***RIAN VUE***

Rian crouched beside the body, two fingers pressed to the side of the man’s neck.

No pulse. No twitch. Just cooling skin and the slow, inevitable spread of red across the concrete beneath him. The blood pooled lazily, slipping into the cracks of the floor like it had nowhere better to go.

He straightened slightly, rolling his shoulder as he lifted his mask, letting it rest against the crown of his head. The air smelled like iron and gunpowder and something faintly chemical—the kind of scent that never quite left your clothes.

He pressed the phone to his ear.

“Where are you?” 

Kaiseng’s voice was neutral. Controlled. But Rian could hear the irritation threading through it anyway. 

He glanced down at the corpse again, watching the blood creep outward.

“Surprised you know my number,” he said lightly.

There was a pause on the other end. “I tried the one you had back then.”

Rian smiled, slow and faint. “Kept it the same. Just in case you ever needed me.”

He hadn’t, of course.

And Rian was never given the chance to reach out first. Not when he woke in a hospital bed with his knee shattered and his body aching in places it shouldn’t. Not when discharge papers were pressed into his hands without a single familiar face in sight.

When he called, Kaiseng didn’t answer.

This number is no longer in service.

He’d gone home after that—to the apartment they shared. Kaiseng’s side of the closet had been stripped bare. No clothes. No notes. Just empty hangers swaying slightly when Rian brushed past them.

Like he’d never existed.

He had went to Kaiseng’s college next.

“Withdrawn,” the administrator said.

That was it. No explanation. No goodbye.

Rian blinked, pulling himself back into the present as two masked figures moved past him, hauling the body away with practiced efficiency.

“So,” he said into the phone, standing at last. “Why are you calling me, Kaiseng?” His tone curved into something almost amused. “It isn’t time for our cycles.”

The quiet stretched between them, thick and unresolved.

Rian let it linger.

The silence didn’t hurt. It satisfied him. Made him smile. Because Kaiseng Park had always gone quiet when he didn’t know how to fight what he felt. When the pull hit too close to the truth. Rian had learned that years ago—learned to recognize resistance for what it really was. Not refusal. Just delay.

Soon enough, Kaiseng would remember what they were. What they were always meant to be.

“Kaiseng,” Rian said calmly, lifting his gaze from the blood pooling at his feet. “I’m at work. I’ll find you later.”

He ended the call before Kaiseng could answer.

The phone slid back into his pocket. His gloves came off next—dark fabric streaked red—tossed into the metal tub where evidence went to die. Redline didn’t leave messes. Redline erased them.

Boots echoed across the stone.

“Rian.”

Tesh’s voice carried easy authority as he approached, lifting his mask and unzipping his jacket. His hands rested casually against the bulletproof vest beneath. “I want you on this next target. You’re the most efficient with these ones.”

“No problem.”

“Try not to enjoy it too much. Makes cleanup messy.”

Rian laughed.

Kaiseng Park: You never answered me. Where are you?

Rian swiped the message away without replying, his gaze returning to the glowing blueprint on his phone screen.

The Aurelian Crest Hotel.

The rich loved this place. Not for the amenities — any half-decent hotel could offer the same luxuries as long as it had a bar and clean sheets. No, this place was about status. About being seen. About having one of their sleek black key cards in your wallet while you conducted “business” or hid an affair from your spouse.

They had real security here. That was a plus. But the camera placement? Sloppy. Blind spots in all the right places. He loved it. It was much easier to deal with a brute in the dark than to clean up a mistake caught on camera.

His phone buzzed again.

Kaiseng Park: I need you.

That one made him pause.

Rian reclined in the driver’s seat, the tinted windows shielding the faint warmth that crept up his cheeks. A slow smile curved at his lips.

He didn’t mix business with pleasure.

But he wasn’t above it, either.

His hand slid through his hair as he sent his location without a word. The phone disappeared into his pocket as he stepped out of the car.

Black dress pants. A button-up with the top buttons undone. Sleeves rolled just enough to look effortless. The shoes and watch, however, told a different story.

Sleek. Expensive. Intentional.

He flashed his room card to the staff member stationed outside the hotel’s bar entrance and stepped inside. Low light, quiet luxury, the kind of place where secrets were paid for in cash and silence.

Rian draped his suit jacket over the back of the chair and settled onto the barstool with easy confidence. The bartender was quick to approach, her smile polished and practiced.

