Slap

The laughter from inside didn’t reach the balcony.

Out here, the city was louder than the party—cars, distant sirens, the low hum of a place that never slept. Eryx Navarre had one hand wrapped around the iron railing and the other around his phone, knuckles tight enough to bleach the skin.

“I don’t care what excuse he gave you,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You don’t lose a shipment that size. Not by accident.”
Whoever was on the other end tried to speak. Eryx talked over him.

“No. Listen to me, Luca. You don’t fix this, I will. And you do not want me to have to fix this.”

He ended the call before the man could answer, jaw locked so hard his temples throbbed. The music from the restaurant—jazz, of course, a live band for the private event he was technically hosting—brushed against the closed glass doors behind him like something from another life.

Inside, they were drinking his champagne and laughing at his jokes. Out here, he could feel the old anger chewing at its leash.

He stared down at the street three floors below. People moved like insects between cars and lights; tiny, unimportant, but capable of fucking up his plans in a thousand stupid ways. One crew chief with more ego than sense, and a week’s worth of careful negotiation went to hell.

He hit the railing with the flat of his palm. The iron didn’t move. Pain burst across his hand; it helped, but not enough.

The balcony door slid open a little behind him, letting in a ribbon of piano and chatter.

“Sir? Your guests are asking for—”

A hand touched his shoulder.

He moved before he thought.

His body spun, anger snapping into motion. His open palm cracked across a face—hard. The sound was sharp, flesh against flesh and bone. The slight figure in front of him went down, tray clattering, glassware shattering on the stone.

Silence crashed in.

The boy—no, not a boy, a man, but young—hit the ground on his hands and knees. Dark hair fell into his eyes. Water and shards of glass spread out around him in a shining arc. For one stupid second, Eryx was still halfway in his rage; he was ready to finish the sentence he’d started in his head.

I told you not to touch—

Then he saw the uniform.

Black shirt, slim tie, apron.

Not one of his men.

A server.

The kid looked up, breath caught in his throat. A red print bloomed on his cheek in the exact shape of Eryx’s hand.

Fuck.

The anger didn’t disappear, but it turned—hard and cold, aimed at himself instead of the unlucky body on the floor.

“Shit,” Eryx muttered. “Stand up.”

The server scrambled to gather the broken glasses first, hands moving automatically, terrified of the mess more than the man who’d hit him.

“I said, stand up.” Eryx’s voice softened a notch, but it was still a command.

The kid froze, then obeyed. Up close, he looked even younger—twenty-two, maybe. Brown eyes, wide and sharp, a little too thin. The mark on his face was vivid against his skin.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the server blurted. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I was just told—”

“Stop.” Eryx cut him off with a little flick of his fingers. “That one’s on me.”

The server blinked. It clearly wasn’t the sentence he’d expected.

Eryx reached out, slow this time, giving him a split second to pull away. The kid didn’t. Two fingers angled his jaw to the side so he could see the damage properly.

His skin was hot where the slap had landed. No split lip. No blood. It would bruise.

He brushed his thumb, very lightly, under the reddened cheekbone. The kid’s breath hitched. Eryx felt the small tremor run through him.

“What’s your name?” Eryx asked.

“A-Alex,” he said. Then, like he wasn’t sure if that was enough, “Alex Moore.”

“Alex,” Eryx repeated, trying the shape of it. It didn’t sound like any of his world’s names—no thick vowels, no history of violence behind it. “You work here full-time, Alex?”

The question puzzled him, but he nodded. “Yes, sir. Nights and weekends. Why?”

“Because I’d rather not have just assaulted someone I can’t apologize to properly.” Eryx let go of his chin, then tilted his head toward the door. “Finish your shift. When you’re done, come outside. Back entrance. I’ll be waiting.”

Panic flared in Alex’s eyes—for a second Eryx thought he’d run.

“I—sir, if this is about the broken glasses, I can pay it off, I’ll pick up extra shifts—”

Eryx almost laughed. Almost.

“Alex.” He let enough steel bleed back into his tone to cut through the babble. “I’m not going to dock your pay for my bad reflexes. Just meet me when you’re done. That’s all.”

Alex swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

He knelt automatically to sweep the rest of the glass off the floor, fingers quick and practiced. Eryx watched him for a moment, then turned back to the city, letting the door slide shut behind him.

