Chapter Two-Hundred Thirty-Four: More than a Feeling

Chapter 234

More Than a Feeling

The sound of the funhouse’s reinforced entrance collapsing in a spray of splintered wood and twisted metal didn't silence the calliope music—it only seemed to provide a more dramatic beat for the entrance. Dust motes danced in the neon glare as the four stepped into the cavernous, distorted lobby.

Narcisse sat in the center of the room, still ensconced in his ghastly armchair. He hadn’t even stood up. He leaned his chin on his interlaced fingers, looking at Tristan with a mixture of profound disappointment and polished amusement. Beside him, Lena looked toward the entrance, her eyes welling with tears, but Narcisse’s hand remained firmly anchored on her shoulder, a silent, iron-clad warning.

Narcisse: “Well, if it isn’t my naughty little nephew and his... diverse collection of playmates coming to crash the party?”

He drawled, his voice carrying effortlessly over the ambient carnival noise.

He glanced toward the shadows where Piledriver Prankster stood, his massive chest heaving as he stared down Jaxon, who lay on the floor, knocked out. A crimson glow emitted from him as his powers mended his bones and sealed up his wounds. Narcisse watched Jaxon work his magic with delight.

He turned to Piledriver Prankster and clasped his hands.

Narcisse: “Piledriver Prankster, my darling, we have guests. And they’ve been so dreadfully impolite as to break the gate.”

Tristan stepped forward, his eyes locked on his uncle. The temperature in the room plummeted; frost began to creep along the edges of the room, trailing behind Tristan.

Tristan: “This ends NOW, Narcisse. Whatever you have planned, it’s not working, and you’re not getting what you want!”

Narcisse let out a short, melodic laugh, not even looking away from his nephew.

Narcisse: “My lovely little nephew… How you remind me so much of my dear sister.”

Tristan glowered at him and stomped his foot, creating a jagged path of ice creeping toward Narcisse.

Tristan: “NEVER compare me to that THING!”

He bellowed. Narcisse merely leaned back further, casting a bored glance. A bubble enclosed him and Lena, shielding himself from Tristan’s attacks.

Narcisse: “Careful, my dear boy, you could have harmed the butterfly princess… Unless that’s what you wanted since she chose Jiro over you.”

He smirked. Tristan growled and bared his teeth, feeling his fury soar.

Tristan: “CONNARD! Ne me compare pas à ce genre de sous-homme!”

He bellowed, forming an ice arrow and shooting it at Narcisse. The arrow shattered against the bubble, the shards falling to the floor. Narcisse grinned and held Lena close.

Narcisse: “Like your mother, your pride is your biggest flaw, my prince.”

Tristan glared hatefully at his uncle, his nostrils flaring with rage.

Narcisse turned to Fabien and scoffed.

Narcisse: “Oh, if it isn’t Basile Bellegarde’s slacker son?”

Fabien snorted.

Fabien: “Dude, you killed your parents. My father never shut up about that.”

Narcisse’s smile faded and formed into a scowl.

Narcisse: “Well, he’s wrong. My parents had a meal to die for, no thanks to our chef.”

Fabien laughed.

Fabien: “Sure, and I’m the Queen of Sheba. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Narcisse’s jaw tightened.

Narcisse: “Enough, chit-chat. Piledriver Prankster, be sure to entertain our guests.”

Piledriver Prankster let out a shrill, manic cackle, spinning on his heels to face the newcomers.

Piledriver Prankster: “New playmates! Does your naughty nephew want a balloon, too?”

The clown bellowed, his voice sounding like two grinding gears.

Narcisse turned his gaze back to Tristan, his expression turning cold, his eyes reflecting the flickering neon lights.

He snapped his fingers, and the lights in the room shifted from a carnival pink to a deep, blood-red.

Narcisse: “Piledriver Prankster, show them why no one ever leaves the show.”

He whispered, his voice smooth and lethal.

Celeste didn’t wait for a tactical plan or a signal. The moment the Piledriver Prankster roared and charged, she met his momentum head-on, her boots cracking the floorboards with the force of her takeoff. She wasn’t just a fighter; she was a kinetic force of nature.

