A Life Chosen (Montreal #1)

Chapter Thirty

T hey acted as though the world didn’t exist outside the four walls of his apartment. When they weren’t in bed—which wasn’t often—they cooked, made coffee, or leafed through books on the small balcony. Work didn’t register. Rayan simply hadn’t shown up. Nothing was more important than this, a lifetime of pleasure condensed into these few tenuous days.

He’d never seen Mathias sleep so much. At strange hours of the day, Rayan would find him on the couch or stretched out across the bed, dead to the world, as though his body was trying to counter a yawning deficit. He would wake groggy, surly, hair falling loose across his forehead, making him appear young and unassuming.

Rayan found himself unable to tear his eyes away, struggling to reconcile this version of the man from the one he remembered. Earlier that morning, Mathias had caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror and scowled at his reflection.

Rayan didn’t ask how long he was away from Montreal or what story he’d told to cover his absence. Sometimes Mathias took phone calls privately on the balcony, with the door shut. Rayan didn’t ask about the churn of events, the responsibilities awaiting him, but with each day, he grew more anxious about the time when Mathias would have to leave.

It was almost noon one day, and Mathias sat drinking coffee at the kitchen counter while Rayan stood across from him, slicing vegetables for soup. Mathias picked up an old newspaper by his elbow, his eyes falling to the pile of papers beneath. Rayan could see the Ministère de l'éducation logo clearly visible in the header of the letter that lay on top.

“What’s this?” Without waiting for a reply, Mathias reached for it.

Rayan watched as he read, his stomach sinking.

Mathias glanced at him over the top of the letter. “You got your equivalency certificate. ”

It had been easier than expected. He’d shown up at a testing center before leaving the country, mobilized by a decade of self-doubt. Expecting to fail, he’d been surprised when he’d managed an almost perfect score. Rayan leaned over, yanked the letter from his hand, and returned it to the pile.

Mathias sat back, studying him. “So that’s the plan—apply to university here?” he scoffed. “You’ll need to work on your Greek.”

Rayan picked up the knife and gripped it in his fist. He swirled with a defensive anger, the man having prodded his greatest insecurity. “You don’t think I can do it?”

Mathias’s face grew serious. “What would you study?”

Rayan shrugged, returning to chopping, which was easier than looking at him. “Honestly, I don’t know.” He waited for the derisive comments, but none came.

“Toronto has several decent programs,” Mathias said, spreading the newspaper out before him. “I’m in Hamilton sometimes—more often than I’d like.”

Rayan stilled, something stirring in his chest.

“If you don’t want anything to do with the family, the family wants nothing to do with you,” Mathias continued, idly scanning the front page. “You did your job, kept quiet. I can make it like you never existed. You don’t have to learn another language, for Christ’s sake.”

“What are you saying?”

Mathias frowned, folding the paper tightly and tossing it aside. He stood, jaw clenched. “If you were in Canada, I wouldn’t have to fly halfway across the fucking world to see you.”

Rayan swallowed, his mouth dry. “Thought you were done with me.”

Mathias glared at him, silent.

He felt a sharp sting and looked down to see blood blooming from a cut he’d made along his thumb. “Shit,” Rayan muttered. Stupid. He’d been distracted.

“Let’s see,” Mathias said, rounding the counter.

“It’s nothing,” Rayan said, moving to the sink. “Just a cut.”

But the blood was already filling his palm. Maybe it was deeper than he thought. Mathias appeared at his side, pulling his arm toward him and reaching for a dish towel. As Mathias wrapped the fabric tightly around his hand, the man’s breath quickened. They stood by the sink, Mathias holding his arm aloft, waiting for the bleeding to slow.

“That night,” Mathias murmured absently, staring at the blotch of red seeping into the white linen. “I had to throw out my shirt.”

Rayan’s stomach lurched. He finally understood. He could see the departure clearly, stemming from the moment Mathias had found him bleeding out in the parking lot—a catalyst for his extrication. Mathias, an expert at cutting off anything that endangered his well-guarded defenses, had peeled him away before he could do any more damage.

Why didn’t I see it? All those days Rayan had spent wallowing in his own self-pity, resenting the distance that had opened between them, Mathias hadn’t succeeded in severing himself from his humanity as Tony had believed. He’d only managed to suppress it.

The bleeding appeared to have stopped, but Rayan didn’t remove his hand from the man’s steady grip. “I never thanked you,” he said quietly. “That’s twice you’ve saved my life.”

Mathias raised an eyebrow, his mouth curving. “It’s just a cut, Rayan.”

Rayan looked at him, the heaviness gone. All that remained was the pressure of Mathias’s hand on his, holding tightly.

