Page 88 of The Light Within

Julien murmured sweet French into his ear, but Cinn was unable to articulate any reply—he trembled head to toe with relentless aftershocks, consumed by the rush of oxytocin.

For a while, they simply floated together, Julien against the side, Cinn’s back pressed into Julien’s chest. Wandering hands continued to explore soft skin under the water.

Exhaustion hit him. Running around Paris all night and two mind-blowing sex sessions would do that to a guy.

Julien pressed a kiss to Cinn’s shoulder blade, where his spiderweb tattoo—his prison tattoo—was inked across his skin. “I think this is my favourite one,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, the ink work is shocking, but... it’s messy but proudly so. Like beautiful chaos. It kind of reminds me of that night we met.”

Still in his blissed-out state, Cinn found himself being guided out of the tub, towel dried and helped to dress in his new pyjamas before being led to the king-sized bed.

They slid back together like puzzle pieces under the sheets. Julien burrowed his back into Cinn, reaching for Cinn’s arm to pull it across him before pressing their threaded fingers against his chest.

Why on earth then, he’d never know, but a sudden thought occurred to Cinn. “Fuck! Our coats are still in the cloakroom!”

Julien burst out laughing. “I’ll go get it all back tomorrow before the church. You can wait outside.”

The staff had probably binned or stolen their stuff in revenge, knowing their luck.

It wasn’t until Julien was snoring in his arms, blissfully warm, blissfullyhisto hold,that Cinn remembered his earlier mission, the words interrupted by the arrival of the Eiffel Tower security.

“I’m pretty sure that I love you,” he whispered into Julien’s hair, still damp from the water. “Even though you’re a fucking nightmare.”

There. He’d said it.

It felt good to say it aloud, the weight of the words against his chest partially lifted, at least.

Hopefully, it sweetened Julien’s dreams.

For a while, Cinn lay there, on the precipice of sleep, his thoughts drifting like leaves on a slow river, enjoying the warmth of Julien’s body against his, and the rhythm of their combined breaths.

It was pitch black, and Cinn couldn’t breathe.

A hand clamped tightly over his mouth, silencing any attempt to scream. Abruptly, a cloth was stuffed into Cinn’s mouth, its rough texture smothering him as a strange powder filled his nostrils. He had no choice but to inhale, his panic only intensifying as the substance invaded his lungs. His heart pounded wildly in his chest. Fear surged throughhim as he was yanked from the bed, the sudden loss of Julien’s warmth replaced by cold dread.

His limbs flailed in a desperate struggle, kicking with all his strength in any direction he could.

Then they slowed.

Seized up, locked solid.

The sensation was horrific—paralysed from head to toe, a cold numbness spreading through his body being dragged across the floor. Unable to cry out, as his throat was immobilised.

Though, this wasn’t a wholly new experience.

He’d been through all this before.

In that thicket of woods, after his fight with Julien, when Darcy blew that white powder in his face…

Frostbite.

These moteblessed assholes had drugged him.

The vague dark shape of the sofa in the lounge area receded from view.

A cold draught swept across the room. The glass doors of the balcony were open.

His fate was inevitable.

All he could do was stare at his lifeless legs as they slid across the cold floor, to their doom.

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