“Old fashioned,” he said softly, returning the smile without effort as his gaze drifted over the room.

The place was full. Well-dressed patrons, laughter layered over low music, smiles ranging from flirtatious to transactional. Everyone here wanted something. Most were willing to pay for it.

The glass slid into his waiting hand. He wrapped his fingers around it, cool and solid.

He felt the presence before the warmth. 

A body leaned close.

“Dustin, right?”

Rian swallowed a slow sip, then set the glass down. He turned toward the voice, expression softening into something approachable, disarming. “Yes.” Brown eyes met a face that was handsome, in an expensive, curated way. But rot often hid best beneath polished surfaces.

“John?” He slid the keycard from his pocket and set it beside his glass, deliberate, unhurried. Discreet identification.

“Mhm.” The man smiled, hands tucked casually into his suit pockets. “Shall we talk business? I have the spread in my room.”

“Of course.” Rian rose smoothly.

“You’re taller than I expected,” John added, brows lifting.

“I hear that a lot.” Rian chuckled lightly. He let his pheromones slip just enough to be felt—a quiet invitation rather than a command. John’s gaze sharpened with renewed interest, posture subtly shifting closer. Both satisfied, Rian retrieved his jacket and draped it over his arm as he followed him toward the exit.

This is why he was good at these jobs. The real Dustin was stuffed in the trunk of the car Rian had stolen, and they looked nothing alike—but men like “John” never cared about verification. They cared about how the pheromones hit. Submissive. Small. Easy to mold. If it came wrapped in something pretty, that was just a bonus.

The lobby was busy. Then—

They nearly collided.

Kaiseng.

Rian barely slowed, not allowing recognition show. “Excuse me,” he said politely, a soft smile in place.

Kaiseng’s brows drew together, lips parting like he meant to speak, until his gaze shifted to the man beside Rian.

Rian let his pheromones flare just a little stronger. Not enough to be obvious. Enough to be felt. Then he turned and followed John in the opposite direction, smile still lingering.

The elevator hummed upward. He stood there, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on John as the man prattled on about his work—some bullshit about being a consultant, an accountant with a high-end twist, fees that sounded more like extortion than expertise. Rian let the words wash over him without sticking. If the walls weren’t polished mirrors reflecting every flicker of boredom or skepticism on his face, he might have tuned out completely, let his eyelids droop. But they were, so he held the attentive stare, nodding just enough to sell the impression of interest, of awe even.

That facade cracked the moment the doors slid open. John stepped out first, all easy confidence, and Rian followed. The keycard beeped against the lock, a sharp electronic chirp, and the door to the suite swung wide. Rian caught it with one hand, slipping inside after John, his fingers brushing from the handle to the latch. He flipped it locked with a quiet click, sealing them in. No interruptions.

John’s voice echoed through the expansive space as he moved deeper into the suite, still yammering about deals and power. 

But Rian’s attention quickly snagged on the bedroom when they passed into it—not the sprawling king bed or the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city sprawl, but the goddamn arsenal laid out like a pervert’s trophy case. Sex toys cluttered the dresser: dildos in graduated sizes, plugs gleaming under the low lights, vibrators with remotes dangling like threats. Off to the side, a chaise lounge bore coils of rope, leather paddles, and handcuffs. 

And there, in the corner, a camera mounted on a tripod, lens trained squarely on the bed like it was waiting to capture every thrust and whimper.

John noticed where Rian was looking, eyes flicking to the camera, then back to Rian with a predatory smile. “I was told you’re not camera-shy,” he said pleasantly. “I’ve got a mask for you. Makes things easier for guys like you.” He shrugged off his jacket, fingers already loosening his tie.

Rian forced his face neutral, but inside, revulsion churned. John closed the distance, leaning in close enough that his breath ghosted Rian’s ear and neck, pheromones rolling off him in waves—thick, musky, laced with that edge of alpha dominance trying too hard to mask the rot beneath. It overpowered the sharp tang of his cologne, turning Rian’s stomach. “Take off your clothes and present yourself,” John whispered, the command dripping with entitlement.

He bit back the bile rising in his throat and met those eyes with a practiced smile. “A mask sounds nice,” he said, voice dipping into something softer, almost playful as John’s fingers grazed the top buttons of Rian’s shirt, popping them open with deliberate slowness before the man stepped back.