He stayed out there until his breathing matched the rhythm of the traffic below. The party called him back eventually—deals to keep, faces to acknowledge, a speech to make. By the time he walked in, the only evidence of what had happened on the balcony was a faint smear of moisture on the stone and the ghost of a handprint he kept seeing in his mind.

All through dinner, between toasts and networking, the memory of the slap sat in his chest like a stone. Not guilt exactly. He’d done far worse to people who’d actually deserved it. But the look in Alex’s eyes, that instant of braced expectation—like he’d been here before, too many times—stuck.

It annoyed Eryx that it stuck.

By the time the last guest kissed his ring and left, it was close to midnight.

He stepped out into the cool air of the alley behind the restaurant, phone in hand, jacket over his shoulder. A black car waited at the curb, driver alert but pretending not to watch.

Alex was there.

He leaned against the brick wall near the staff exit, arms folded, apron gone. In the yellowish security light he looked even younger, street clothes softening whatever professional mask he wore inside: faded jeans, a plain gray hoodie, hair a little messed where he’d raked a hand through it. The cheek Eryx had slapped was still faintly pink.

When Eryx approached, Alex straightened automatically, like he expected to be inspected.

“You came,” Eryx said.

“You’re my boss’s boss’s—boss,” Alex said. “Pretty sure ‘no’ wasn’t an option.”

That pulled an actual laugh out of Eryx. “Trust me, Alex Moore, if I wanted you dragged into a car, you wouldn’t be standing upright right now.”

Alex’s throat worked as he swallowed. “Comforting.”

The driver’s eyes flicked toward them, then away. Eryx tilted his head, silent command. The man melted into the front seat, door closing with a soft thud, leaving them with a thin strip of privacy.

Up close, Eryx could see the way Alex couldn’t quite decide where to look—his eyes kept skittering from Eryx’s face to his hands to the car and back again. Afraid, but trying not to show it. Brave enough to come out here anyway.

Interesting.

Eryx slid his hands into his pockets. “I said I’d apologize properly.”

Alex blinked. “You already did. Sort of. Kind of.”

“Kind of doesn’t count.” Eryx took a breath. He hated saying the word, but he forced it out cleanly. “I’m sorry. I lost my temper on the phone. You touched me, I reacted. That’s not your fault.”

Alex watched him like he was trying to see the trap behind the words.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Thank you.”

Silence stretched between them. A car passed at the end of the alley, headlights brushing brick.

“Now,” Eryx said, “I’m going to ask you something, and you’re going to remember you can say no. Really say no. Understand?”

Alex looked even more wary. “Okay…”

Eryx met his eyes. “Are you up for a one-night stand?”

There it was. No perfume on it, no pretense. Just an offer, blunt as a gun on a table.

Alex stared.

“Wow,” he said after a moment. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

“I don’t like pretending I want anything else.” Eryx’s mouth curved. “You’re attractive. I’m in the mood. That’s all it is.”

Alex let out a breathy almost-laugh, shaky and disbelieving. “I don’t—uh, I don’t do one-night stands.”

“You don’t,” Eryx repeated, tasting the refusal.

Alex shook his head. “No. I’m not judging you or anything, I just… I’ve done casual before, it’s not…” He shrugged, searching for the words. “It doesn’t sit right with me. Feels like someone’s always getting used.”

Most people, when Eryx made that offer, didn’t bother with speeches. They said yes, overeager, or no, flustered. Not this.

He studied Alex for a beat. “Is that a moral thing,” he asked, “or a self-preservation thing?”

Alex gave a lopsided smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Bit of both, I guess.”

Eryx nodded once. “Good answer.”

He didn’t push. The no landed, solid and clean. Strange how rare that was for him.

“Come on,” he said abruptly, tipping his head toward the street.

Alex frowned. “Where…?”

“Somewhere that doesn’t smell like fryer oil and panic.” Eryx opened the back door himself and gestured. “Relax, Alex. I’m not going to tie you up and throw you in the river for rejecting me. I hit you. The least I can do is feed you.”

Alex hesitated, then exhaled through his nose, something like resignation and curiosity mixed together. “You do realize this is how a lot of true crime podcasts start.”

Eryx’s mouth twitched. “Get in the car.”

Alex got in.