whipped around again, face burning, but the word no evaporated on his tongue. He couldn't get it out, his body refusing to cooperate. Cane had left a hole in him last night—something ugly and hungry, yawning open and ragged. It was showing now. Calling out desperately.

Fill me, fill me, fill me!

He closed his shaking hands into fists and shook his head.

Calm.

Peace.

Hart had control over his vices. He could manage himself. He couldn't need… He couldn't want…

No.

He didn't need. He didn't want.

Cane's footsteps were heavy behind him, and then there were arms caging him in yet again. The hard body at his back pressed him forward this time. Hart's heart began to hammer, and he braced a damp hand against the glass, but it didn't help. He was crushed against it. Trapped. His body gorged itself on the contact, the rush of it making him dizzy as euphoria burst through his veins, almost making his eyes roll back in his head.

Cane dipped his nose into Hart's neck and inhaled like he knew. "You still smell the same. Like a desperate little thing waiting for someone to take you apart."

Hart gasped at the words, reaching back to push at Cane, only finding bare, hot skin under his fingers and becoming paralyzed.

It had been so long.

The fight started below, the crowd cheering and raucous. It was all muted and slow.

Blood flew and splattered over the floor inside the cage, bruises bloomed on the fighters' skin, and people grew feral in their seats. As if they could smell the blood. The violence. As if they were sharks swimming in blood-tainted waters, waiting to strike.

Hart was in his own pool. He had his own shark showing its teeth at him. He was bleeding out all over, unable to stem it, watching it bloom like a flower. Cane only needed that tiny amount to smell it. Just a drop. Hart was completely at his mercy. Hiding the fact that he wanted to rip himself open to make the bleeding worse. Make it last longer.

Hart felt his hand on Cane's stomach engulfed by a larger, calloused one, moving it down over the hard, heated skin. Down past the waist of Cane's jeans, stopping just shy of the humid hardness that hid below. Teasing him with what he needed but never giving it to him.

Hart could feel what Cane wanted. He wanted him to ask. To beg.

Hart dug his nails into Cane's skin in retaliation, even as his knees weakened like they wanted to fold and lower him to Cane's feet.

"I hate you," Hart breathed, forehead resting against the glass, breath fogging it.

"You don't hate me," Cane purred, licking along his jaw in one long stripe, like marking territory. It was disgusting. It was everything. "You hate that I know you. Better than your trainers. Better than your brothers. I know you."

"You don't—"

"Every sick craving. Every dark desire," he growled the words into the side of his face, taking hold of his neck and forcing his head back. Hart whimpered. "You've breathed them all into my skin, sweetheart. I've taken you apart and I've seen every…single…one."

Hart closed his eyes as the words settled into his bones and sank under his skin. He fell into the harsh touches he craved, hypnotized by poisonous words that sounded too close to the truth. He opened his mouth to finally ask, unable to help himself, when he was cut off by a loud scream.

Hart's eyes shot open, and he looked down through the glass to see the flash of a knife under the lights, and then there was nothing but blood and chaos.