As the Piledriver Prankster lunged, looking to scoop her into a massive, bear-hugging tackle, Celeste ducked under his sweeping arm with impossible agility. She pivoted, her hips rotating to channel every ounce of her super strength into her shoulder. With a defiant shout, she drove her shoulder into the Prankster’s midsection.

The impact was like two freight trains colliding.

The sound of the hit was deafening, a dull thud that shook the funhouse to its foundation. The Piledriver Prankster, who had spent the last hour treating Jaxon like a toy, skidded backward across the floor, his massive boots carving deep furrows into the concrete. He gasped, the air forced from his lungs, his grotesque smile faltering for the first time as he clutched his side.

Celeste: “Now who’s laughing, clownlips?”

She mocked. She leaped into the air, her fist drawn back, the air around it rippling with the concentrated pressure of her durability. She rained down a flurry of blows, each one landing with the force of a sledgehammer, driving the giant back toward the center of the arena.

The Piledriver Prankster tried to catch her arm, his massive, gloved hands grasping for purchase, but Celeste was too fast, too dense, and far too angry. She batted his hand away and landed a devastating uppercut that snapped the clown’s head back, sending him stumbling dangerously close to the velvet armchair where Narcisse sat.

Narcisse’s cool demeanor finally cracked. His eyes widened, not in fear, but in sharp, calculated irritation as he was forced to stand and move his chair to avoid being caught in the wake of the brawling titans.

Narcisse: “Careful, you oversized hulk! You will break the furniture!”

He snapped.

But the clown was struggling, his erratic acrobatic style stifled by Celeste’s relentless, physical dominance. He stumbled, shaking his head to clear the stars from his vision, his bright red hair standing even more on end as he looked up at the woman who had just checked his ego.

Piledriver Prankster caught her off guard; with a primal roar, he hoisted her high above his head and hammered her into the floorboards with a bone-shaking CRASH. Dust billowed, and before Celeste could recover from the impact, the clown pivoted, his massive boots pounding toward Tristan. Celeste rose and brushed the debris off herself. Fabien rushed to her.

Fabien: “You okay?”

Celeste: “Yeah, just a butter knife scratch.”

She dusted herself off.

Tristan didn’t flinch, but his eyes flashed with a cold, piercing intensity. As the Prankster lunged, his fingers splayed out, and the air around him warped into a shimmering, sub-zero haze.

Tristan: “You're predictable, you oversized jester.”

He slammed his palms together, and a wall of razor-sharp ice erupted from the floor, skewering the ground between him and the charging clown. The Piledriver Prankster skidded to a halt, his momentum carrying him into the icy barrier, which crystallized instantly over his neon-colored wrestling gear. Frost spiderwebbed across his massive shoulders, locking his joints in place with supernatural speed.

However, the Piledriver Prankster was nothing if not persistent. He thrashed, his muscles bulging as he began to crack the ice, his manic, painted face inches from Tristan’s cold gaze.

Deimos blurred through the air, and his fist crashed directly into the clown’s jaw. When the clown staggered backward and fell onto the floor.

Tristan: “Deimos, rescue Lena and get Jaxon out of here!”

Deimos: “Like fuck I am! I am protecting you! Get Fabien to do it!”

He barked.

Inside, the Prankster was roaring, his massive form tearing through the ice wall like it was tissue paper. He howled in frustration, his painted face contorting in a mask of pure, unbridled rage. He slammed his fists into the walls of ice, smashing them.

Celeste lunged forward and reached the Piledriver Prankster, who roared and swung a wild, desperate fist, but she ducked under the blow with the grace of a seasoned combatant.

She drove her shoulder into his chest, using her super-strength to shove him off the twisted carousel frame, pinning him. As he staggered back, caught off-balance, she moved in.

Celeste surged forward, wrapping her powerful arms around his massive torso in a perfect, crushing grip. She planted her feet, her boots digging into the splintering floorboards, and arched her back as she executed a suplex.

