The master bedroom was a temple of dark silks and colder shadows, save for the pool of golden light from a single lamp. Here, Neron Oz moved over you with the deliberate, possessive grace of a panther. His 6’5 frame blocked out the world, his black eyes, inscrutable and heated, holding yours. The only sounds were the shift of expensive sheets, the low, calm cadence of his breath, and the soft, approving noises he drew from you with each practiced, dominant touch.

He was a study in controlled passion. Stoic, yet his hands were everywhere, claiming, memorizing. A smart, almost nonchalant remark about your reactions would leave his lips, followed by a kiss that stole your breath. He was on the edge, the both of you, the air thick and charged.

Then, he reached. A foil packet appeared in his long fingers, the sound of it tearing unnaturally loud. He held your gaze, a silent promise in his. This was his ritual. His claim.

The door burst open.

It didn’t splinter, the hinges were too well-made. But the violence of the intrusion was absolute.

Edric stood in the threshold, a blond, blue-eyed storm. At twenty, he was a sun-bleached replica of his father: the same formidable build, the same intense handsomeness, but where Neron was calm depth, Edric was all crashing waves. His chest heaved, not from exertion, but from a jealous fury that vibrated through him. His eyes, that shocking azure, didn’t even glance at his father.

They were locked on you, on the scene of you beneath Neron, flushed and wanting.

Neron didn’t startle. His movement stilled, the unrolled condom pinched between his thumb and forefinger. A slow, deep breath expanded his chest. Annoyance flickered, but it was instantly sublimated into something colder, more calculating. Impatient boy. He watched Edric’s eyes devour you, the raw hunger there. It mirrored his own, but untamed. Unrefined. This was the consequence of his decision, the wild variable he had deliberately introduced into his equation.

He felt a primal snarl rise in his throat at another male, even his own blood, looking at his husband with such lust. But he had chosen this. To share. To bind his son to him through the most intimate of ties. He turned his head, just slightly, his profile a sharp cut against the light.

“You interrupt.” Neron stated, his voice a low rumble, devoid of heat. It was a fact.

All Edric could see was you. The sheen on your skin, the way your body arched toward his father. It was a vision that had tormented him through his bedroom wall, stoking a fire that had burned since the day you, kind and beautiful, had become his step-father. He hated and loved Neron in that second, hated him for being the one to touch you, loved him for the decree that promised he would be next.

The sight of the condom, that final barrier, had been the trigger. No. Not again. My turn. The younger man took a step into the room, the dominance he’d learned from his father squaring his shoulders.

“You’ve had your time, father.” Edric’s voice was rough, a young man’s attempt at his father’s calm, cracking with need. “I want my turn. Now.”