They read like jagged cracks on an otherwise smooth rock façade.

Stavros stood in front the large mirror in the master bathroom of his apartment on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, naked. He touched the scars on his torso, tracing each one.

Remembering.

Not as if there was any forgetting.

He knew when and how he’d gotten each scar, each bruise that hadn’t yet disappeared in the three weeks he’d been out of Daniel Nieto’s grasp. So much time gone and he still felt Daniel’s reluctant touch. It was a permanent brand, and when he slid his hand up to his nape or front and across to his chin, he still got burned by Daniel’s heat.

Fuck!

He punched the mirror, swallowing a grunt at the sharp pain. Blood immediately dripped from his cut knuckles, but the mirror didn’t break. It cracked, turning his image into four different entities. They all stared back at him with bloodshot eyes.

Mocking.

Feelings. He didn’t do feelings. He didn’t do emotion. Yet everything about his interactions with Daniel was about feelings. About emotion. Hate. Anger. Want. Lust.

Hate and anger went deeper, but the others… He couldn’t be sure. Did he just want to fuck Daniel? Did he just want to submit and watch the other man do the same? Was it all about the war between them?

Another thought pushed forward in his brain, widening his eyes.

Was it guilt, this thing inside him? Was he feeling guilty for killing Petra Nieto and trying to find a way to make up for it? That thought, more than the others, horrified him.

He didn’t do guilt.

Anything but guilt.

“Sir.” Bruce rushed into the room, gun in his hand, nothing but black briefs on. He stopped abruptly when he spotted Stavros. “Sir?”

“I’m okay, Bruce.” He didn’t look away from the mirror. “Come here.”

Bruce’s eyes flashed as he drew closer. They had an arrangement, he and Bruce. Didn’t matter where they were or who they—meaning Bruce—were with. When Stavros wanted to fuck Bruce, his bodyguard dropped his pants and bent over. And when he wanted to be fucked, Bruce took direction well.

It wasn’t a relationship, but it was convenient. Like now, when Stavros needed to wipe away the lingering feel of someone else from his skin.

He took two steps back from the mirror without turning around, and motioned Bruce to his knees in front of him with his back to the cracked mirror. When Bruce moved to put the gun down on the floor, Stavros grasped him by the neck, shaking his head when Bruce gazed up at him.

“Keep the gun.” He licked his lips. “Use it. Make me come with it.”

This wasn’t the most fucked up request Stavros had made during sex so Bruce didn’t even blink. He simply grasped Stavros’ hard shaft and sucked him down.

Stavros threw his head back, tightening his grasp on Bruce’s nape. Eyes closed, as the gun slid past his balls and over his taint. He gasped and shuddered, knees weakening.

He’d become something of an expert at pretending lately. Nails digging into Bruce’s nape as the other man’s wet mouth worked him over good, Stavros pretended someone else was rubbing the tip of the gun over his hole. Someone else was sucking his brain out of his cock. Someone else was soaking him in saliva and swirling their tongue over his crown, making him groan.

Making his belly tighten.

Someone else.

He moved his hand up, threading his fingers in Bruce’s short blond hair and gripping him tighter. Yanking on the strands as he slammed down his throat, snapping his head back. Bruce grunted. His slick grip on Stavros loosened a bit, but Stavros held him steady.

Punishing his throat as Bruce choked.

Punishing himself. Fighting harder than ever to get his mind back. Get his head straight. The gun at his hole faltered.

“Don’t stop,” he ordered hoarsely.

Bruce’s throat released him reluctantly and the other man looked up at him when Stavros glared. “Sir.” He coughed. “We need to get some lube.”

“No.”

Confusion darkened Bruce’s eyes. “Sir—”

He slapped him. Hard. “Don’t question me.” Again, and Bruce’s head bounced against the mirror. Stavros grabbed him by the throat and held him, pressing the back of his head against the jagged crack in the mirror. “Never question me,” he grated. He guided his shaft to Bruce’s mouth and pushed his way in. “Now, make me come.” He plunged in, and Bruce’s teeth grazed his length.

The right amount of pain to make his eyes roll back in his head.

The gun teased him as Bruce followed orders, eyes closed, color high on his cheekbones. Stavros used his mouth hard, riding him rough.

Digging deep in search of the orgasm that seemed to take longer to come these days. He squatted a little, opening himself so that the gun could breach him.

Fuck. His pulse tripped at that raw pain.

Bruce forced the gun in, but Stavros’ body wasn’t having it. Still he rolled his hips, allowing the hardness of the gun to graze him, hurt him.

He plunged in and out of Bruce’s throat, heaving, wanting…

Daniel.

He slid out of Bruce’s mouth slowing, keeping his swollen crown resting on Bruce’s bottom lip. “Pull the trigger.”

Bruce’s eyes went round and wide. “B-But, sir.”

“You pull your trigger or I pull mine.” He issued the threat easily. Meaning every single word. Death wish. He’d acquired a death wish, and the adrenaline pumped through his veins, hardening him way more than Bruce’s talented mouth ever did. “At the count of three.”

Bruce watched Stavros as if he no longer recognized him. Made two of them, didn’t it? Would Daniel care if Stavros died? Would he miss him? He tightened his grip on Bruce’s hair, holding the other man’s gaze.

“Éna,” he counted down in Greek.

One.

Bruce’s nostrils’ flared.

“Don’t worry.” He traced Bruce’s top lip with his leaking shaft. “You won’t be blamed for my death.”

Bruce’s breath turned choppy. The fear in his eyes? As much of an aphrodisiac as the immediate danger.

“Dýo.” Two.

Bruce’s lashes fluttered, and his naturally pale face flushed a dark red.

“Don’t close your eyes,” Stavros barked. “Look at me. Now.”

Those lashes flew open.

“Tría.” Three.

Click.

The gun jerked inside him, and Stavros erupted.

Convulsing.

Coming hard, cum hitting Bruce on his forehead, dripping down into his eyes and nose. Stavros hissed, vision flashing to black then gray as he shook.

God. He chewed on his bottom lip, stifling the name that immediately sprang to the tip of his tongue. He tipped forward, slamming a palm up against the mirror to keep his balance. The rough edges cut into his palm, adding another layer of sensation.

Fucked up didn’t begin to describe who he was.

Bending over Bruce, Stavros picked up the gun. One lick on the tip.

Then he fired.

The bullet flew past a flinching Bruce and embedded in the opposite wall.

“Don’t worry,” he told Bruce who stared at him with his mouth agape. “True monsters always find a way to escape death and live long lives.” He winked. “It’s a gift. And a curse.” He straightened. “The files I left on my bed, bring them to me in my office.”

The large yellow envelope had shown up two days ago, mixed in with his regular mail. Its contents, though, were anything but regular. He had no clue as to the sender or their motives. Inside the folder were names and addresses, and one blue Post-It note with the words No Unnecessary Casualties written in block letters and underlined twice.

Someone wanted him to go after Daniel Nieto, maybe even take him out. They just didn’t want credit for it. Unfortunately for them, Stavros had his own plans for Daniel. Still, he’d use the information handed to him if it guaranteed him Daniel.

In his office, he didn’t bother getting dressed. He poured himself a drink and stared at the files spread out on his desk. Three faces. His anger needed to be put to better use. He’d promised retribution, and something about a main course.

Time he delivered on that.

He held up his glass as a salute to the empty room. “Here’s to round two.”