The lights stayed on.

All of them, in every single room of the house. Bathrooms, too.

The two table lamps he’d placed at either side of his feet didn’t budge as he stomped on the pedals and banged away on the piano. It wasn’t so much about making music. It was about creating noise. Sounds.

Music also drifted overhead from speakers craftily hidden from the naked eye. Something loud and pounding, inspiring visions of sweaty bodies moving in slow motion cloaked in clouds of hypnotic smoke.

Noise.

Anything to drown out the heavy, oppressive silence that gaped endlessly inside his head.

Sweat dripped down his back, dampening his shirt as he hunched over the piano. He stopped long enough to strip it off and the cool breeze hit the moisture on his skin, eliciting shivers, blanketing him in goosebumps.

He needed this. Noise and light. Needed it sometimes more than food.

Had this been any other night, he’d be at his club, Club Ȇxtase, surrounded by the very thing he craved: people, noise, lights. It was the perfect place for him, but this was Monday night. They were closed on Mondays.

Almost thirty-seven hours without sleep, and his body ached.

Sleep was a last resort. In sleep he was powerless, a willing captive to the nightmares. They had no mercy, those nightmares. Even after all these years, they were what scared him most. Within the black shifting walls of his nightmare, Monster called for him. Even after all these years, he feared he’d answer. He feared he’d succumb to the promises Monster made.

In the throes of his worst nightmares, he forgot Monster wasn’t around anymore. He forgot he’d escaped captivity. He forgot there wasn’t anything to fear.

When he slept, he forgot he was no longer Mauricio.

He was Renzo Vega now. Undercover FBI agent. Powerful and dangerous. Untouchable.

But in his dreams, he was nothing but a terrified little boy, huddled against cold bricks as his teeth chattered, eyes wide in inky, tangible darkness, crying out for his father.

His father never came.

Monster came, though. Every single time.

Twinkle, twinkle little star. One of the first songs he’d learned to play on the black, grand piano. He played it now, burning eyes almost shuttered against the glare of all the lights.

So many lights.

They were better than the alternative.

He preferred staying busy, for the most part it kept his mind off things. But like it often did, the lack of sleep handicapped him, lowering his mental shields, letting his mind wander. Which was why he sat there half-naked, sweat dripping down his spine, surrounded by lights.

Making noise.

The house he’d bought in North Druid Hills in DeKalb County was set far enough apart that he didn’t have to worry about neighbors. So he made his noise and tried not to admit he was losing. His. Fucking. Mind.

Monster would love that. He’d love that even now—years after Renzo found him and made him pay on his own kitchen floor in the Chicago suburbs—Renzo couldn’t escape him. Not his voice, not his presence. Not his touch.

He licked his lips and sat back, lifting his protesting fingers off the keys to rub his gritty eyes. His back hurt, objecting his hunched-over position. Atop the piano, two pills waited for him along with a bottle of water. Those pills didn’t have a name, weren’t on the market yet and they didn’t fuck with the different set of pills he took when he actually wanted to sleep, but they’d keep him up.

One more day.

Just one.

He didn’t like taking them, but they’d become a necessity. Tonight, he needed them. He had to get out of the house, even if for a few hours, and he couldn’t be out on the streets of Atlanta sweating profusely, eyes red and riding low from lack of sleep.

He had a cover to maintain. A face to show out there.

Pretending came easily. Lying to everybody was one thing he did damn well. Inside these walls, being Renzo Vega was decidedly…terrifying. Lying to himself stopped working years ago.

So he took the pills. Washed them down with the water. Then sat there counting in his head.

“One, one thousand.”

His eyes drifted shut and the phantom smell of dampness and unwashed body parts managed to filter to him.

Made his nostrils flare. “Papai!”

He dropped the hand he’d rested on his thigh, gripping the edge of the piano bench until his fingers grew numb. Breathe.

He did, like he’d been taught. In and out, nice and slow. In and out.

Breathe. You’re safe. Monster is dead. You killed him.

“I killed him.” He spoke the words out loud, voice a weary rasp that made him flinch. He reopened his eyes and took a deep breath.

Slow.

Steady.

He was good.

He sat up, straightening his spine. The trembling in his limbs had petered out, and breathing wasn’t as labored as before. So the pills were doing their job. He managed to stand, leaning against the piano until the fog in his head cleared.

A hand settled on his shoulder then slid up to cup his nape. Renzo turned into that touch, and arms wrapped around him, holding him tight.

“I killed him.” The three words were as hollow as Renzo, tasting as bitter now as they did then. Because there was no satisfaction. No easing of the pain. No wiping away of the horror he’d lived with for over two decades. Still he tried, he tried to make those words be as powerful as they should have been. “I killed him, Dax.”

“You did,” his best friend murmured against his temple as his large hands swept up and down Renzo’s back. He didn’t say more than that. All these years together, Dax knew Renzo required touch more than he required words.

Dax gave him that touch as they stood next to the piano, Nine Inch Nails’ Closer echoing throughout the house via the speakers.

