Chapter 2
The Bitter Aftertaste of Betrayal
The morning sun didn't rise gently; it pierced through the heavy curtains of the hotel suite like a jagged blade, the sharp glare forcing Ray's eyes open.
He groaned, instinctively trying to roll away from the light, but a sudden, searing pain at the base of his spine made him hiss through gritted teeth. His entire lower body felt heavy, sore, and achy in a way he had never experienced before.
As his vision slowly cleared, the hazy, fragmented memories of the previous night began to coalesce. A flush crept up his neck—not of shame, but of a shy, fluttering relief. He remembered the heat, the desperation, and the strong, solid frame of an alpha who had answered his unspoken plea. In his clouded mind, there was only one person it could have been.
He buried his face in the pillow, a small, tentative smile tugging at his lips. Drake actually came for me. He had been so sure he was alone, yet his husband had stepped out of the shadows to save him from his own spiraling biology.
"I was worried you might find it hard to digest everything that happened between us... but it seems you didn't mind at all."
The voice was a cold bucket of ice water. It wasn't the deep, stoic baritone of Drake Sinclair. It was lighter, smoother, and dripping with a dark, playful arrogance that Ray knew all too well.
Ray's head snapped toward the sound. His eyes widened like a cornered deer's, and the color drained from his face until he looked ghastly, almost translucent.
"Xavier?" Ray's voice was a fractured wreck, coming out as a forced, croaky whisper.
Xavier sat in a chair by the window, his long lashes casting majestic shadows over his cheekbones. He reached up, casually brushing a lock of his tinted hair out of his eyes—a provocative gesture paired with a shameless smirk that refused to fade.
Ray's gaze traveled in a horrified slow-motion blur. He saw Xavier's handsome, mocking face; his bare, muscular torso; the unfamiliar disarray of the hotel room; and finally, the silk sheets gathered around his own waist, beneath which he knew he was completely nude.
A wave of nausea hit him. Disgust, guilt, and a bone-deep sense of dirtiness washed over him, his conscience biting so hard it felt like a physical wound.
"Goddamn it," Ray choked out.
He tried to jerk himself off the bed, desperate to put distance between them, but he instantly regretted the sudden movement. A sharp, paralyzing bolt of pain shot through his back and hips—places he never knew could hurt so intensely.
His knees buckled before he could even stand, and he slammed back down onto the floor.
Right beside him, a full-length mirror had been angled toward the bed—positioned almost too perfectly, as if it had been placed there deliberately to mock his downfall.
Ray stared at his reflection, and his breath hitched. He looked like a disaster. His pale skin was a map of ruin, covered in gruesome, dark hickeys that bloomed across his neck, his chest, and his stomach. They were thickest on his inner thighs—vivid reminders of a passion he had mistaken for love.
He had spent years guarding himself, saving his first time for a husband who barely looked at him, only to foolishly surrender it to Drake's younger brother. Xavier—the flirt, the playboy, the man who treated life like a game and people like pawns.
He looked up, catching Xavier's eyes in the mirror. The alpha was leaning back, lighting a cigarette with practiced ease. He took a deep drag, exhaling a plume of gray smoke that swirled toward the ceiling, his expression utterly unbothered.
Ray's teeth ground together so hard his jaw ached. The reality of what he had done—the betrayal of his marriage, the loss of his dignity—outweighed the shame of his nakedness. He scrambled for his discarded corporate suit, clutching the fabric to his chest like a shield, and stumbled toward the bathroom.
If I leave now, he thought frantically, if there's no evidence, I can pretend this never happened.
He didn't see the way Xavier's gaze darkened the moment he turned his back. For years, Xavier had lusted after his brother's "ice queen" omega from a distance. Now that he had finally tasted the fire beneath the frost, he was addicted. Moral boundaries and family loyalty meant nothing to him; he wanted Ray, and he didn't care how many lives he had to ruin to keep him.
Inside the bathroom, Ray collapsed into the bathtub. He grabbed a sponge and began to scrub his skin with a desperate, frantic energy. He scrubbed until his flesh turned a raw, angry red, tears he could no longer suppress pooling in his eyes and splashing into the water. He wanted to wash away the touch, the scent, the very memory of Xavier's hands on him.
But the lovemarks were persistent. No matter how hard he rubbed, the bruises remained—vivid stamps of ownership that told the truth he was trying to erase.
Finally, he dressed in his rumpled suit, his movements stiff and robotic. He walked out of the bathroom and headed straight for the suite's door, refusing to look back. He had no words for Xavier. He only wanted to vanish.
Xavier didn't move to stop him. He simply sat there, sipping an expensive drink from the minibar, watching the "little cat" escape. A cold, knowing smirk played on his lips. He knew they were bound to encounter each other again; in their world, there was no such thing as a clean break.
He walked lazily to the window, pulling back the curtain to watch Ray's awkward, pained steps as he fled toward a taxi. The guilt and shame were written in the curve of Ray's shoulders.
Xavier watched until the car disappeared into the city traffic.
"The mouse has taken the bait," he whispered to the empty room. "And now, the real game begins."