The world seemed to tilt as she vaulted the gargantuan clown over her shoulder. The Prankster’s neon-colored spandex was a blur of chaotic motion before he was slammed, back-first, into the center of the room with the force of a Reonaquake. The impact shattered the remaining floorboards, sending a shockwave of dust and confetti into the air.

The clown’s neck snapped instantly, killing him, his eyes rolling back, his massive body finally going limp against the floor.

Celeste stood over him, breathing heavily, her knuckles bruised but her expression triumphant.

Narcisse dug his fingertips into the armchair as he scowled. Fabien hovered over him.

Fabien: “Hello! I’ll take her off your hands!”

He looked at Fabien, a chilling, serpentine smile spreading across his face. In an instant, he withdrew his letter opener and slashed his neck open. Lena screamed and wailed. Blood poured from Fabien’s neck. He clutched his neck as the blood stained his shirt. The smile faded from Narcisse’s face as Fabien’s skin stitched itself up.

Narcisse, in a rage, rammed his letter opener into Fabien’s hand, nailing it to his armchair. Fabien screamed in pain. Narcisse grabbed Lena by her hair, yanking her up, and withdrew his Beretta Stampede. He aimed his gun and fired twice at Fabien’s chest. Fabien bellowed in pain and collapsed over the armchair.

Narcisse: “Au revoir, Monsieur Bellegarde.”

He aimed his gun at his head. The bullets dropped from Fabien’s chest as his wounds sealed up, and he gnashed his teeth as he pulled the letter opener out of his hand, blood dripping from the blade onto the floor.

Celeste lunged at Narcisse, forcing him to let Lena go. The gun fired as she crashed him into an ice wall Tristan formed. Narcisse caterwauled as his bones crushed against the surface and his blood spattered on Celeste, Tristan, and the block of ice. He sank to the floor, a warbling mess.

Tristan: “Isn’t this exactly what you and that thing wanted?!”

He spread his arms out.

Tristan: “My powers are at their peak! Well, here it is, Narcisse!”

Narcisse’s jaw tightened as he glared up at Tristan.

Lena screamed, and they turned around to face Amanda with her arm snaked around her. Tristan glared coldly at her. Amanda’s eyes lit up red.

Amanda: “If you want her, let him go.”

She said coldly.

Deimos: “Fuck her! I am sick of that fuckin’ family! You can kill her, and I will kill this buttfuck, too!”

He nodded to Narcisse. Tristan raised an eyebrow to Deimos. Lena cried in Amanda’s grasp.

Jaxon: “Okay, deal!”

He said as he strolled forward.

Deimos: “Jaxon, you don’t speak for Tristan!”

He huffed.

Narcisse: “Oh, but it is in his best interest, Deimos!”

He wheezed.

Tristan: “He’s right.”

He relented.

Tristan: “We have to retreat for her.”

Deimos stomped his feet.

Deimos: “WHY?!”

Jaxon: “Deimos, just shut up! I said we let him go to save her!”

He rasped.

Tristan: “I agree.”

He nodded.

Tristan wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn he saw a smile creep on Amanda’s lips. She flew to Jaxon, handing him Lena, and scooped up Narcisse in her arms. She rose into the air from the hole in the ceiling and flew into the night sky.

~

The group stood outside the Grand Pavilion of Wonders. Lena was free from her binds, the power-suppressing collar off, and fully dressed.

Lena: “Thank you for saving me.”

She said earnestly.

Tristan: “Of course.”

He said coolly. Lena noticed Tristan wasn’t as warm and welcoming as before.

Jaxon: “What are YOU doing here?! YOU told Jordi about shit I did in the past!”

He rasped, pointing at Fabien.

Fabien: “So what if I did? I’m warning my friend, Jiro.”

He countered.

Jaxon: “Butt out, and quit trolling! You got what you wanted!”

Fabien: “Yes, and I will get so much more.”

He smirked. Jaxon growled at him.

Tristan: “Jaxon, Jordi asked me for confirmation on what Fabien told him, and I verified it.”

