Royce hit the garage door opener to his aunt’s place in Morning View, tapping his finger on the wheel of Marc’s car. He pulled into the garage and parked. Marc sat on the passenger side, and he’d been quiet on most of the trip. The man was one of the most intuitive people Royce had ever met, so he knew Marc was picking up his vibes.

And hurting over them.

His pain felt like it had seeped into Royce’s skin and bones to blend with his own. Hurting the man felt like hurting himself, and he was astonished at just how deep Marc Foster had crawled into him. He didn’t feel like merely a friend or lover, or even a boyfriend. It was more, and the feeling was so utterly profound, he couldn’t put it into words. Like their souls meshed on a level he hadn’t known existed. His fear over causing the man to be physically harmed, or worse—that, that he could put into words.

Never happening.

This world was a more beautiful place with Marc Foster in it. And his chances of that were remarkably higher without Royce in his life.

His fucking heart wasn’t making it through this one.

The night before, Royce had made excuses about watching the footage of the house while they’d been in Italy. He’d never made it to Marc’s bed, falling asleep on the couch in the early morning hours. All day, as they’d gone to the gallery, then the hospital, Marc had quietly watched him. And now, here they were in Kentucky about to meet with Royce’s friends. To try and come up with a way to beat Corbin Karras.

What a complete disaster.

“I still can’t believe your uncle did that,” Marc said, breaking their awkward silence.

“I should have known not to trust him. I paid attention the first twelve years of my life. It was one of the reasons he and I didn’t mesh.” Fuck, he was tired. Tired of feeling like a fool and tired of worrying about his mother and Marc. He scrubbed his hands over his face. His damn insides felt like someone had poked a fork in him and spun it around in vicious circles.

“You own this house?” Marc asked, his voice still low.

“Yes.” He sent Marc a smile he knew wasn’t convincing. He just couldn’t bring himself to pretend with any sort of skill. Not when his heart felt like it was being ripped out of his chest. He wanted to reach across the expanse between them and touch Marc, just feel his warmth. But that would only make things worse.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marc staring at him, lips tight, before he looked away. “Why didn’t your mother move here? If her family is in Kentucky, why did she take you to Virginia?”

“A job. Plus, her family never liked that she’d married my father and disowned her. They were scared of them. Rightly so. My mom never got over that. She named me after her father. But later, her sister tracked her down. Used the small inheritance she got from their parents’ deaths to finance a private investigator. She asked us to come back. But she was already ill by then. Mom prefers the city, so my aunt left her home to me. I’ve been working on it, planning to flip it, but we found it works as an excellent safe house, so I’m keeping it.”

“Why don’t you just sell it to Rowe, then?”

“Because it’s not in his name this way. Harder to trace. Quinn is actually setting something up to get it out of my name and into some kind of LLC. It’ll still be mine, just with more paperwork.” He opened the door and stepped out into the garage, then walked into the house.

Marc followed, stopping when he saw the eat-in kitchen’s far wall.

“Yeah, Rowe has your propensity for using walls instead of paper or whiteboards.” A strange collection of colors and nonsensical words were scrawled across the wall in the same block letters that Royce recognized as Rowe’s handwriting. They’d been trying to crack Boris Jagger’s secret code for moving kidnapped kids. It had worked, but it had nearly cost two of Rowe’s friends their lives. “I plan to paint over it at some point. Asshole.”

They had grabbed food in the hospital cafeteria but stopped on the way there for drinks, so Royce went back into the garage to get the bag. It was easier than being alone with Marc in that kitchen while the man watched him so intensely. It reminded him of that first day when they’d met. Probing blue eyes that missed nothing.

An engine sounded, and he watched as Sven’s silver Charger pulled in. Garrett was the first to get out. “You really need all this crap, Quinn?”

“Crap?” The yell came out of the back seat where Quinn had probably ridden to make sure none of his precious equipment rocked too hard or fell onto the floor.

Royce winced and lifted an eyebrow at Garrett, who just shushed him with a finger over his mouth and a wink. Like him, Garrett was pretty damn fond of Quinn. The whole IT section of Ward, in fact. He was pretty sure Garrett and Gidget were close friends.

Garrett opened the back door, then grunted when a satchel hit him in the chest.

“Carry that. And no calling my shit crap.”

“Like that makes a lot of damn sense,” Garrett muttered as he passed Royce and disappeared into the house.

Royce had never been so glad to see any of them in his life. They would help with the tension between him and Marc, and it just felt good to be around them again. Garrett came back into the garage, and Royce handed his sack of sodas and water bottles to him. Garrett gave him a frown and rolled eyes before he took them inside.

