An hour later the master bathroom of Aiden and Dorian’s apartment was thick with white, fragrant steam. I had shoved Dorian into the shower, turned the water to scalding, and left him there for twenty minutes while I raided his closet for dry sweatpants and a thick cashmere sweater.
When he finally emerged wrapped in a cloud of vapour he looked like a chastised golden retriever that had been scrubbed with carbolic soap. His hair was damp, curling softly against his temples. His skin was flushed a healthy, scrubbed pink. And around his neck, gleaming beneath the collar of the sweater, the steel necklace remained firmly locked in place.
I was sitting at the edge of his unmade bed holding a mug of hot tea.
The bedroom was a shrine to his obsession.
On his desk, beside four monitors displa