Jaxon: “I guess you hate me because of Fabien, too!”

He huffed. Lena knit her eyebrows.

Tristan: “No, Jaxon, I do not. One can criticize you and not hate you.”

He said coolly.

Lena: “Can we stop fighting?!”

She cried.

Lena: “I want to go home!”

Jaxon inhaled sharply.

Jaxon: “I’ll take her home. Enjoy your life, Fabien.”

He hissed as he left with her. Fabien folded his arms with a smirk.

Deimos: “I could have killed Narcisse, and this would be over, you know.”

He huffed.

Tristan: “Let’s get out of here. I hate this place.”

Deimos rested his hand on the small of Tristan’s back and escorted him back to his car.

Celeste looked up at Fabien. Fabien glanced back at her with a smile.

Fabien: “Thanks, babe.”

He whispered and pulled her into a hug. Celeste smiled.

Celeste: “Thanks to you, too.”

~

The neon hum of the streetlights blurred into streaks of violet and electric blue as Jaxon navigated his '85 Celica through the streets. The engine’s rhythmic purr was a stark contrast to the adrenaline still vibrating in his veins. Beside him, Lena sat huddled in the passenger seat, still clutching the fabric of her floral dress, her knuckles white.

Jaxon: “You’re okay, Lena.”

His voice was raspy. He shot her a look. He reached over, his hand briefly brushing her arm before he gripped the gear shift.

Jaxon: “Narcisse isn't getting anywhere near you again. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Lena exhaled a long, shaky breath, her gaze fixing on the way the dashboard lights illuminated Jaxon’s profile. In the harsh, flickering lighting of the passing city, he looked like a hero ripped straight from the poster of an action movie.

Lena: “I didn’t think you’d actually show up.”

She whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the tires on the pavement.

Lena: “How did you find me?”

Jaxon chuckled, a low, sharp sound, and cranked the wheel to take a corner, the Celica hugging the asphalt with precision.

Jaxon: “He sent a DashDish delivery boy to deliver a message to me. Told me the place and everything.”

He glanced at her again, his expression softening from intense focus to something much warmer, something that made Lena’s heart stutter.

Jaxon: “I wasn’t going to let him ruin your night. Or mine.”

The tension in the car shifted. The terror of the abandoned funhouse—the distorted laughter, the clown wrestler, the creeping malice of their captor—faded into the background, replaced by the heavy, sweet pressure of the silence between them.

As they pulled up to the curb in front of her house, the neighborhood was dark, save for the porch light waiting like a beacon. Jaxon killed the engine, and the sudden quiet was deafening.

Jaxon turned in his seat to face her.

Jaxon: “Safe and sound.”

He told her, but didn't move to open his door.

Lena turned to look at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. In the glow of the dashboard, the distance between them felt like an insurmountable canyon, yet his presence was magnetic. She reached out, her fingers hovering near his arm, testing the air.

Lena: "Thank you, Jaxon."

She murmured.

Jaxon: “Anytime.”

He replied, his voice dropping an octave. He leaned in, just an inch, his eyes searching hers for an invitation.

Lena’s heart did a slow, heavy roll in her chest. She watched the way his jaw tightened, the leather of his jacket creaking softly as he shifted.

Lena: “Hey, Jaxon, I think I’d like… to go to the drive-in. Just us.”

She said softly.

Jaxon let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since they escaped the funhouse. A slow, lopsided grin spread across his face—that signature, cocky, charming smirk that had drawn her to him in the first place. He reached out, his hand finally closing over hers. His palm was warm.

Jaxon: “It’s a date, then.”

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb tracing the delicate bone of her wrist.

Jaxon: “How’s Thursday? I will pick you up at seven.”

Lena laughed, a genuine, bubbling sound that finally broke the last of the tension. She felt the giddy rush of the secret they were sharing—the transition from the terror of the night to the spark of something entirely new and electric. She leaned forward, the floral pattern of her dress bunching as she moved, and pressed a light, lingering kiss to his cheek.