Sven had pulled his big frame out of the car and already held a large, curved monitor.

“Carry that by itself, okay?” Quinn told Sven as he looked over the roof of the car. “That’s my new pride and joy, and it deserves special treatment.”

Deep chuckles filled the early evening air as Sven did as Quinn asked.

“Do we really need that?” Royce asked as he reached into the car for a bag that held blueprints.

“Wait until you see what it can do. I can split the screen to show different areas of the house. Because that place your uncle is in is a rental, there are pictures of every room in the house. Between that and the blueprints, we should be able to map out a route to your mom easily.”

Soon, they were all in the small kitchen. Garrett, who hadn’t been there before, eyed the wall. “Dominic is on a job today, but he asked for us to figure out his part of this, and he’ll be ready when it’s time. He’s been here before?” He nodded at the wall.

“That’s our boss’s handiwork,” Quinn said as he walked to the small table and opened his laptop. “We’ve decided the best day—and the soonest we can—to get your mother is Tuesday. Dominic will be back from his job, Garrett is off this week, and Sven is taking a sick day. I’ll be working from the office remotely. We decided it would also be best to keep this off Rowe’s radar.”

“Who decided?” Royce asked. “Who are ‘we’?”

“All of us.” Quinn frowned at him. “We agreed to meet here to discuss what we can do about this situation. I already figured it out, and they agreed it’s a good plan.”

Royce looked at each of his friends. They were most definitely friends. He shook his head, unable to stop a small smile from forming. “What are we doing?”

“We’re getting your mommy,” Garrett said. “They should know better than to mess with a mommy.”

“Exactly. So Mommy Gate has already been decided.” Quinn dropped the plans on the table, then pinned them to the wall over Rowe’s lettering.

“Mommy Gate?” Marc laughed for the first time all day as he walked to the table to pull out a chair. “I can’t wait to hear this.”

“What do you mean, decided?” Royce asked. “Shouldn’t I figure out what we’re doing here?”

Garrett pointed at each of them. “We’re all in on this—that’s what’s decided. There is no way in hell you’re going in alone to get your mother.”

“And don’t even try to tell us that wasn’t the plan,” Sven added. He leaned against the wall, so large he took up serious space in the small kitchen. “You should have called when this—whatever this is—first started.”

“Exactly,” Quinn agreed as he pushed up his glasses and glared. “Start from the beginning because I’m positive that trip you took to Italy had something to do with this.”

Marc looked at him over his shoulder and the pain in those blue eyes threatened to steal Royce’s breath. He stared back, knowing that memories of Italy were playing in both their minds.

It took him a couple of moments to clear his throat. “As you all already figured out, my uncle is Corbin Karras, the leader of the crime family in New York. Hold on.” Royce went back out to the garage and grabbed the whiskey he’d brought. He walked back and pulled down glasses. Juice ones would have to do.

“This story needs booze?” Garrett asked.

“Lots.” Royce set out the juice glasses his aunt had left and poured. He handed them out. Garrett and Quin sat at the table. Sven eyed the small chairs around the equally small card table.

Quinn snorted. “We should move this to the living room, so Sven can sit down.”

“Nah, I’ll stand,” he said, taking a glass. He still wore the frustrated expression causing a deep furrow between his blond brows. “Just get to the story.”

Royce understood why they were angry. He’d had a lot of time to think about it, to realize that these men put their lives in each other’s hands daily. He should have trusted them. Should have opened up before.

He leaned against the old Formica counter. “My father and younger brother were shot and killed when I was twelve. We believe my brother was an accident. Nobody had known my father would have him that day because he’s usually in school. Scared I’d be a victim, too, my mother dropped everything and took me away from New York. My life in Virginia—” he broke off and gulped down some whiskey, needing the burn. “Let’s just say I followed in the family’s footsteps. I was a punk, and I was mean. Things I did came with a huge cost. One I won’t go into now. But right after I took the job with Marc, Corbin Karras showed up here. Seems he’s an art collector, and he was drooling over the thought of me being hooked into that world.”

“But you’re not,” Garrett said.

“He saw the stories Quinn created on the Internet.”

“Shit,” Quinn breathed. “I’m so sorry, Royce.”

“Not your fault, squirt. Seems my uncle has been following me my entire life. He saw what I could do. The way I fight. He decided my mother had taken a valuable asset out of his hands and so we both owe him.”

“What kind of fucked-up, twisted logic is that?” Sven’s scowl deepened.

