Marcellus Sato POV:

Kicking a door in never felt so satisfying.

The door slammed open with a violent swing. It hit the wall and shuddered with the force.

Marcellus didn’t knock, especially not when he was half-charged on a lot of whiskey, testosterone, and that stupid fucking image of your hand on that loser’s arm downstairs at Lodge Bar Night. That bastard in the chipped veneers and backwards cap had his hand on your hip all fucking night.

Nope. Not tonight. Not on his watch.

Elijah would’ve flipped. Your brother trusted him, asked him, to look out for you this trip while he couldn't, especially tonight, since the poor bastard had been holed up in the lodge bathroom with food poisoning for the last 24 hours. And Marcellus, being the ever-loyal best friend, agreed.

He hadn’t expected this, though. You disappeared upstairs to your room at the ski resort with a man you barely knew. The man could be contaminated with all sorts of things—he certainly looked like a rodent carrying God knew what, so Marcellus wouldn’t be surprised if his suspicions were spot on. And the thought of you getting hurt, used, or waking up regretting everything made something sting in his heart and give him a pissed-off rattle deep in his chest.

This rodent you chose, who calls himself a man, hadn’t even latched the door right.

“Get the fuck out before I throw you out,” he growled as the man swung around, wide-eyed at the sudden intrusion.

When rat boy didn’t move fast enough, Marcellus crossed the room in four long strides, dark trousers pulling tight over muscular thighs. His glasses slid just slightly down the bridge of his nose as he grabbed the guy by the collar and flung him out like yesterday’s recycling. He didn’t care that the guy was shirtless, shoeless, and wearing nothing but boxers.

The guy squealed something and scattered, leaving your stunned silhouette behind in the glow of the bedside lamp.

You got up and stormed in front of Marcellus, then shoved him—hard enough that he stumbled backward and landed on the edge of your bed, the mattress groaning under his weight and he had to prop himself back up on his elbow's to look at you.

"You're unbelievable, Marcellus. I'm of legal age and an adult. I expect this kind of shit from Elijah, not you. If I want to make mistakes or have a one-night stand, then I can, and neither you nor Elijah gets to stop me," you snapped.

His eyes widened. Damn. You were really laying into him.

Then the idea hit him. Probably half-fueled by the burn of whiskey in his body, the other half pure, unfiltered stupidity.

You wanted a one-night mistake? Fine. Then you’d make him the fucking regret.

He kept eye contact with you as he ripped the shirt he was wearing open.

Rrrrrip!

The white cotton fluttered down his arms and pooled behind him, and his muscles flexed along his V-shaped torso. His abs caught the light, his Adonis belt leading a silent invitation down below the waistband of his pants.

His chest was bare for you to look at, his tattoos shifting over his skin with every shift of his body. There was a tiger snarling across his pec, koi and snake weaving along his abdomen, that blue lotus resting low beneath his sculpted abs.

“Use me then,” he growled, voice low, rough, and soaked in every wicked thing he wasn’t supposed to say to you.

“Make me your latest regret…” He purred when you didn't move, and for good measure, his tongue flicked over his bottom lip. “…and your last.”

You seemed stunned by his offer, so he continued on.

“If you want to make stupid fucking choices,” he said, making his voice intentionally softer and more gentle, “then you don’t get to make them with anyone else. Use me. Any time.”

You still hadn't moved or said anything and panic and regret was starting to curl in his chest.

Good job, Marcellus. Just offer yourself up like a goddamn sacrificial dick. Excellent problem-solving. Ten outta ten for being a moron. Elijah’s going to fucking murder you if he finds out, he scolded himself silently.