Mathias woke to Rayan’s steady breath on his neck and the most aggressive morning hard-on he’d experienced in a long time. He blinked to reorientate himself, regarding the low, sagging bed, peeling blue wallpaper, and flimsy white curtains that did nothing to stop the sharp Cypriot sunshine from assaulting every inch of the room. In his waking mind, a single thought pushed itself front and center with an assailing disregard for all other things.

It had to be the alcohol that was having this effect on him, or more specifically, the lack of it—he hadn’t had a drink in days. Or perhaps the fact that they’d barely left Rayan’s bed, his body so easily trained. Whatever the reason, this place robbed him of his edge, his mind quietened and appetite indulged.

Mathias pulled himself up on one elbow, staring down at the sleeping man beside him. Rayan’s eyelids fluttered ever so slightly, his lips parting as he took another unconscious breath. It would be a shame to wake him, but there were more pressing concerns. Mathias drew his hand under the covers, reaching for Rayan’s cock. He’d barely managed to get his fist around it when Rayan shuddered awake, his body tensing, an arm raised instinctively to ward off the unexpected intrusion.

Mathias rolled over so he was above him, biting back a groan as his own erection ground against Rayan’s thigh. Rayan looked up, eyes foggy with sleep. He was about to speak when Mathias lowered his head and took him into his mouth. Instead of words, Rayan only managed a hiss as he sucked air in through his teeth .

Mathias found himself compelled by the man’s inability to hide the pleasure on his face. In his life working for the family, his former second had proven a master at disguising his emotions—even from Mathias. But pinned down in bed, with every sensation reflected in the tremor of his lips, the roll of his brown eyes, Rayan was intoxicating to watch.

Rayan pushed back, but Mathias would not relent, instead taking him deeper, relishing how he arched into him with a moan.

“Mathias…” he murmured, voice catching.

Releasing him, Mathias brought his face up. He let Rayan brush his neck with his lips and push his mouth open with his tongue. Mathias pressed down on his thighs, spreading him. Rayan groaned as he opened him, pushing his cock forward inch by inch. Reaching up, he wrapped his fingers around Mathias’s neck, digging into the flesh. Mathias barely felt it. All his concentration was focused on holding himself back.

Jesus, that feeling—impossibly tight, the slow surrender. When he was in to the hilt, Mathias shifted so they lay face-to-face, Rayan’s legs hooking instinctively around his back. Rayan’s eyes were lidded, his breathing shallow, and his chin tilted toward him, making it easy for Mathias to capture his mouth with his own. And then Mathias began to move.

The pressure around his neck tightened, and he watched as Rayan bit down hard on his lip, his face twisting. Every thrust tested Mathias’s self-control. He’d started too near the edge to play games and found himself brushing dangerously close to release. He tempered his movements, pulling out until just the head of his cock remained. Pushing forward, he was rewarded by the shudder of Rayan’s body beneath him.

“Fuck… I’m…” Rayan muttered, a small pool of precum gathering on his belly.

Mathias reached for the man’s cock and guided it through his fist in time with his strokes. Rayan’s grip on him tightened, a growl tearing from his throat. And then he tensed, his face barely keeping up with the rest of his body as he shot ribbons across his chest, Mathias milking him all the way down.

Palming the wet head of Rayan’s cock, he pushed deeper into him, his own release seizing him. The air stalled in his lungs as if he’d momentarily lost the ability to breathe. He lowered his head, fists gripping the sheets as the current passed through him. Why was it only like this with Rayan? This man alone possessing the ability to strip him to his very foundation?

Coming back to himself, he looked down to see Rayan staring at him, a strange wonder in his eyes. He pulled Mathias close, his kisses soft but urgent, searching and claiming, prolonging the heady high of pleasure that enveloped them both. Mathias lifted a hand and ran it through Rayan’s hair, longer now that he had abandoned the clean cut he’d maintained since arriving at the Collections office. It fell about his head, tousled, unruly, begging to be wound through Mathias’s fingers.

Holding Rayan’s face in his palm, Mathias scanned it for everything that had changed in the time they’d been apart—skin darker, eyes brighter, dark circles gone. It pained him to realize Rayan was doing better here than he ever had in Montreal.

“Quintino,” Rayan marveled, reaching for his hand and twirling the signet ring on his little finger, which was still new, still strange. He brought it to his lips and kissed it gently. “You never made me take an oath.”

“You didn’t have to,” Mathias said.

“You didn’t want me to.”

Mathias was silent.

Rayan tilted his head. “So I could leave?”

Mathias withdrew, rolling onto his back with a sigh. Is that why? All those years of feeling responsible for his involvement…

“That time you asked if I was happy,” Rayan started, propping himself up on his side. “Maybe I wasn’t.”

Mathias raised an eyebrow. “So you lied?”

He smiled hesitantly. “Not a lie. I just wasn’t overly familiar with the concept.”

“And you are now?”