“Karras fucked-up, twisted logic. My uncle should never have been the head of the family. It was always my father and should have stayed him. He had more of a soul, believe it or not. And he was a hell of a lot smarter than Corbin.” Royce paused. “I like to believe that my father would have worked to legitimatize their business. I remember him being a good man. Corbin is anything but.”

“Corbin is a showman. Likes mobster movies,” Quinn added.

Royce lifted an eyebrow.

“I’ve had more than twenty-four hours to research.”

Garrett whistled. “That’s like four years in regular, human time.”

Sven and Marc laughed.

Quinn just nodded like he agreed. “Corbin goes all out. Shows off the wealth, has a huge entourage of big, heavyweight enforcers, and he’s rumored to kill anyone who could testify against him. But he’s stupid.”

Something in Quinn’s voice made Royce stand straight. “You find something?”

The smile Quinn had then held the naughtiest cast, and Royce grinned. The squirt was a genius.

“After we make sure your mother is safe, I know exactly how to get the authorities on him. He’s been a bad, bad boy since he came into Ohio.”

“What about the painting?” Marc asked. He sat up. “We have to make sure it’s safe.”

“Painting?” Quinn looked back and forth between Royce and Marc. “I guess I’m not as good as I thought. Fill me in?”

This part was a little harder to admit to. Royce poured himself another drink. Fuck it, they’d sleep here tonight, and he’d ask Garrett to stay, too. He knocked back the whiskey, his eyes watering and throat burning. He turned back to find them all watching him. Waiting. “We stole a painting.”

Garrett’s mouth fell open.

Royce nodded and shared the whole story. When he was done, even Quinn had a look of utter shock on his face. Then his head tilted, and he started typing on his laptop. “Usually, proving that a person knowingly possesses stolen goods is hard, but in Ohio, the burden of proof isn’t as big. I’m not sure of the degree in felony, but if the piece is expensive, it could be a higher one that would mean prison time.”

Marc leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table. “The painting is worth more than 100 million dollars. And it’s been missing a long time.”

“What artist?” Garrett asked.

“Raffaello Sanzio da Urbin, but he’s better known as just Raphael. One of the greatest painters of the Italian Renaissance,” Marc said. “It’s absolutely stunning, and I hate that his hands are on it.”

Quinn didn’t look up from where he was typing. “That could mean something entirely different, but I’d have to look it up. Even if we don’t get him for that, I’m pretty sure the man trafficked drugs over state lines. He had a meeting this morning. With a known drug lord.”

“Drugs?” Genuine surprise filled Royce. “My father despised drugs. The family always dealt in illegal gambling.”

“Your uncle changed his M.O.” Quinn shrugged.

“Hold up, you guys.” Garrett turned to Marc. “You two flew to Italy and stole a Raphael?”

Marc nodded.

Dark brown eyes flicked from Marc to Royce. “That is some upper-level shit, Royce. What the fuck? You could go to prison!”

“Missing is the important word here, Garrett.” Royce set down his glass and crossed his arms. “We took it from a residence and the owner”—he held up his fingers in quotes—“ ‘acquired it’ by illegal means. Think he’ll report it?”

“He could send some pretty nasty motherfuckers after you.”

“After who?” Marc asked. “He has no idea who took it. We flew in on a friend’s private plane. One who has never met the man or been in his house. We were completely under the radar.”

Royce thought about them hitting the tourist spots but decided to keep that to himself. No use in worrying his friends. Then he thought of them in that country bed and breakfast and how Marc had held on to him so tightly. He rubbed his hands on his biceps and tried to push those memories away.

Quinn snorted. “You flew on a private jet to Tuscany and pulled off an art heist on a criminal.” He blinked, then took off his glasses to rub them with a cloth he pulled out of his pocket. “Damn. Shane and I need to up our game when it comes to adventurous weekends.”

A cleared throat pulled all their gazes to Sven, who shook his head no when Royce offered to pour him another drink. “We can figure out the logistics of getting the painting back, so it can be put where it belongs—”

“In a museum,” Marc interrupted.

Sven nodded. “Or we can use this time to figure out how to rescue Royce’s mother. She’s what’s important here.”

“Agreed,” Garrett said as he ran a hand over his crew cut. “But I will say I can’t wait to hear Dom’s reaction to your action movie shit.”

“So let’s get to it.” Quinn typed on his laptop, then stood to point at the monitor. “I’m bringing up the images of the house. It would help if we knew what room your mother is in.”

Royce walked to the monitor. “Bring up all of the bedrooms. Their proof of life was to show someone walk into her room. I’ll recognize it.” He watched as Quinn flipped through the rooms, then pointed.