Rian turned away, draping his jacket over a nearby chair. His hands moved to the rest of the shirt buttons, peeling the fabric from his skin. With a deliberate drag he scraped the fabric against his neck, trying to scrub away the lingering press of John’s scent-mark from that too-close lean. He tossed the shirt aside, the cool air of the suite raising goosebumps on his bare chest and arms—a stark contrast to the adrenaline thrumming beneath. From the jacket’s inner pocket, he fished out his mask and ran a hand through his hair before slipping it on. 

“I know exactly what toy I’d like to use in you first. You look like you can take a stretch.” John said over his shoulder, already moving toward the bed.

Rian’s lips twitched under the mask, tone flat and even as he straightened. “Mm, yeah. I know exactly what toy I’d like to use on you, actually.” His hand dipped back beneath the jacket, fingers closing around the cool grip of the gun. He turned, drawing it in one fluid motion, barrel leveled dead at John’s face.

The man’s eyes widened, color leaching from his face as a silicone dildo and lace mask slipped from his grasp, thudding to the floor. His hands shot up, palms out. “Shit, not you,” he stammered, swallowing hard, feet scrambling back a step. “What do you want? Money? I can give you money!”

Rian chuckled low, the sound cold and devoid of humor, gun steady in his grip. “I think you know why I'm here, John. Or should I say Marcus Voss?” He watched the panic bloom. “You’ve been busy. Pissed off some serious people. Honestly, I get it.” He jerked the barrel toward the chaise. “Handcuffs on. Then park your pretty ass on the bed.”

Marcus’ pheromones spiked again, flooding the room with that cloying, aggressive stench, and Rian’s lip curled in open disgust behind the mask. “Keep pumping out that shit, and I’ll shoot your dick off right now.”

The man glared, but compliance won out over bravado. “What are you? Some beta slathered in omega pheromones?” he spat, stalking to the chaise with stiff steps, snatching up the handcuffs.

“Uh-uh, behind your back, sweetheart,” Rian drawled, the gun’s barrel flicking in a sharp gesture toward Marcus’ wrists. The man hesitated for a split second, eyes darting like a cornered animal, but he twisted his arms obediently, the handcuffs clicking into place with a metallic snap. Rian’s gaze slid away, scanning the obscene display on the dresser. He reached out, finger flicking shaft of a suction-cupped dildo mounted to the wood, watching it wobble mockingly. “I’m guessing this is to make up for the lack of—” His eyes dropped pointedly to the front of Marcus’s slacks.

“Fuck off,” Marcus snarled, his voice cracking with a mix of fury and fear, cheeks flushing under the strain. “If you’re gonna rob me, just do it already.”

Rian let out a low chuckle, closing in on him slowly, the gun loose in his grip but never wavering. “Oh, I’m not gonna rob you, Marcus.”

The man’s head jerked up, confusion flickering through the panic. “Y-You’re... not?”

“Nah.” Rian’s grin sharpened. “Your friends just want to know where you hid the account. The one with all those pretty little zeroes you didn’t tell your partner about.”

Recognition hit Marcus like a slap.

“What happens to me when you get it?” Marcus asked tightly.

Rian shrugged, casual as if discussing the weather. “I walk out. You? You stay put for all I care. You’ll no longer be my problem.”

“So you won’t shoot me?”

Tilting his head, Rian raised his free hand in mock surrender, palm up. I promise you, not a single bullet from this thing ends up in your body—as long as you play nice and cooperate.”

Marcus swallowed hard, throat bobbing, then nodded jerkily. “Alright…”

Rian started pacing slowly then, letting the man spill it all—the offshore shell company, the encrypted keys, the access codes buried in an innocuous email draft. He absorbed every detail, committing it to memory with the precision of someone who’d done this dance before, his steps measured, predatory. They halted when his boot nudged the dildo Marcus had dropped earlier, the silicone beast lying there like an accusation—thick, veined, easily ten inches of unyielding girth. Rian smirked inwardly; no way this prick would have bothered with lube or patience. It would’ve ripped a guy apart.

“Thank you, Marcus,” he said once the intel was locked in, voice dripping false gratitude. He holstered the gun at the small of his back, the motion smooth and final. Bending down, he scooped up the toy, its weight solid in his palm. Marcus’ eyes tracked him, widening as Rian closed the distance, fingers clamping around the man’s jaw like a vise, forcing his mouth open. “Open wide.”