Rayan looked down at him, grazing Mathias’s cheek with his fingers. “Today, yes. Tomorrow? Who knows,” he said, eyes sad. “Maybe you’ll still be here.”

They existed in a parallel plane—the apartment was a sanctuary removed from the world, with reality encroaching outside. Mathias was in Paris, attending to a family matter—that was the excuse he’d given before leaving the city, the lie that held him momentarily aloft. But as each day passed, it grew thinner under the weight of the responsibilities awaiting him back in Montreal.

Somewhere deep inside, Mathias was lured by this lazy life and the idea that he could live it with this man by his side. Being half a world away hadn’t lessened the sting he felt without Rayan. But he couldn’t pretend to be someone he was not. He was a stranger here—a stranger to himself.

“Come on.” Mathias strode into the bedroom, already dressed, and sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his shoes .

Rayan was still tangled in the sheets, lounging in the remnants of pleasure, sufficiently laid to waste. He frowned, curious. Up until that moment, Mathias had shown no interest in leaving the apartment.

“Where are we going?”

“Out,” he said, tossing Rayan his clothes from the floor.

It was midmorning, and the promenade along the beach was virtually empty. Mathias led them down the stairs to the sand, pulling off his shirt and dropping it on the ground. Rayan stood, dumbstruck, feeling as though he was missing an important piece of information.

“You figure out how to float, and the rest is easy,” Mathias explained, stepping out of his shoes.

Rayan blinked. “You’re going to teach me how to swim?”

“What does it look like?” Mathias scowled, turning and striding toward the water. “Hurry up.”

Rayan shed his shirt, kicked off his shoes, and followed him. Mathias waded into the sea and dove under a wave as it broke. He emerged with water streaming down his shoulders, pushing his wet hair back from his face. Rayan walked into the waves until they were up to his stomach.

Mathias moved to him and eased him backward into the water, holding him up with his hands. “Find your center and trust it. Like riding a bike.”

“Never learned to do that either.”

Mathias snickered, glancing down at him. “Well, shit.”

Rayan stared up at him, clouds parting above to let the morning sun shine through. The water lapped around his ears, moving like a giant swollen cushion, jostling him. He felt unsteady, but Mathias’s hands on his back kept him from sinking. Soon, he discovered a strange calm. Rayan let his body relax and found his legs could stay afloat on their own, his arms keeping his chest up. Slowly, Mathias released him, and he floated with his arms spread, buoyed by the sea.

“At least now you won’t drown.” He smirked. “Try to move without sinking.”

After Rayan attempted several strokes with varying degrees of success, they lay on their backs in the ocean as the sun crawled higher in the sky. Rayan glanced over at Mathias, whose eyes were closed, water slipping across his bare chest. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, the reflex to hold everything inside weakening, its purpose no longer useful.

Mathias opened one eye, looking at him. “You’ve swallowed too much water.”

Rayan grinned, staring at the cloudless canvas above. He recalled the man’s admission that first night, lying stiffly on his bed, and was filled with a heavy sadness at the thought of Mathias growing up believing he was living a borrowed life, bound to a mistake that wasn’t his. He wondered what kind of shadow it had cast and decisions it had tainted.

Later, they sat on the sand, drying in the sun, while Mathias smoked a cigarette. Along the beach, people began to appear—couples, families with umbrellas and chairs, children in swimsuits venturing tentatively into the water.

“Who taught you?” Rayan asked, watching as a little girl filled a bucket in the waves and ran back to her mother, who was sunbathing on a towel.

“Made us take lessons at school.”

“Some school.”

“The best money could buy,” Mathias said dryly.

There was a collection of shrieks as a group of kids chased a soccer ball across the sand.

“You go on holidays growing up?” Rayan asked.

Mathias exhaled and made a sour expression. “Maybe. If we did, they weren’t memorable.”

“My mother always said we’d go to Beirut one day,” Rayan said with a half smile. “Even if we had the money, my father wouldn’t have let us. Probably figured she’d leave and never come back.” He drew his fingers through the white sand by his toes. “It happened anyway, except we didn’t make it out of the country.”

“Will you go?”

He shook his head. “I have no ties there. Or anywhere, for that matter.”

Mathias studied him carefully, the cigarette perched between his fingers. “Then you’ll stay here?”

Rayan stared back, his heart thudding. He wanted the man to say it—to make the decision for him. “If you told me to go back, I would.”

Mathias held his gaze for a moment before looking away. Stabbing the cigarette out in the sand between them, he pulled himself to his feet and shrugged on his shirt. “I don’t give you orders anymore.”

Mathias picked up his shoes and walked back toward the stairs. Rayan stared out at the sea—vast and sprawling, as remote as ever.

When Rayan woke the next morning, the other side of the bed was empty. He found Mathias standing in the kitchen with his bag. He was already showered and dressed, the first coffee of the day in his hand .

