“Isaac, I don't understand.”
“It just happens,” he insisted. “The shift. I don't choose it. Every night at 11pm, and until every morning at 5am. I give myself an extra hour as a buffer, and I lock myself away. But it happens when I'm angry, too,” he said, words coming out like the floodgates had opened. Marcus wasn't surprised. If this was true – and his head was hurting far too much to decide either way – then he doubted Isaac had found much opportunity to discuss it in the past, even a handful of times. “I… I wasn't spying on you, but my hearing is… exceptional. I was walking by in the corridor and I heard him begin to insist, and you begin to refuse, and...”
“You lost control,” Marcus finished for him, too stunned to feel anything else.
“I gave up my company for this,” Isaac told him. “Years ago people knew my name. I was a big player in the city, and it all had to end. I've been up here ever since – a prisoner to my own emotions. I try so hard to keep them in check. Kissing helps,” he added. “It's a distraction. I don't know how else to cope. I don't think this counts as coping.”
“It's not your fault,” Marcus assured him. “You didn't do this on purpose, and… you can...”
He just couldn't get his head around Jack. The guy was an asshole, but could he really overcome the thought that he'd been violently ripped apart last night, and that Isaac had been the one to do it – however out of his mind he was?
He swallowed. “It'll be fine,” he said. “I'm not going to tell, but… I think I need to be on my own for a while.”
“Of course,” said Isaac. “Go get some rest. We'll see to your head later; I had a brief look while you slept, but it doesn't seem too serious, so-”
“No,” Marcus interrupted. He was too overwhelmed to be polite. “Not here. I mean – out. Out there. I've got to just… get away. I can't be here where he died. It's my fault; I mean. If I'd just...”
“It's not your fault.”
“But it happened because of me,” Marcus insisted, holding eye contact briefly before a shiver up his spine sent him staring off in the other direction again. “I don't think I can do this anymore, Isaac. I don't – I don't blame you, I don't think you're a freak. I'm not angry. I'm not afraid of you. I just can't be here right now. I just can't.”
Isaac swallowed, eyes down at the floor. Marcus took the opportunity to look over into the corner where Jack's corpse had lain, but there was nothing there now – not even a blood stain. It was as though he'd never been here.
Marcus wanted to feel as though he'd never been here, too.
“Stay with me,” Isaac asked, after a beat. “I know you miss the stage, and I know this can't have helped, with your friend, but… he wasn't right for you, and the stage isn't right for you. It could be just us here – you and me...”
“This isn't about that,” Marcus countered, disgusted at what he was hearing. “Not at all, and I do belong on the stage. We've talked about this; that's my dream. I thought you cared more than that about me.”
“Of course I care about you,” Isaac promised, voice softer than Marcus had ever heard it – but he had not apologized, and it didn't make up for what he'd just said. Not in the slightest.
Marcus shook his head. “You're mistaken about me. You barely know me at all, and I barely know you. I – I have to leave. I won't tell, but… please just leave me alone. This isn't me; this isn't my life. Not this.”
He stood, head spinning, and Isaac stood with him. The cut on his lip had reopened sometime last night, and it looked red and sore now, a harsh contrast against the paleness of his face, and the mess of his hair. “Will you let me set you up?” he asked, voice low. “With an apartment somewhere. Just while you get established – just so I know that you're safe.”
“No,” said Marcus. He surprised himself, hearing that, but of course no other answer was possible. If he was going to prove to himself and to Isaac that he could do this, and that he was worth this, then he had to do it on his own. “You don't have to feel guilty, Isaac. You haven't screwed me up; I'm not escaping from you. It's just… it reminds me what I need from you. What you won't give me. I can't get past that.”
Isaac nodded down at the ground, one arm crossed over himself. For the first time, he seemed cowed by his nudity. “I can't stop you.”
Marcus shook his head. “No,” he agreed. “You can't.”
It took him approximately half an hour to gather up his things before he left, leaving behind anything that Isaac had paid for or gifted to him. After that, he was gone.