It was a bold move, and she felt her cheeks flush, but the way Jaxon’s eyes widened, his cheeks flushed, and then his expression softened into a gaze of pure adoration told her exactly how he felt about it.

Jaxon: “Go on, before my heart stops entirely.”

He teased softly, still not letting go of her hand.

Lena smiled, giving his hand one final squeeze before reluctantly unbuckling her seatbelt. She opened the door, the cool, damp air of the late-night neighborhood rushing in to break the spell. She stepped out onto the sidewalk, turning back one last time to watch him.

He was waiting, his eyes following her every move, the silhouette of his hair perfectly defiant against the headrest. She walked toward her front door, feeling less like a victim of a madman and more like the lead in her own romance movie. She didn’t have to look back to know he was still sitting there, waiting until she was safely inside, watching over her until the very end.

The night had been a nightmare, but as she stepped into the warmth of her foyer, she knew she’d remember it for an entirely different reason.

Jaxon didn’t pull away from the curb until the light in Lena’s entryway clicked off. Only then did he shift the Celica into first gear, the engine growling to life with a low, throaty rumble that echoed down the quiet suburban street.

He drove with one hand draped casually over the top of the steering wheel, his mind still replaying the brush of her lips against his cheek. The adrenaline of the standoff with Narcisse was finally curdling into a restless, jagged energy. He needed to burn it off.

It started to rain. Jaxon pressed the button to put the top up on his car.

He fished into his jacket pocket and grabbed a package of Marlboros. He shook one loose, clamped it between his teeth, and clicked the dashboard lighter. A moment later, a thin, orange coil began to glow, and he touched the tip of the cigarette to the heat.

He inhaled deeply, the ember flaring bright red in the dim cabin as he exhaled a long, steady plume of smoke against the windshield. It swirled through the cool air, dancing in the amber glow of the dashboard lights before vanishing into the darkness of the car.

He took another drag, staring out at the rain-slicked asphalt ahead. The rhythmic thwack-thwack of the wipers was the only sound in the car now. He wasn’t thinking about the funhouse anymore, or the twisted games Narcisse played. His mind was entirely occupied by the softness of Lena’s hand and the promise of Thursday night.

He turned onto the main road, the streetlights rhythmically strobing through the car, illuminating his reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked tired—there was a smudge of grease on his collar, and his hair was windblown from the scramble at the funhouse—but for the first time in a long time, the smirk on his face was entirely genuine.

He tapped the ash out the window, watching the sparks disappear into the wet night. He was already planning the drive-in, thinking about the movie they’d pick, and wondering if she’d let him hold her hand the whole way through. The night had almost been a disaster, but as he pulled onto his street, Jaxon decided it was the best one he’d had all year.

~

The front door of their house groaned on its hinges, giving way to the relief of silence. Celeste kicked the door shut behind them.

Fabien stumbled inside first, his shoulders slumped and his green flannel shirt torn near the collar—a souvenir from Narcisse’s attempt to slash his throat. He kicked his flip-flops off and collapsed onto the couch, letting out a breath that sounded like a deflating tire. He ran his hand through his hair. Celeste kicked off her boots and pulled off her stockings.

She sank onto the floor right in front of the couch, resting her chin on her knees. The fierce defiance in her expression melted into a quiet, bone-deep exhaustion. She reached out and rested her hand on Fabien’s knee.

Celeste: “How do you feel, handsome?”

Fabien smiled at her.

Fabien: “Pretty good. We saved Lena and pissed off Jiro and Narcisse. Two birds, one stone.”

He laughed.

Celeste: “I was scared for you, Fab.”

She murmured, rubbing her head against his hand, like a cat marking her territory.

Fabien: “Thanks, honey, but you were amazing back there, tossing that big fucking clown like a ragdoll.”

He chuckled, tracing her cheek with his thumb.

Celeste: “Music.”

She stood up with a sudden burst of energy. She walked over to the stack of records.

Celeste: “We need something loud. Something that makes sure we know we’re still here.”