“Good. Good.” Quinn turned and circled the room on the blueprints. “Earlier, we agreed the best thing to do would be to watch the house the next two nights to see how many times Corbin’s men patrol outside. I have the security system specs—gotta love the rental company—and it’s an old one that’s easy to shut down.” He pulled up the floor plan.

“What the fuck is a keeping room?” Garrett blurted out. “Sounds kinky.”

Royce squinted at the image. “Family room, maybe? It’s by the kitchen.” He pointed. “This place has a coffee bar between the master bedroom, bath, and closet.”

“The fuck?” Garrett asked. “It’s too far to walk to the kitchen?”

“That coffee bar is awesome.” Quinn smirked. “If I ever build a house, I’m doing that.”

“Add a hot plate and a desk, and you’d never leave your room,” Sven said.

Quinn just nodded. “Anyway, if you guys follow my plan, we can get your mom out without them knowing until morning.”

And the discussion was on as they went over the pros and cons of each suggestion. By the time they had a solid plan in place, it was pretty late. He helped pack up Quinn’s tech and carry it out to Sven’s car.

“We’re going to get her out safely,” Sven said as he stood in the open driver’s door. Moonlight spilled over the long, blond hair he’d pulled into a tail at the nape of his neck. “Next time, call us. We have your back, Royce.”

He nodded and clasped Sven on the arm. He watched them drive away and went back into the house to find Marc putting everything away and shutting off the light.

“I’ll drive,” he nearly snapped. “I’m exhausted and want to sleep in my own bed tonight.” He brushed past Royce and got into his car.

* * *

Royce wasn’t telling him everything. Not only that, but he could sense him pulling away. Over the past twenty-four hours, Royce had closed himself off. He spoke no more than necessary, and most of it was down to just unintelligible grunts. He didn’t reach out to touch Marc. Hell, he spent most of his time trying to keep the length of the room between them. Royce was back to being the stranger he’d met on Geoffrey’s patio more than a month ago. That knowledge dug into Marc with razor-sharp claws.

By the time they reached his house, his emotions had reached volcanic levels. He didn’t wait for Royce as he marched into his house, through his bedroom, and into his closet. He pulled on his oldest, most comfortable paint jeans and a T-shirt, left his clothes in a pile on the floor, and walked past a—surprise, surprise—quiet Royce.

“Painting,” Marc barked out as he walked down the hall. “I’ll be out when I’m out.”

Royce didn’t answer, not that he expected him to. Marc marched up the stairs and this time, he locked himself into his current…art room? He didn’t know what the fuck he called it. He missed the guesthouse. But he had everything he could need in here. Water and snacks in the small refrigerator and a couch he could pass out on once he was done.

It felt good to be locked away. Alone. He didn’t plan on leaving the room all night.

He needed to think before he lost his mind.

His brother had texted earlier to let Marc know he was getting out the next day, and he planned to bring him here. And come clean about who Royce was and get to the bottom of what was going on. The best way to shut this down once and for all would be to confront Lilah and Gabriel. Separately, and with Royce watching his back.

With that plan in place, he felt like he could cross off one issue on his virtual list of problems. Normally, that would give him a little peace, but right then, his emotions were so high and so tangled, he could do nothing but pace as it all felt like they crested in waves in his brain. And in his chest.

He loved Royce Karras.

Fully. Deeply. With every atom in his body. The forever romance stuff he’d always thought bullshit but secretly wanted. That lifetime bond.

He knew, he knew, the man cared about him. It was in his touch, in his kisses, in the way he stared at Marc when he thought nobody was looking. But something was scaring him off. The only thing Marc could come up with was grief over Michael. Maybe he was terrified of losing someone again? Not that Marc planned to go anywhere. Whatever was driving him away was strong, because it felt like Royce was physically slicing through the lines of affection that stretched taut between them.

Without saying a word.

Marc stared at the painting on his wall. That was not what he wanted tonight. He wanted something separate that would last. Pulling out an empty canvas, he set it up, along with his paints. He poked around the room for his Bluetooth headphones and put “The Final Thing on my Mind” by The Pineapple Thief on. Loud. This song was best loud.

Standing in front of the canvas, he closed his eyes and tried to calm enough to narrow his thoughts down to one thing. Creating. As the music rose to a crescendo, chased everything out of his head, then paused, he knew. Green fields and valleys, a wrought iron porch rail, a decanter of olive oil. And Royce’s teeth sinking into the back of his shoulder.

The shudder that ran through his body let him know he wanted that. To capture that absolutely perfect, fucking moment. If he couldn’t have Royce as his own, he could have him as his muse.