Walking out of the penthouse didn't give him the rush of freedom he had been expecting, but maybe that was on a delay. He made his way straight downtown to find an internet cafe.
Like hell he was going back to AJ's house. He was going to have to seriously hustle to find somewhere to sleep tonight, but he was determined to do it for himself now – no matter what it took.
Chapter Ten
Everyone at the audition was so complacent in the face of Jack's disappearance that it forced Marcus to reconsider how they'd responded to his own. Had most of them noticed at all? Had Jack even noticed, until Charles made some offhand comment about him? The entire corridor of people he was walking through right now were paying absolutely no attention to one another. All their focus was on their lines – but in about ten seconds' time, they were all about to be equally disappointed. The role had already been filled.
He'd won the part.
It had taken weeks of hard work. He'd found a bar that was hiring, and willing to let him crash in the office until he could afford a deposit on a small apartment share in Brooklyn. He worked nights at the bar, and worked days on his craft, attending all the same open calls and auditions he had run for the first time.
This time, however, he wasn't taking chances. This time, it was war – Marcus vs. Broadway. And Marcus intended to win.
As the only person who knew where Jack had gone to, he sometimes felt his absence a little sorely – but he'd be lying if he said he really mourned him. He was closer to mourning Isaac, who was still alive; he was just far beyond Marcus's reach now. The life Isaac needed him to live and the life Marcus wanted were too far apart. The accident had shocked him into realizing that, and it was an understanding he couldn't go back on.
There was an Isaac-shaped hole in his life now, sure – but that was 1,000 times better than letting his dreams run away from him in favor of the easy option. No doubt about it, taking care of Isaac had been the easy option.
He fought against texting him. If Isaac ever wanted to change his mind, he reasoned, then he would contact him. Both he and Benson still had the number. It hadn't changed – but the call never came.
Well. Not to his cell, in any case.
It was a cool November afternoon when the buzzer on his door rang. None of the others were home, so it was Marcus's job to amble out of his room and answer it. He'd only just gotten in from rehearsal for the part he'd won, and he was slightly grumbly at having to answer to some salesperson whose products they neither wanted nor needed.
Then he heard the voice on the other side of the fuzzy old speaker.
“Marcus,” he said. “It's Isaac. Can I come in?”
“Sure,” he said, too stunned to say anything else – or to refuse. He pushed the release button, allowing him up, and glanced at himself in the mirror.
Well, shit.
He had no time to tidy the place up. Then again, no amount of tidying would make this place impressive to a man like Isaac, who was used to all the opulence and luxury his money could buy. He could only hope that the new, successful and self-supporting Marcus would be impressive enough on his own, despite the shitty apartment he lived in.
He looked strange in the doorway, with his Armani jacket a neat clash beside the gray, graffiti-covered stone wall. “Hi.”
“Hey,” Marcus greeted him, suddenly shy. “Do you want to come in? It's kind of, um… it's a little cramped, but it's home.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Isaac stepped in, wiping his feet uselessly on the doormat – which was probably cleaner than the carpet, as it was newer. Marcus realized that this was the first time he had ever seen Isaac out of his penthouse. For all he knew, it was the first time he'd left in years. If so, then this meeting was a hell of a lot more significant than just a simple fly-by visit.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I miss you,” said Isaac, far more outright than Marcus had been expecting. He couldn't fight off the blush as he continued. “At first I missed you for the security – the chains, the code. But it's, ah… it's very quickly become clear that that's not everything I miss. Not at all.”
“Isaac...”
“I know it's a lot to ask,” he said. “I know you're working now. I have, uh… ways of checking these things.” Marcus didn't doubt it. “I'm looking forward to seeing your play if I can, but...”
This was more nervous than Marcus had ever seen Isaac. When he paused to clear his throat, he bent to cover his mouth, and Marcus spotted the hint of a blush at the base of his collar.