Dax’s presence and friendship in Renzo’s life kept him grounded. Some nights Dax was the only buffer Renzo had between the present and the past, the darkness and the light. They were more than brothers, something slightly less than lovers. Whatever they were, Renzo would be lost without Dax.

He pressed his face into the crook of Dax’s neck as the other man’s fingers sifted through his hair, scraping his scalp. It was a calming touch, soothing Renzo.

“You good?” Dax tugged on Renzo’s hair just enough for him to lift his head and meet his friend’s worried gaze. He touched Renzo’s face, swiping at the moisture on his cheek.

Sweat or tears. Either or.

Could be both, too.

“I am now. Thank you.” He cleared his throat to remove the last vestiges of his fucked up emotions. “Take me to the bar.” He ignored the flare of concern in Dax’s eyes. “I need a drink.”

“Is that a good idea right now?”

“No.” But it was happening. “Have the guys ready.” Whenever he moved through the Atlanta streets, he did so with bodyguards. After an attempt on his life a couple years ago, Dax insisted on it.

Dax regarded him silently for a few heartbeats, his liquor brown eyes now void of any emotion. He’d already wrapped himself in the guise of Renzo’s head of personal security. Finally, he nodded shortly. “They’ll be ready.”

Renzo showed him his thanks by burrowing back into Dax’s embrace before reluctantly pulling away with a heavy sigh and making his way upstairs. A shower and change of clothes later, and he actually felt good. Hungry, too. He no longer felt like a man who was losing himself with every nightmare, with every syllable of his name phantom Monster uttered.

He was Renzo Vega again. In control, untouchable.

Illusions, sure, but he’d worked too damn hard to cultivate them.

He was entitled.

Besides, no one would ever see past the criminal club owner surrounded by noise and bright lights, to that scared little boy afraid of the dark.

Afraid of monsters.

* * *

Dax at his side, the two bodyguards at his back, Renzo stood just inside the entrance of the bar, his mind letting out a low aahh at the steady hum of noise that immediately greeted him. Not many people knew he owned this bar along East Ponce de Leon Avenue, just down the street from The Ponce City Market. He preferred to keep his ownership of this place private, like much of his other business ventures around Atlanta.

He knew the instant the bar’s patrons started recognizing him. The chatter dropped a whole octave, and he heard his name whispered from more than a few dark corners. He swept the place, his gaze stopping on a familiar face.

A smile tugged at his mouth.

He remembered Quinn Storm from a while back. Quinn with familiar horrors shadowing his eyes, who’d propositioned Renzo, kissed him then freaked out and ran away. All in the space of what? Ten minutes? Shit like that could give a man a complex.

He moved forward, ignoring Dax and the two bodyguards as he made his way to where Quinn sat with another man.

“You didn’t call.” He stood behind Quinn, hands in his pockets with a smirk. Quinn was off limits, he’d known since their one and done kiss. In fact, he was in a relationship with Tek Ng, one of the men Renzo did business with. He liked teasing Quinn. It pissed Tek off.

One of Renzo’s life goals, really. Pissing off Tek.

Quinn turned away from his silent companion and smiled. “Renzo.” He looked better than the last time Renzo saw him. More at ease, at peace. And happy. It was in his eyes—bright and dancing. Happy eyes.

Something dark soured the back of Renzo’s throat. Tasted like jealousy.

“Quinn.” He didn’t wait for an invite before sinking into one of the spare chairs at the table, finally glancing away from Quinn to his friend.

The noise around him fell away abruptly. Renzo grabbed onto the edge of the table. Staring. Trying not to make it too obvious that he was floundering. Good thing he’d taken a seat or he’d be on his ass on the floor right now

Familiar eyes, a captivating cross between green and brown held his attention, the daggers they tossed at Renzo hitting him full on in the chest. He scrambled to remember himself, his place, rapidly rebuilding walls even as they came crashing down. Those eyes tore at his weak and wounded spots, uncovering them to the light.

Lowell Scott.

Breathe.

They’d never met in person, not really, but Renzo was as familiar with Low as he was with himself. Three years. The briefest brush of shoulders, but he’d lived several lifetimes in that extremely short, but soul wrenching contact.

Three years.

Smooth dark skin he’d fantasized about caressing a thousand times. Narrowed eyes sparking with hate, even that drew Renzo up a little bit straighter. Got the front of his pants fitting that much tighter. Broad nose that flared when Renzo smirked. He wanted to believe Low was searching out his scent the way Renzo had searched his out that one and only time they’d met.

A nothing moment. It should have been that. Low exiting as Renzo entered. But as their shoulders came into contact, Renzo had gotten a whiff of that smell. Warmth. A mix of sweet and light citrus. For a man permanently entrenched in cold, that quick tease of heat had nearly sent him to his knees in painful bliss. Renzo had almost lost his fucking mind that day, needing to find that man, that scent. Then he’d learned Low’s stunning identity.

And he’d had to fall back.

Now here they were, tactile animosity pouring from Low’s rigid posture. He admired that, a man not afraid to show his hand before the game was even played.