Color filled the canvas. Fast and furious. He worked through the entire CD on repeat, then random songs on his playlist. He painted to Ed Sheeran, Anathema, Two Feet, and more, going from electronic, to rock, and back to progressive. And when Just Her came on, he was snapped back into that club in Italy so fast, it made his head spin and he dropped the brush.

Then he dropped to his knees.

He had no idea what time it was or how long he’d been working. With the break in concentration, he only knew that exhaustion pulled at every muscle in his body. It had been years since he’d let go like this. Since he’d disappeared into that hazy zone of creation. Holding his breath, he looked up at the canvas and saw something that startled him.

It was there.

That elusive something he’d been aching to find his entire life.

The painting wasn’t done, but what he had created so far was already his best work.

He stared, eyes dry from focusing for what had to be hours, and suddenly he didn’t want his brother there, and he didn’t want Royce there. He didn’t want to go to his gallery. He wanted to paint. Lock himself away somewhere for however fucking long it took so he could tap into this. Whatever this was.

He wanted more. He stood, ignoring the ache in his hands and lower back. He methodically put away the paints and washed his brushes. He put the easel, with his work, in a storage closet because nobody was seeing that until it was done. Maybe not ever. It felt like a secret only for him.

When he shut off his music and left the room, early morning light was already trickling in through the windows, and when he got to his room and saw Royce on that damn chaise, he lost it.

He pulled off his clothes, grabbed lube and a condom, and walked to stand over Royce. The man was too aware to sleep through any of it, so his eyes were already open when Marc stopped. Royce didn’t speak, just lay there, staring. Dawn had barely started her rise, so Royce was a vision of midnight hair, tattoos, and shadows against Marc’s white chaise. As Marc stared back, Royce pushed his blanket to the floor, then rolled down his sleep pants to drop them to the side. He lay back and waited.

God, he was beautiful in this light, and Marc’s heart began to beat hard and fast again as he ran his gaze down that rough, tight form he loved. He started to drop to his knees, but a hand stopped him. Royce pulled him down on top of him, spearing his hands into Marc’s hair on either side of his head. Royce held him there, just above his face, staring hard at him. Then he slid his mouth over Marc’s, his tongue slipping slowly inside. Marc closed his eyes, basking in the deep, drugging kisses that followed. In Royce’s chest hair brushing over his nipples. And the tight grip on his head. One that spoke of a possession he desperately wished the man really felt.

Because something in his kiss told Marc a different story.

With the return of heavy emotion filling his lungs and making his chest tight, Marc pushed himself back until he straddled Royce’s legs, standing on either side of the chaise.

He rolled a condom on Royce, watching as his eyes shuddered as Marc stroked him several times. Then without taking his eyes away, he lubed Royce then reached around to work on himself. Not long because tonight he wanted it all. The stretch and burn. The pain. Maybe it would do what even the painting hadn’t done. Yank him out of this state of fear that felt like he was smothering under a heavy, black tarp.

With that thought, he moved forward enough to line them up, and when Royce put a strong grip on either side of his hips to slow his downward motion, Marc growled and shoved his hands off. He pressed his own onto Royce’s chest as he forced the man into his body. Black edged out his vision as the pain hit, intense. Just the way he wanted it.

He opened his eyes, momentarily pulled out of the dark funk of his brain, and this time when Royce snarled and grabbed his hips, he let the man slow him down.

For a moment.

Marc ran, and his leg muscles were strong as hell. He moved his hands to either side of Royce, poising an arm’s length away. Royce brought up his legs, changing the angle of his dick inside Marc as he thrust up hard. Marc cried out as the pleasure mixed with the pain, his head bowing over, his hair slipping down over his eyes.

Royce brushed it out of the way.

Avoiding his potent stare, Marc closed his eyes and just focused on using Royce’s body to get off. It was all pleasure now, and he rose and sank over and over, using one hand to stroke his cock. When he was close, he slammed down and rolled his hips back and forth, grinding on Royce. Royce’s hands, back on Marc’s hips, tightened, his fingers digging in so hard, there would be bruises. He pushed up with his feet, his thighs cradling Marc’s ass.

Royce’s head went back and the veins in his neck, under his beard, went taut as he groaned long and hard and began spearing up into Marc fast.

Morning sunlight spilled over Royce as he came, and that burst of color and light blinded Marc just as everything in him went hot and tight and oh, holy fuck. “Ahhhhhh!” he screamed as his release roared through him. He couldn’t breathe—it took everything he had.

And when Royce yanked him down for a kiss, Marc hoped his bleak sob sounded like a part of his orgasm, because he knew it was their last.