“I just have to ask you to come back,” he said, quietly. “No rules – no… imprisonment. You can come and go as you please, just as long as… ah. You know. You come back. To me. If that's something you want.”
The sincerity in his voice weighed so strongly against the cryptic and overconfident tone that he was used to hearing, and it made his words all the more impactful. Marcus almost felt himself tearing up, swallowing hard at the thought that Isaac's feelings had been strong enough to propel him all the way out here to this tiny, shitty old apartment block, and to say these things – to put himself well and truly on the line, out in public. Anything could happen.
In thinking about it, he paused too long, and Isaac's gaze fell. “It's alright if you're not interested. I just had to ask.”
“No,” Marcus insisted, quickly. “Don't – I mean. I am. I am interested.”
Isaac looked up so fast it must have hurt his neck.
“I'd love to come back with you,” he said. “I just… I had to prove it, you know? That I could do it, and that you wanted me, and...”
“Well,” Isaac said. His gray eyes were hungry, but not in the way they had been as a panther, or when he was full of anger. “You did. You did that.”
“We should, um...”
Isaac needed no further invitation. He stepped closer without a pause, cupping Marcus's face in both hands, and kissed him soundly on the lips. Marcus gave a quiet, strangled cry, feeling the release of all the tension he'd been inadvertently holding since the day he had walked away. Replacing it was the old hypnotic pull he'd felt towards Isaac, but he didn't mind that at all.
He didn't know whether that magnetism was something to do with being a shifter, or whether Isaac was simply someone he was meant to be with. Either way, he didn't care. He loved this man for everything he was; whatever aspect of him caused this effect, that was perfectly alright with Marcus.
“I want to fuck you,” Isaac admitted, voice low and gruff against his lips. “If we can – your room, or…?”
Marcus grinned at the broken sentences, hands smoothing down over his back. “Sure. My room.”
His bed was small and creaky, and certainly nothing like the luxurious spreads that Isaac was used to – but none of that seemed to matter right now. Isaac's only focus was his clothing, and his body, and the feel of their lips against one another. It felt intoxicating to be the subject of that attention. As Isaac nipped away at the skin of his collar, smoothing his hand down over the front of his pants for a quick rub at his already-hard cock, he couldn't help but tip his head back, closing his eyes.
“God, I've wanted this for so long.”
“Me too,” Isaac assured him, hand slipping under the waistband of his pants for only a brief second. “God, Marcus. So long.”
His touch, predictably, was firm and rough. All the gentleness was reserved for his expression, and his words; his hands and fingers, as they ran over him and then slipped inside Marcus to prepare him, were another story entirely. It had been altogether too long since Marcus had been fucked, and it was such a relief that it would happen like this, with someone as handsome and as capable as Isaac.
He heard himself moaning Isaac's name like a prayer, hands tight in the sheets underneath him, and the quiet laugh in return. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Please hurry up,” Marcus said in return. “I want you.”
Isaac couldn't refuse such a direct request. Slicking himself up with a healthy dose of lubricant, he lifted one of Marcus's legs to kiss at the underside of his knee. “I want you too.” Pulling him closer to the right angle, he made sure he had Marcus's eye contact before he guided himself in, thick and long inside him. Marcus couldn't fight the groan that tore out of him, so loud that the neighbors would undoubtedly hear it.
Well, let them. He didn't plan on staying here for very long.
Only a couple more hours, in fact.
Isaac's hips set a fast and rough pace, hands firm around his ass to pull him closer in rhythm. Marcus didn't feel he was doing much, but Isaac didn't seem to mind. Judging by the heady, filthy eye contact between them, he was doing quite alright by himself.
He slapped away Marcus's hand as he reached to palm at himself in long, eager strokes, instead replacing it with one of his own. He tugged at Marcus's cock much slower, so much so that it was blissful torture; he whined and begged for more, legs tightening around Isaac's middle, until he could do nothing but acquiesce.
“God, Isaac.” He heard himself moaning like it was an out-of-body experience, eyes squeezed tight shut now for the climax. “I love you, I love you.”
