Ren Laurent was a master of the "Golden Boy" mask, but as he stood in front of his bathroom mirror at 6:00 AM, the mask was cracked.
He tilted his head back, his breath hitching as he stared at the dark, blooming purple mark on the side of his neck. It wasn't just a hickey; it was a brand. Jace had bitten him with a ferocity that suggested he wanted to leave a permanent scar. His shoulder was even worse—teeth marks were clearly visible against his pale skin.
"Damn you, Jace," Ren whispered, his fingers trembling as he reached for a bottle of high-end concealer he'd stolen from the theater department's makeup kit months ago.
He dabbed the cream over the bruise, but the purple still ghosted through the beige. It looked like a dirty secret. Every time he moved his arm, the skin pulled, sending a sharp, stinging reminder of the floor, the red light, and the way Jace had looked at him—like he was the only thing in the world worth destroying.
He had a private masterclass with Dean Sterling in three hours. His father was flying in to "observe" his progress. If even a hint of that mark showed, his life at the Academy was over.
The rehearsal hall was cold. It always was.
Ren sat in the center of the stage, his cello between his knees. His father, Arthur Laurent, sat in the front row, his arms crossed, his eyes like two pieces of flint. Beside him, Dean Sterling looked over the sheet music.
"Begin with the Dvořák, Ren," the Dean commanded. "And remember, posture is everything. Keep your chin up."
Keep your chin up. Ren felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. If he lifted his chin too high, the collar of his shirt would shift. If he shifted the collar, the concealer would rub off against the fabric.
He drew his bow. The first note was shaky.
"Focus, Ren," his father barked. "You sound like an amateur. Where is the precision?"
Ren tried to focus, but all he could feel was the phantom sensation of Jace's hands on his waist. Every time he vibrated a string, the friction of his shirt against his neck felt like a hot iron. He was playing the most beautiful music in the world, but his mind was back in that basement, trapped in the rhythm of Jace's heartbeat.
Suddenly, the doors at the back of the hall swung open with a deafening bang.
Jace Vanderbilt walked in, carrying a snare drum over his shoulder. He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed—his shirt untucked, his eyes dark and heavy. He didn't look at the Dean. He didn't look at Ren's father.
He looked straight at Ren.
"Sorry I'm late," Jace said, his voice a low, lazy drawl that made Ren's stomach flip. "The Dean said the 'Modern' partners should observe the classical rehearsals to 'understand the soul of the instrument.' I'm just here to learn."
Jace sat in the second row, directly behind Ren's father. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face as he watched Ren struggle.
"Continue, Ren," the Dean said, oblivious to the nuclear tension in the room.
Ren began to play again. But now, with Jace watching, the music changed. It wasn't Dvořák anymore; it was a plea. He played with a raw, bleeding intensity that made the Dean lean forward in surprise. He forgot about the collar. He forgot about the concealer. He played for the boy in the second row who had ruined him.
As he reached the crescendo, Ren threw his head back, the passion of the piece taking over.
His father stood up abruptly. "Stop!"
The music died with a jarring screech. Arthur Laurent walked onto the stage, his eyes fixed on Ren's neck. The movement of the cello had shifted Ren's collar just enough. The concealer had rubbed away, leaving the dark, jagged mark exposed under the harsh stage lights.
"What," his father whispered, his voice vibrating with a quiet, lethal rage, "is that?"
The silence in the hall was suffocating. Ren couldn't breathe. He looked at the Dean, then at his father, and finally, his gaze flickered to Jace.
Jace wasn't smirking anymore. He had stood up, his hand gripping the back of the chair so hard his knuckles were white. His protective instinct was clashing with his obsession. He wanted to claim the mark, but he knew it would destroy Ren.
"I... I fell," Ren stammered, the most pathetic lie he had ever told. "In the practice room. I hit the edge of the piano."
His father stepped closer, his hand reaching out to grab Ren's jaw, forcing him to turn his head. "You expect me to believe a piano gave you a bite mark, Ren? You are a Laurent. You are representing this family, and you look like you've been brawling in a gutter."
"It's not what it looks like," Ren gasped, his eyes wide with terror.
Jace took a step toward the stage. "He's telling the truth. I was there. He tripped over some cables in the dark."
Arthur Laurent turned his gaze to Jace, his lip curling in disgust. "And who are you? The help?"
"I'm his partner," Jace said, his voice dropping an octave. He stepped into the light, standing tall, his eyes locked onto Ren's father with a defiance that was almost suicidal. "And I suggest you take your hands off him."