The service elevator hummed its slow, grinding ascent, the sickly yellow utility light casting deep shadows over the three men inside. On the cold metal floor lay Gabe, stripped bare and entirely unconscious, his massive, athletic frame rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths.
Silas leaned against the wall, wincing as he pressed a hand to his bruised jaw—a souvenir from Trent’s brief, frantic struggle before the petrification had completely taken hold. Silas’s eyes drifted down to the unconscious man at their feet, his brow furrowing as he took in the intricate web of thick black ropes tightly securing Gabe’s body.
"I don't get it," Silas grunted, nudging Gabe’s heavy, bound leg with the tip of his boot. "Why the weird knots? We had zip-ties in the locker. Why did you bother tying him up like a goddamn Christmas present?"
Boris let out a low, patronizing chuckle, his eyes admiring his own handiwork. The black ropes crisscrossed over Gabe’s broad, sweat-slicked back, biting perfectly into the thick muscle without breaking the skin.
"It's called Shibari, idiot," Boris explained, his voice echoing in the small, yellow-lit box. "The boss taught me the fundamentals. It’s not just about keeping a piece of meat from moving. It’s about restriction as an art form. You manipulate the ropes to highlight the anatomy, to display the submissiveness of the form. Look at him... he's completely helpless, but he looks like a masterpiece waiting to be consumed."
The elevator gave a final, heavy clunk as it reached the penthouse. The doors slid open, shedding the stale yellow light and welcoming the cool, purple-tinged dusk of the Las Vegas evening.
They carried Gabe’s dead weight out onto the sprawling terrace. The desert wind was warm, carrying the scent of jasmine. Standing perfectly still in the background was Alistair, the towering obsidian giant with his gold geometric etchings, a silent, unblinking sentinel keeping watch over the twilight.
And waiting for them was Marcus.
He was sitting casually on the edge of a striped sun lounger, completely shirtless, his own muscular torso on display. Despite the fading light, his wire-rimmed aviators were firmly in place, reflecting the deep purples and blues of the sky.
"Bring him here..." Marcus commanded, his voice a smooth, dangerous purr. He gestured to the space right between his spread legs. "On his stomach first."
Boris and Silas moved quickly, hefting Gabe’s heavy, unconscious body and laying him face down across the cushions exactly as instructed. Gabe’s head lolled to the side, his lips slightly parted in a deep, oblivious sleep, his wrists bound securely behind his back.
"And Trent?" Marcus asked, his tone shifting to business.
"In the freezer," Boris answered swiftly. He pulled out his phone, tapping the screen before holding it out. The image showed Trent, fully transformed into a magnificent, shimmering black obsidian statue, his face locked in that eternal, adoring smile, his massive arms frozen in their triumphant flex.
Boris couldn't help but smirk. "The guy here tried to be a hero and almost got crushed under his friend's new weight. He's incredibly lucky we were there to pull him out."
Marcus’s jaw tightened, his displeasure evident. "I don't understand how he got here, Boris. How did he get access to the service elevator?"
"I'm still checking on that, boss," Boris said, shooting a sharp, blaming glare at the bruised Silas.
"I want a detailed report. By tomorrow," Marcus snapped, the cold authority in his voice leaving no room for argument. "Someone is going to pay for this breach..."
His anger, however, seemed to evaporate the moment his attention returned to the man sprawled across the lounger. "...someone other than this piece of meat right here," Marcus finished, his voice dropping an octave.
Marcus reached out. His large hand clamped down firmly on Gabe’s exposed, muscular right buttock. He squeezed the dense flesh, a slow, predatory smile spreading through his neat dark beard.
"That is one hell of an ass," Marcus murmured, his thumb tracing the line where the thick black rope bit into Gabe’s thigh.
With his other hand, Marcus reached forward and roughly grabbed a fistful of Gabe’s hair. He hoisted the unconscious man’s head up, exposing the thick column of Gabe’s neck, while his right hand continued to knead and map the heavy muscle of Gabe's rear. "Do you hear that, kid?" Marcus whispered to the unhearing face. "You've got a hell of an ass."
Marcus let Gabe’s head drop back onto the cushion with a soft thud. "What did you manage to find out about him?"
"The kid here found a few things online," Boris said, nudging Silas forward. "Tell him."
Silas swallowed hard, clearly intimidated by having to address Marcus directly. "Uh, yeah... so, his name is Gabe. He was the partner of the new guy... Trent."
"Tell me something I don't know," Marcus interrupted, his voice dripping with impatient sarcasm as his fingers traced the deep valley of Gabe's spine.
"He's thirty-four," Silas stammered, hurrying his words. "He's a college football coach. But... he recently resigned. The dates line up right around the time Trent started performing at the club."
Marcus paused his exploration. He tilted his head, the reflection of the bound man shifting in his dark lenses. "Is that so?" Marcus mused, a dark intrigue coloring his tone. "Now that is much more interesting. Tell me more."
"Uh, he lives alone now... obviously," Silas continued, finding a bit of rhythm. "His apartment is just a few blocks from here. According to his social media, he's originally from LA. Moved to Vegas to take the coaching job about a year ago. As far as I can tell, he has no family or relatives anywhere in the area."
"Perfect," Marcus breathed. He didn't look up at the workers, his focus entirely consumed by the vulnerable, athletic body surrendered to his hands. "Go to his house. Toss the place. Gather every detail you can find—documents, schedules, everything. I will interrogate him myself when he wakes up."
"Understood," Boris nodded.
Marcus’s hands slid over Gabe’s broad, rope-bound shoulders, down his sweaty flanks, and back to the heavy, trapped weight of his thighs. The contrast of the harsh black rope against the smooth, tan skin was intoxicating.
"Beautiful work with the binding, Boris," Marcus said softly, genuine appreciation in his voice. "You are an excellent student."
Boris beamed, puffing his chest out slightly. "Thanks, boss."