The dam finally broke, and it did so with a spectacular, arcing violence. Marcus gave one final, snapping squeeze, and Trent’s body buckled. His head whipped back, a guttural, animal roar of release tearing from his throat. A thick, powerful jet of white arced through the dim air, reaching as high as Marcus's face before falling back in heavy, rhythmic pulses.
Several ropes of it landed with a wet thud across Trent’s own face. A thick strip matted his eyelashes, while another slid down his cheek and jaw, mixing with the sweat. Marcus didn't flinch; he simply smiled, watching the liquid drip from Trent's chin as the massive man's muscles finally lost their fight and went limp.
The silence that followed was punctured by the sound of heavy footsteps on stone.
Gabe didn't just step out; he strode into the center of the patio, his chest heaving under his grey t-shirt. He stood there, legs braced, his face twisted in a mask of grief and fury. He stared down at the tableau—at his partner, messy and dazed, draped over a naked stranger like a piece of discarded silk.
"What the hell, Trent?" Gabe’s voice was a jagged rasp, cutting through the stillness. "Is this it? This is what you left for? To be some... some toy for this bastard?"
The reaction from the lounger was agonizingly sluggish. Trent’s eyes, still rolled back into the hazy afterglow of the trance, struggled to find the source of the noise. He blinked, the semen on his eyelashes making his vision blurry. He looked at Gabe, but his expression was one of profound, hollowed-out confusion.
"What...?" Trent rasped, his lips barely moving. "Gabe...?"
Marcus didn't move. He didn't even cover himself. He simply tilted his head, his aviators reflecting the angry man standing in his garden. He kept his hand casually rested on Trent's cooling lap, his fingers still possessively curled around the source of Trent’s submission.
"Ah," Marcus murmured, his voice as smooth as the whiskey Alistair held. "You must be Gabe. I’ve heard quite a bit about you. Though, I must say, the descriptions didn't quite capture this... lack of poise."
"Shut your mouth," Gabe spat, his hands balling into fists. "How much are you paying him? How much does it cost to turn a man like him into a dog? You're a pathetic piece of trash..."
Marcus chuckled—a soft, dry sound that felt more dangerous than Gabe’s shouting. "Paying him?" He shifted slightly, running a thumb over the curve of Trent’s hip. "I don't pay for art, Gabe. I curate it. Look at him. Really look at him."
Marcus gestured toward Trent, who was now staring at Gabe with a vacant, heartbreakingly peaceful smile. A single drop of white slid down his neck, disappearing into the hair of his chest.
"Does he look like he’s suffering to you?" Marcus asked softly. "Does he look like he misses the life you offered him? The worry, the choice, the constant noise of being human? He’s finally still, Gabe. He’s finally at peace. He’s exactly where he was always meant to be."
Gabe looked at Trent—at the massive, powerful man who could have crushed Marcus with a single hand—and saw only a contented, hollowed-out vessel. Trent wasn't fighting. He wasn't even angry. He was just... waiting.