The air in Kian's penthouse had been thick with the scent of expensive cigars, spilled craft beer, and the boisterous, masculine energy of men who had far too much money and not enough to do.
Kaito was there, finally over his heartbreak and onto a new "soulmate" he'd met on a yacht; Liam and Isaak were arguing over a polo match; and Max and Kios were deep into a high-stakes poker game in the corner.
Markus had stayed for hours, drowning the quiet itch in his chest with amber liquid. He'd matched them drink for drink, his large frame absorbing the alcohol like a sponge, though the buzz in his head did little to silence the one name he refused to say out loud.
He hadn't asked Kian. Not once.
It wasn't just the pride anymore—the ego that usually sat like a gargoyle on his shoulder had finally tired itself out. It was a cold, blunt realization that had settled into Markus's bones during the weeks of silence.
He figured that a Prince like Jake didn't just "leave"—he went home. He went back to the silk, the silver, and the people who bowed when he entered a room. To Jake, the Rockwell condo had likely been nothing more than a gritty, exotic vacation—a "slumming it" experience to tell his royal friends about over champagne.
I was just a tour guide in a black t-shirt, Markus thought, his mind hazy as he stumbled into his own dark foyer around 2:00 a.m.
His condo was silent. The air was chilled by the AC, but it felt stagnant. Markus didn't bother turning on the lights. He kicked off his boots, tossed his keys onto the zinc island with a metallic clack, and navigated the hallway by sheer muscle memory.
He slumped onto his bed, face-down at first, before rolling onto his back. The ceiling was a dark void.
"Stupid brat," Markus muttered into the empty room, his voice slurred and heavy with tequila.
He closed his eyes, the spinning sensation of the alcohol finally pulling him under. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, the kind that only comes to a man who has spent the last fourteen hours working and the last four hours drinking to forget that his "sacred border" was officially, hauntingly back in place.
At 4:15 a.m., Markus's eyes snapped open.
His throat felt like it had been lined with sandpaper, and his head was thumping a rhythmic warning against his skull. He needed water. He needed a gallon of it.
He went to sit up, but something stopped him. There was a weight—a warm, solid, and terrifyingly familiar weight—draped across his midsection. A leg was hooked over his thigh, and a head was tucked firmly into the crook of his neck, golden strands of hair tickling his jawline.
Markus froze. His heart, usually a steady, unbreakable engine, gave a violent, erratic thud that nearly sent him into cardiac arrest. He didn't move. He barely breathed.
I'm still at Kian's, he thought frantically. I'm hallucinating. The tequila was spiked.
He slowly turned his head to the side, his eyes adjusting to the dim moonlight filtering through the blinds. He expected to see a pillow. He expected to see nothing.
He saw Jake.
The Prince was there, looking exactly as he had the night he vanished, only perhaps a bit more tired. His eyes were closed, his long lashes casting shadows on his pale cheeks. He was wearing a simple cotton shirt—something far too plain for a royal—and he was clinging to Markus with a desperate, unconscious intensity, as if he were afraid the bed might dissolve beneath him.
Markus let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-choke.
Jake's eyes fluttered open. He didn't look startled. He didn't scream. He simply blinked at Markus, his blue eyes cloudy with sleep and a touch of something that looked remarkably like relief. Instead of pulling away, Jake let out a soft, contented hum and tightened his arms around Markus's chest, pulling himself even closer.
"It's cold," Jake murmured, his voice a sleepy, aristocratic rasp. "And I am not finished with my nap. Go back to sleep, Markus."
Markus found his voice, though it sounded like it had been dragged through a rock crusher. "What the... what are you doing here? How did you get in here? I changed the codes!"
"You changed them to the date you were released from prison," Jake whispered, his face muffled against Markus's shoulder. "It was not a very difficult riddle, even for a 'pampered brat.' Now, stop shouting. My head is ringing."
Markus stared at him, dazed. He was still half-drunk, his brain struggling to reconcile the reality of the empty weeks with the sudden, physical presence of the boy who had haunted them. He reached out, his calloused hand hovering over Jake's shoulder before finally making contact.
He was warm. He was real. He wasn't a ghost.
"You left," Markus growled, the anger finally bubbling up through the confusion. "You ran back to your castle. You didn't even say goodbye. I should throw you out that window right now."
Jake pulled back just enough to look Markus in the eye. He didn't look afraid. A small, tired smile touched his lips—the same smile that had driven Markus crazy in the warehouse.
"You are not dreaming, Markus," Jake said, his hand moving to rest over Markus's hammering heart. "I am here. I am currently suffering from extreme jetlag and a very bruised ego from having to beg for a vacation. I do not have the energy for a quarrel."
Markus scowled, his brow furrowed in a massive, confused knot. He had a thousand questions. Where have you been? Why did you come back? Are there guards outside my door? Do I need to get my go-bag?
"Jake, listen to me—"
"No," Jake interrupted, shifting his weight so he was draped almost entirely over Markus's left side, effectively pinning him to the mattress. "Whatever you want to ask, it can wait until the sun is up. Right now, you are warm, I am exhausted, and I have missed the smell of this hideous detergent."
"It's not hideous," Markus muttered reflexively.
"It is. It smells like a car wash," Jake sighed, closing his eyes again. "Go to sleep, Markus. I am not going anywhere for at least several hours. I promise."
Markus lay there, his pulse finally beginning to slow. He should be furious. He should be demanding answers. He should be dragging this blonde menace to the sofa and reclaiming his "sacred border."
But the weight of Jake against him felt... right. The hollow space in his chest that had been aching for weeks was suddenly, inexplicably full. The thirst he'd woken up with was forgotten, replaced by a strange, quiet hum of contentment that the alcohol could never provide.
Markus let out a long, defeated sigh. He didn't hug him back—not yet—but he didn't pull away either. He closed his eyes, the rhythm of Jake's breathing acting as a more powerful sedative than any tequila.
"You're a headache," Markus whispered.
"I am a Prince," Jake corrected, his voice trailing off into the edge of a dream. "And you are a very comfortable pillow."
In the dark, quiet sanctuary of the Rockwell condo, the border wasn't just crossed—it was ignored entirely. The Prince was back, the ex-convict was no longer alone, and for the first time in a month, the silence in the room was finally, perfectly peaceful.