Chapter 125: I Didn’t Want Our First Time To Be Like This....
Last night —
The 49th floor exists in a pocket of silence so complete it feels suspended outside of time itself.
Inside the VIP suite, the silence is heavier—more intimate, more charged. Clothes lie scattered across the floor in careless abandon: Ellis’s shirt, stripped and discarded in haste, his trousers pooled beside the ornate bed, belts and garters strewn across the marble in the quiet aftermath of the night.
The air is thick and languid, still carrying the weight of what happened here—the memory of heat, hunger, and surrender lingering in every shadow.
On the bed, Ellis and Silas lie tangled together, bare skin against bare skin, their bodies still slick with the evidence of the night. Sweat glistens on pale skin, catching the dim light in a soft, intimate sheen that traces the contours of muscle and bone like liquid silver.
Ellis’s head rests on Silas’s arm, his face peaceful in unconsciousness, his breathing slow and steady. He looks almost untouched—
Until you see the marks.
Bruises bloom across his neck, his chest, his shoulders—the unmistakable evidence of a hunger that could not be contained.
Silas’s eyes are open.
They are still burning gold, still alive with the embers of his rut, but calmer now—like a fire that has been fed and is finally beginning to settle. His gaze never leaves Ellis’s face, tracing every line, every shadow, every subtle flicker beneath his sleeping features.
His fingers rise slowly, brushing over the marks on Ellis’s neck. He traces the outline of a bite mark—the one he left there only hours ago—his touch featherlight, as though afraid of causing more harm.
Ellis’s hair is damp with sweat, dark strands clinging to his temple. Silas gently brushes them away, his fingers lingering for a moment before slipping through the soft locks with quiet tenderness.
"How did you find me?" he whispers, his voice barely audible, rough with exhaustion and the lingering heat of his rut. "How did you end up here?"
Ellis stirs—just slightly, an unconscious shift toward the warmth beside him. Silas’s eyes follow the movement, his gaze softening.
His fingers trace the outline of Ellis’s lower lip. A faint bruise lingers there, a mark left by a kiss that had been more desperate than tender. His thumb brushes over it slowly, reverently.
"I’m sorry," he whispers, the words fragile, breaking at the edges. "I didn’t want to hurt you. That’s why I walked away."
He leans closer, resting his temple against Ellis’s, drawing quiet comfort from the warmth of his skin and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.
"But you found me."
He pulls Ellis a little closer, his arm tightening around him. His eyes close for a moment, dark brown lashes catching the soft golden glow.
"My Alpha..."
A pause. A breath held too long.
"I was in my rut." His voice is barely more than a whisper. "Don’t be angry with me."
The silence that follows is broken by a soft knock at the door.
Silas’s eyes open slowly, the gold flickering back to life. For a long moment, he doesn’t move, his gaze lingering on Ellis’s sleeping face. Then, with the careful deliberation of someone handling something precious, he gently frees his arm from beneath Ellis’s head, letting him rest against the pillow. Ellis remains unconscious, undisturbed by the interruption.
Silas rises from the bed. His movements are unhurried, deliberate, as though he has all the time in the world. He reaches for his trousers and pulls them on, the dark silk sliding over his heated skin.
He walks to the door and opens it.
A hotel staff member stands in the hallway, her face half-hidden behind a mask. Even through the barrier, her complexion is noticeably pale, her breathing slightly uneven from the lingering oleander pheromones saturating the floor. She holds a tray with trembling hands—a bowl of steaming water, neatly folded towels, and several small jars of ointment.
Her eyes widen the moment they meet his burning golden gaze.
"Sir..." she says, her voice trembling despite her best effort to remain composed. "You ordered these."
Silas takes the tray from her without a word.
His silence is heavier than any command. The lingering weight of his pheromones presses against her, thick and overwhelming. She lowers her gaze at once, scarcely daring to meet his eyes as her trembling fingers release the tray.
Without another glance, Silas turns away. The door closes behind him with a soft click, sealing the room in silence once more.
He sets the tray on the bedside table and sits beside Ellis. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and every movement that follows is careful. Gentle.
He dips a soft towel into the warm water, wrings it out, and begins to wipe Ellis’s skin. Slow strokes along his neck, across his shoulders. The towel leaves a trail of gentle warmth in its wake, each stroke slow and unhurried, touched with quiet tenderness.
"I didn’t want our first time to be like this," he whispers, his voice heavy with regret. "I was waiting... until the day you chose me after knowing who I truly am."
He dips the towel into the water once more, wrings it out, and carefully wipes the sweat from Ellis’s chest. His fingers linger for a heartbeat over the steady rhythm beneath his palm.
A faint, bittersweet smile touches his lips.
"But you make me so impatient, my Alpha."
He sets the towel aside and reaches for the ointment, opening it with careful fingers. He takes a small amount onto his fingertip before gently smoothing it over the kiss marks on Ellis’s neck. His touch is featherlight, reverent, spreading the cool balm across each bruise as though trying to soothe the traces of his own desperation.
But the heat is returning.
A familiar pull coils at the base of his spine.
His pheromones begin to rise again, thick and demanding, slowly filling the room. He drags a rough hand over the back of his neck, drawing a slow breath as he struggles to force the heat back under control.
Then he reaches for his phone and dials.
Nick answers on the first ring, his voice calm, measured, perfectly professional.
"Yes, boss."
Silas’s gaze never leaves Ellis—following the slow rise and fall of his chest, the soft parting of his lips.
"Come to the hotel," he says, his voice low and controlled. "There’s something important you need to handle."
"Understood, boss."
The call ends.
Silas sets the phone aside and reaches for Ellis’s hand, cradling it gently between both of his. He lifts it to his face, pressing his lips softly against the back of his knuckles before resting the hand against his cheek.
"I really wanted to spend more time with my Alpha," he whispers.
A pause.
His fingers tighten ever so slightly around Ellis’s hand.
"But my rut isn’t over yet. If you stay here any longer..." His voice catches, the words barely more than a breath. "I might lose control again."
He closes his eyes, leaning into the warmth of Ellis’s hand.
"And I really don’t want to hurt my Alpha."
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