Masquerade [Kuskovo Estate]

[Jensen James]

Jensen gave the driver the address of his building. It was an old converted textile warehouse turned into lofts. He lived on the top floor with open beams, too much natural light in the morning, and not enough privacy at night, but it was home. Doulou still owned the space, which meant he didn’t pay rent so much as pay in gratitude, favors, and deep conversation.

The interior of the car was plush and quiet, insulated from the chill of the outside night. It should have been a comfort, but it wasn’t. Poor Kristian was stretched out beside him, looking intense and expensive in the low light, but he wasn’t relaxed. His head tipped back against the seat, his fingers pinched tightly at the bridge of his nose.

Jensen watched him for a moment, then looked away. Then back again. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked quietly. His voice was soft and careful not because he was unsure of Kristian, but because the driver was still within earshot. “You look like your head is about to explode.”

“I might be able to help,” he said quietly. The explanation didn’t need to be stated aloud. Not here. Not in front of an unfamiliar driver. The gift of healing was a delicate thing to reveal. “If you want, before it gets worse.”