As playful as he'd been the rest of the time, Isaac wasn't playful now. He reached to smooth a hand over Marcus's chest where his heart lay, fond and sincere as he brought him closer to the edge. “I love you, too,” he told him – and they came together then a few moments after, one after the other in some order they couldn't describe, breath heavy and eyes shut and lost, lost, lost in the moment.
It took him a couple of minutes to come to once it was over, Isaac lazily stroking through his hair. They had to squeeze close together in order to fit on the bed, but that didn't seem to matter right now. They didn't need space, anyway; they needed closeness.
“Okay?” he asked, voice soft.
“More than okay,” Marcus assured him. “But I'll be glad to get out of here. I want to go home.”
Isaac grinned, leaning to give him a long, keen kiss. “Home, huh?”
“Unless you want to move in here,” Marcus said, teasing, “but you're going to need to cover half the rent.”
Isaac's laugh was warm and fond, arms stretching over Marcus's middle to pull him in even closer – if that were even possible. “We'll be fine together, I think. You and I.”
“Everything's always fine with you,” Marcus told him, closing his eyes to settle against his shoulder. “I don't think we'll be fine.”
“More than fine, then,” said Isaac – and the fact that he knew Marcus well enough to follow that train of thought, finding the punchline before he could hear it, put a glow in Marcus's belly he couldn't ignore. “Much more than fine.”
Outside the window, the city carried on around them. Car horns honked, lights flashed on and off, and nobody knew or cared that the situation wanted ad from the paper had now well and truly been filled.
The End
A Quest For Vengeance
Camden Sutharlainn, sole surviving heir to Clan Sutharlainn, is crossing the Scottish Highlands in disguise to complete a mission that he has been plotting for the last ten years: avenge the death of his beloved father.
Cam must infiltrate the most dreaded and isolated of clans—the MacConaills. He knows that the Laird and his sons had a hand in poisoning his father, and Cam intends to inflict upon them the same terrible death.
Can he complete his task and survive to tell the tale, or will he find that there is more to
the MacConaills than meets the eye?
And when sparks fly with the sultry son of the enemy Laird, will the young lord be forced to decide between avenging his father, or following his heart? And is it possible that he might be able do both?
A Quest For Vengeance
Camden Sutharlainn crouched in the undergrowth on a rocky ledge at the edge of the forest. Far below him lay the small village surrounding the walls of Castle MacConaill. It appeared functional and quiet to his critical eye. He could not say what he had expected, but the quaint, lively community at the foot of the hill was much too friendly for Camden’s nerves. Perhaps it was an act, he thought wildly, meant to draw in unsuspecting visitors. Perhaps, in their homeland, the MacConaills were not as ruthless and brutal as their reputation with the other highland clans foretold.
Inwardly, he seethed. His knowledge of this clan’s depravity collided with the genteel reality that was before him. Camden could not imagine how men brutal enough to murder a Laird in his own castle could return home to live such peaceful and—if he were being perfectly honest—natural lives. Maybe, he thought, the true evil was housed within the castle, and these poor townsfolk were also subject to the whims and torments of the Laird and his family.
Ten years ago, in the summer of his eleventh year, Clan Sutharlainn had hosted a gathering with all the clans of their alliance. The gathering had included Clan MacConaill. At the time, the Sutharlainns were the only clan who maintained a peace with the MacConaills, a risky move for any clan, his uncle Donnal later informed him. Camden’s mother had been the only child of the war chief of the unpopular clan. Her loving marriage to the Laird of Clan Sutharlainn had sealed the treaty between the two clans.
When his mother had died in childbirth, the alliance had remained intact, despite the displeasure of their neighbor clans. That all changed upon the death of his father. Laird Sutharlainn had trusted the MacConaills, against his brother’s counsel, thinking that the memory of his wife would be enough to maintain their loyalty. Camden doubted that the Laird MacConaill and his beastly sons had ever been truly loyal to the family of a barely-noticed daughter, who had married away.
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