She said, wanting to reassure herself and him that she didn’t lose him despite Narcisse’s attempt to kill him. Fabien leaned back into the cushions, as a genuine sense of peace finally washed over him.

The opening acoustic chords of “More than a Feeling” drifted from the living room. Fabien scooped her up, his exhaustion momentarily eclipsed by a rush of adrenaline and overwhelming relief. He carried her through the living room. Celeste wrapped her arms around his neck, her chin resting on his shoulder, her breathing beginning to slow as the safety of their sanctuary finally sank in.

He nudged their bedroom door open with his foot and gently lowered her onto the bed. The room was bathed in the soft, flickering neon green glow of his lights, casting long, rhythmic shadows that danced to the building crescendo of the song.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. They simply looked at each other—the adrenaline fading, replaced by a profound, grounding connection. There were no more puzzles, no more villains, and no more danger. There was only the weight of the other person and the undeniable reality that they had both made it home.

Fabien reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he brushed a neon-green strand of hair away from her face, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. Celeste leaned into his touch, closing her eyes. The song hit its chorus—an explosion of classic rock defiance—and in that moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist.

As Fabien lowered her onto the mattress, the bed frame groaned in rhythm with the music, a sound that quickly faded into insignificance.

He hovered over her, his expression uncharacteristically serious, the grime of the funhouse still clinging to his flannel shirt. Celeste didn’t wait; she surged upward, grabbing the lapels of his shirt and pulling him down until their lips collided. The kiss was desperate and searing—a frantic, hungry reclamation of one another. It was a silent testament to the fear they had barely acknowledged, a way of proving that they were still living, breathing, and completely whole.

His hands were trembling as he gripped her waist, his touch firm and grounding. He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth along the line of her throat, savoring the warmth of her skin, while Celeste tangled her fingers deep into his soft, white hair, pulling him closer as if she could fuse their very souls together.

With a few practiced, fluid movements, the barriers between them began to fall. The heavy leather of her jacket was cast aside, landing in a heap on the floor, soon followed by the studs and chains that had clattered against him during the scuffle earlier. Every piece of clothing shed—the jagged hem of her skirt, the rough cotton of his shirt—felt like stripping away the lingering dirt and dark memories of the funhouse. They were paring life back to its most essential, intimate truth.

As they pressed together, skin against skin, the tension that had been coiled in their muscles for hours finally began to snap and dissipate. She straddled him, guiding his cock into her feminine core and moving her hips in rhythm to his thrusts.

As the song spiraled into its final, triumphant guitar solo, the room seemed to vibrate with the sheer velocity of their movements.

Celeste arched against him, her heels digging into the sheets, her eyes locked onto his with an intensity that burned brighter than the neon lights of the city outside. She needed the man she loved to fill her, to moan her name, to hold her, and to pleasure her.

Fabien felt the tremors run through her—a delayed reaction to the danger they had just navigated—and he countered it by pulling her closer, pressing his forehead against hers to center her. Their breathing was ragged and syncopated, turning into a single rhythm that matched the rising tempo of the music. He picked up the pace with his thrusts, cupping her large breasts and squeezing them. He held her close as he continued to move, drive deeper into her, and heard her moan in his ear when he hit her G-spot.

Celeste trembled and screamed as an orgasm ripped through her. She lay limp in his arms. She squeezed her eyes shut as she felt his cock swell inside of her, and her eyes rolled back into her head as she felt his hot cum flow in her.

When they finally collapsed into each other, tangled in a mess of discarded clothing and warm, heavy limbs, the silence that followed was heavy and sweet. The record reached its end, the needle scratching softly in the run-out groove of the vinyl, but neither of them moved to flip it.

Celeste lay with her head resting on Fabien’s chest, listening to the steady, slowing thud of his heart. She traced the lines of his shoulder with her fingertips. She turned her head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his collarbone, then snuggled deeper into the curve of his body.

Celeste shifted, her skin still warm and sensitized from the intensity of the last hour. She pulled away just enough to look at Fabien, a tired but genuine smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Celeste: “Join me in the shower?”