Rayan stood shirtless, his bare feet cooling on the brick tile. For the briefest of seconds, he contemplated pleading. But that would mean excusing his role in all of this. He’d made the choice to leave. Mathias was simply returning to where he belonged.

“You asked me once what I’d be if I never joined,” Mathias said into the silence. “I’m not you. I’m not a good person with a bad past. I was built to cleave my way through life. The job is me—we’re one and the same. So you understand why I can’t stay.”

“I know,” Rayan said quietly, a stone sinking in his stomach.

Mathias raised the cup to his lips and swallowed the last mouthful of coffee then set it on the counter behind him. He bent over his bag, pulled open the zipper, and reached inside. As he removed the small paperback, Rayan felt a hot swell of relief. He’d never expected to see it again. Mathias placed Saint-Exupéry’s memoir face down on the kitchen table. Rayan stared at the book as though it were a talisman from another world.

“Thought you’d want it back,” Mathias said.

So he had taken it—the one thing Rayan had kept with him as he’d been tossed from place to place, hidden inside his shirt all those nights on the street. It contained the only photo Rayan had of his family, the last remaining trace of his mother. Mathias couldn’t have known that. But somehow, he’d registered its significance and had taken it, a piece of Rayan he’d held onto after letting him go. The thought made his throat tighten.

They locked eyes across the kitchen, and Rayan saw frustration glittering in the man’s gaze. It wasn’t often Mathias didn’t get what he wanted. Rayan could see that leaving things like this—unresolved, unfinished—troubled him.

He stepped forward and laid his hand on Mathias’s chest. He could feel the thud of the man’s heartbeat and the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric of his shirt. He was here, standing in his apartment, in the flesh. In a moment, he would be gone, and Rayan would have to unearth the memories once again and recreate him anew.

He wished he knew how to give voice to the feelings that surfaced when he was this close to him. But words didn’t apply where Mathias was concerned. Words meant nothing. He reached up, threaded his fingers through Mathias’s hair, and pulled him close, tasting him. Coffee and saliva—bittersweet.

Rayan broke away, taking in the slate-gray eyes, the curve of his brow, the tug of his lips—features he’d long ago committed to memory after seeing them every morning at the Collections office. “This is how we should’ve left it. ”

Mathias shook his head, the corners of his mouth curving into a frown. “No,” he said, gripping Rayan’s neck and leaning in so their heads touched. “If this was how we’d left it, I wouldn’t have let you go.”

Then he pulled away, picked up his bag, and strode out of the room without looking back. Rayan stood, unmoving, as he listened to the front door shut with a thud. The man was gone.

Rayan exhaled slowly, his gaze falling to the book on the table. He reached for it, marveling at how familiar it felt in his hand, as though he’d been reunited with an old friend. He flipped through the pages until he found the photo—his mother’s face staring up at him. Lifting it from the book, he found a slip of creamy-white paper beneath. On it, written in Mathias’s meticulous hand, was a series of numbers followed by a twelve-digit code. And there, watermarked into the thick paper stock, was the logo of the Capital Bank of Cyprus.

Rayan let the paper slide soundlessly through his fingers. He’d worked in Collections long enough to recognize a foreign bank account when he saw one.

It took him a week to pluck up the courage to walk into the nearest Capital Bank. Rayan pushed the piece of paper over the counter to the teller without a word.

Breezily, she tapped her long pink nails against the keyboard, transferring the numbers onto the computer in front of her. “All right, Mr. Ayari, I’ll just need one form of ID before we continue.”

Rayan blanched. “I’m sorry?”

“Rayan Ayari. You are the account holder, correct?”

He gripped the edge of the counter. What doesn’t Mathias know? Rayan’s efforts to disappear seemed laughable in the face of how completely the man had uncovered him.

“Sir?”

Rayan blinked, reaching for his wallet and pulling out his Cypriot driver’s license. “That’s right.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, smiling with bright-red lips as she took the license from him. The teller made another series of taps on her computer before turning back to him. “How can I help you today?”

“The balance,” he asked hesitantly. “What’s the balance on the account?” The woman turned to the screen and was just about to speak when Rayan cut in. “Actually, could you write it down?”

The teller gave him a quizzical look but took a small yellow pad from beside the computer and jotted down a figure. She passed it back across the counter toward Rayan. He glanced down, his mind reeling .

It was suddenly all too much. Rayan took a step back, regretting having come, not because of the money but because of how the man had given it to him—unconditionally, with no interest in what he used it for. Mathias had handed him a blank slate, challenging him to rebuild his life anew. He remembered his question, back in Montreal—“When you’re done surviving, what then?”

Rayan had never before been confronted with that possibility.

“Was there anything else today, sir?” the teller asked.

“No,” Rayan said, shaking his head as if to clear it. “That’s all.”