Page 38 of Xerxes Ascendant
He charged forward, yelling Akira’s name, and having no thoughts or plans other than getting his man out of Tyrone’s unworthy hands. But for the second time that night, his way was blocked by one of the club’s security.
“This is a private area, sir,” the man yelled in his ear, catching Kyle by the collar. He tried to guide him back to the dance floor, but Kyle dug in his heels.
“I need to talk to Master Epsilon!” Kyle hollered back, remembering just in time not to use his employer’s real name.
The security guard glanced behind him at where his own boss was feasting unreservedly on Akira’s throat. “He’s still with Mr. Court. I suggest you contact his House.”
“I’m from his House! I need to see himnow!”
The man’s grip turned threatening, twisting more of Kyle’s shirt in his meaty fist to tighten the pressure on his neck. “I won’t warn you again. Leave the area, sir, or you’ll be removed from the club.”
“Master Epsilon!” Kyle yelled, trying to see past the security guard. “Master!”
“That’ll be all from you.” The guard began to drag him towards the back door.
Kyle struggled against him, refusing to go easily. “Master!”
Akira’s head turned sharply in his direction. Vague boredom turned to keen delight as their gazes met, and then devolved to concern when he noticed Kyle’s predicament. Impatiently brushing off Tyrone’s greedy hands and mouth, Akira rose with elegance from the plush sofa.
Kyle was roughly jerked to the side and he lost sight of him, but in the next moment his boss stood at his shoulder.
“Remove your hands from my employee before I remove them for you, rather more permanently,” Akira demanded of the security guard, the hitch in his voice following the wordmyalmost undetectable. He levelled an icy, relentless stare at the man until he was obeyed.
All the polite indulgence Akira had given his client only moments ago had sluiced abruptly away, leaving only an intolerant disdain that Kyle found devastatingly attractive. There wasn’t a trace of the man who would let himself be petted and used at another’s whim, just as this terrifyingly intimidating version of himself disappeared when he chose to gift his submission. Akira was soft and sharp, hot and cold; as unpredictably dangerous as he was the comforting safety of home.
Brown eyes raked Kyle up and down with a quick, assessing glance. The security guard moved away.
“Would you care to explain why I’m rescuing you from strange men?” Akira drawled at Kyle, defying the noise around them with the calm, low level of his voice.
Kyle had no such skill, and had to shout back to be heard.
“I was trying to rescueyou!”
Akira shot him a glance that was filled with as much affection as exasperation. “I am quite fine, Kyle. Servicing a client is nothing I have not done before, as I’m sure you are well aware.”
Kyle launched himself at him, unable to hold to propriety any longer. He grabbed a fistful of the light grey fabric of his shirt, half-unbuttoned from Tyrone’s attentions, and pulled it aside to reveal the skin of his chest...which was whole and undamaged, thank the stars. The epsilon tattoo over his heart, that small little backwards capital E, was briefly illuminated by a cherry red flare of light overhead that made the Master look fleetingly demonic.
Relief flooding through him, Kyle used his grip on his boss’ shirt to pull him in for a tight hug.
He held on longer than was platonically acceptable, he was sure, but Akira made no attempt to extricate himself. He was warm, and he was familiar, and he was too damn precious to have almost been lost to such a horrific fate.
“What has gotten into you?” he asked when Kyle finally drew away. He looked bemused rather than concerned, and Kyle didn’t really want to ruin his night by explaining that some poor soul had been tattooed and skinned by Benedict Mackenroth just to fuck with the pair of them.
“You scared me!” Kyle yelled instead, knowing that any resulting terror had been the insidious doings of the mayor and not his employer, but also needing Akira to know that he wasn’t allowed to do things like be dead or maimed.
Kyle’s fragile heart couldn’t take it.
Hulking shadows suddenly loomed around the pair of them, cutting them off from the bright, lively energy of the club.
“Mr. Court insists you both leave his premises,” one thundered over the music, a different security guard to the man who had taken hold of Kyle earlier.
Kyle glanced apologetically at Akira.
He realised how poorly he’d acted in his distress, by drawing the Master from a high-paying client in the middle of his appointment and in the process, embarrassing the man with how easily Akira had discarded his company for Kyle’s. They might be able to win back Tyrone’s business with some sincere grovelling on both of their parts, although Kyle wasn’t looking forward to finding out if the club owner was the type of vengeful man who would want to inflict public humiliation on the pair of them in turn.
But Akira made no move to return to the booth.
“Very well,” he conceded, waving a vague, impetuous hand that demonstrated no regard for how he’d just lost a rich client. “Lead the way.”