Fabien nodded, his eyes heavy with exhaustion but clear with affection. He stood up, offering her a hand, and led the way toward their bathroom.

~

After they showered, Celeste pulled on a simple black tank top and matching panties. Fabien stepped into his worn, oversized green plaid pajama pants.

They crawled into bed, the sheets crisp and cool. The adrenaline that had kept them moving for hours was finally giving way to a heavy, irresistible lethargy. Celeste curled onto her side, pulling her knees up toward her chest, and Fabien moved in behind her, his arm instinctively draping over her waist, his body heat radiating through the thin cotton of her top.

As he rested his chin on her shoulder, she felt him let out one final, long exhale, the tension finally leaving his frame completely. Within minutes, the steady, rhythmic sound of their breathing unified, and they drifted to sleep.

~

Tristan stood in his bedroom after showering. His white hair was loose, and he wore his silver silk pajamas with his name embroidered in gold on the left breast pocket. Deimos stepped out of the shower, wearing a black tank top and black plaid pajama pants. He embraced Tristan from behind, inhaling the wonderful scent of his soft white hair. It had a floral scent with sweet, tropical hints. His rough, calloused palms held onto Tristan’s soft hands.

Deimos: “Coming to bed?”

Tristan: “Shortly.”

He said tersely. Stood on his tiptoes to press his lips on Tristan’s neck, the sensation of his lips tickled him. Tristan laughed softly.

Tristan: “Hehehehehehehe!”

Deimos: “What are you thinking about?”

He asked gently. Tristan turned around.

Tristan: “What else, but what happened tonight?”

He replied and inhaled sharply. Deimos took Tristan’s hands and kissed them. Tristan smiled and melted to his touch—a touch he craved so long but denied his need for it.

Tristan: “Why did Narcisse kidnap Jaxon first and then inform me later?”

He asked him. Deimos’ muscular hands gently held Tristan’s slender hands.

Deimos: “I dunno, I think to heal that person in that chamber.”

Tristan’s expression soured.

Tristan: “That’s not possible.”

Deimos shrugged.

Deimos: “He reached out to me first, and he knows I can heal.”

Tristan looked away, trying to hide his anxiety.

Deimos: “Who do you think that person is, Tristan? Your grandfather?”

Tristan shook his head.

Tristan: “I don’t want to discuss this.”

He pulled away from Deimos’ grasp.

Deimos knit his eyebrows and felt hurt.

Deimos: “But this could be why Narcisse did this tonight!”

He exclaimed. Tristan embraced himself. Deimos crept to his gentleman love and placed his hand on his shoulders. Tristan spun on his heels to face him.

Tristan: “That thing is dead, Deimos! It’s not coming back!”

He cried.

Deimos: “Your grandfather?”

Tristan shook his head.

Tristan: “...That thing.”

He looked away.

Deimos: “Your mother?”

Tristan: “I don’t want to call it that.”

He growled.

Deimos: “How do you know she died?”

He asked him.

Tristan: “Because I killed it, Deimos! After my powers got out of control, putting Papa in a coma, I used my cryokinesis to send her into the pit of hell!”

He cried. Deimos wrapped his arms around him, holding him close and comforting him. Tristan wrapped his arms around Deimos. How I missed this and denied it, he thought.

Tristan: “I just… need to be held. I need to be reassured…”

He sobbed as his slender fingers traced over Deimos’ muscles. Deimos shivered at his touch.

Deimos: “Tristan, I would never let anything bad happen to you…”

He said softly.

The two locked their gazes onto each other and kissed. This is what Tristan needed now. To be loved and reassured. He felt whole now that his man was back in his life.

~

Narcisse strolled through the foyer dressed in a silk robe. He opened the door to the basement and went down the dark stairway and through the dark, damp foyer. He entered the room and strolled to the hyperbaric chamber, locking his gaze on the person inside.

Narcisse: “My darling, after fifteen long years, I think I have found the right person to rescue you from this Hell you’ve been enduring.”

He crooned, and the person’s cold green eyes moved to gaze back at Narcisse.