“Quinn’s friend.” He forced himself to speak, otherwise he’d just stay there, close his eyes and sink into the anger Lowell directed at him. He liked it. Then he remembered Quinn was right there, watching him, too. So Renzo turned back to him. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yeah. Uh, this is my coworker, Low,” Quinn stammered. “Low, this is—”

“Renzo Vega.” The venom in Lowell’s tone blasted Renzo. Like bullets coming at him full force. They hurt, yeah, but it was a scouring of his flesh that Renzo welcomed. “I know who you are.”

Of course he did. Part of the reason Renzo had to spend three years encased in ice with no chance of Low’s warmth to thaw him. His accusations and condemnations were expected. Didn’t mean Renzo didn’t feel those blows. “You’ve heard of me.” He angled his body a little closer to Low’s, gaze turned mocking when Low’s hazel eyes flashed. “Something tells me you have an opinion.”

They stared at each other. This close to Low, Renzo felt him. Everywhere. And maybe it was the pills he’d swallowed before leaving the house, or just maybe it was this, here, this man, but he felt…alive. The sparks lighting up his spine, breath quickening, heart thudding in his chest. His skin prickled with goosebumps, the kind he got when he stepped under a hot shower after spending so much time in the cold.

Eye rolling bliss.

Low was a weapon in his own right, and Renzo was unprepared for how quick the force of him grabbed him by the throat. Struggling to breathe, as his stomach clenched and his pulse raced. He’d known this would happen. He’d been wanting Low’s warmth, haunted by his cologne for three years. He just hadn’t anticipated the force of his presence, his stare, his words.

His anger, too.

Low’s gaze narrowed. Renzo curled his lips at the sight. He couldn’t help it, barely five minutes in this chair and already he was getting off on the hate Low didn’t bother to disguise.

“I like that,” he murmured. “A man who doesn’t hide what he feels, despite the danger.”

Low broke their stare-off with a blink then stood abruptly.

Renzo fisted his hands atop the table.

“Low.” Quinn’s confusion barely filtered through Renzo’s brain. He’d forgotten all about Quinn.

“I’ll be back.” Just like that Low left.

Renzo watched him retreat, striding quickly past other bar patrons before disappearing into the men’s room.

“You did that on purpose,” Quinn hissed.

“Did I?” Renzo forced his gaze back to Quinn. Umber skin, close cropped hair and deep brown eyes that watched him closely. He remembered the way Quinn kissed him, with despair and desperation. All of that was gone from him now. He just looked content.

“Why are you antagonizing Low? Do you know him from somewhere?” Quinn lifted an eyebrow, waiting with his arms folded.

As if Renzo would share just who Low was to him. He had a lot of secrets, but that was the one Renzo kept closest.

“Tek treating you right?” he asked.

Quinn frowned. “Are you changing the subject?”

“Maybe. Is it working?”

Quinn’s lips twitched. “Tek and I are good.”

“You seem happy.” Renzo touched his face, brushing his knuckles over Quinn’s cheek. Maybe if he could be close to someone who felt that emotion he’d get a sense of what it felt like. Happiness. Maybe it would rub off on him. “It’s a good look on you.”

Quinn grabbed his wrist, keeping Renzo’s hand on his face. “Don’t hurt Low.”

“Didn’t plan on it.” But the fact was, the waiting had come to an end. He was about to fuck up Low’s life.

Low reappeared at that moment, jaw hardening when his gaze zeroed in on Renzo touching Quinn. “We should leave,” he told Quinn.

With an apologetic glance at Renzo, Quinn got to his feet and pulled out his wallet.

“Allow me.” Renzo caught Quinn’s hand. “Drinks are on me.” He turned away then stopped next to Low who stiffened. The predator in Renzo wanted to strike, but he caught a whiff of that scent. The barest hint of grapefruit and vanilla. Fuck, Renzo wanted to taste him. Lick Low from head to toe, tongue in all his crevices.

Smelling like goddamn dessert.

Fuck.

He swallowed. “If that man of yours doesn’t work out, you have my number.” The words were meant for Quinn, but Renzo settled his gaze on Low and kept staring long after the two men walked off.

He was bereft again. An emptiness blossoming in his gut. He touched a hand to his midsection and sank back into a chair.

“Renzo.” Dax appeared next to him. “What’s going on?”

Renzo stood, hands going to his pockets again, and held his friend’s gaze with a grimace. “I’m fucked.” He walked off, but he didn’t doubt for a second that Dax and the other guys followed him closely. He’d tell them he didn’t need a goddamn babysitter, and maybe to the two burly guys with earpieces that would be true.

But Dax knew differently.

Outside the bar, he stood for a moment, allowing the night breeze to wash over his face. But movement to his left caught his attention.

Low, staring down at a phone in his palm, Quinn nowhere in sight. Renzo’s feet was moving before his brain caught up.

“Renzo.”

He ignored Dax’s hiss of warning, because his friend didn’t get it. Dax didn’t understand that Low was all burning, fiery animosity.

A gorgeous inferno.

And Renzo was fucking chilled to the bone.