CHAPTER NINE
THE AWAKENING
Malakai
I lean back in the chair in my private room in Inferno.Running my hands down my face, my fingers press against my temples, trying to ease the weight of the day from my mind.
“You can go,” I say, waving Adrian off.
He stands unsteadily, and I zip myself back up without bothering to offer any pleasantries.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, grabbing his coat.
I shake my head. “No. I came, didn’t I?”
Too hard.
He shrugs. “All right. See you later.”
Once he’s gone, I groan as I rest my face in my hands.
For years, I’ve pushed this down, convinced myself it didn’t mean anything. That I wasn’t attracted to men, too. But if that were true, why did it feel like I was cracking open something I’d spent years cementing shut? I told myself it was just sex, just curiosity—another experiment. But when his hands were on me, firm and certain, I knew the truth. I wanted this. I wanted him.
And yet, part of me still recoiled at the thought, as if wanting him somehow unraveled everything I’d built my life around. As if admitting this desire would rewrite my past, my identity, my faith. It wasn’t just fear of what others would say—it was fear of what I’d say to myself.
And admitting that to myself feels bigger than Julian or Sophie. It feels like finally admitting who I am.
After last weekend, I had to know for sure.
I couldn’t keep circling around these feelings—toward Sophie, toward Julian—without facing them head-on.
So I did something I’ve never done before.
I went looking for someone who reminded me of Julian—tall, broad-shouldered, blond hair that caught the light the same way his did. I found him by accident, leaning against the bar at a place in West Hollywood, and before I could second-guess myself, I invited him back to Infernowith me.
I didn’t expect to enjoy it as much as I did.
And I definitely didn’t expect my cock to get hard, and to come down his throat while imagining that I was face fucking my friend.
It was pure euphoria… followed by extreme panic.
If I admit it to myself—if I accept it—what does that make me? Am I still the person I thought I was, or is this some version of myself that I’ve spent my whole life denying?
It feels like I’m on the edge of something big, and I have no idea what the future holds. I just know that being here—pretending—doesn’t feel right anymore.
When I got the job as headmaster of Saint Helena Academy—or rather, when Chase, my younger brother, bought the school out andhandedme the job—it felt perfect for where I was in my life.
And now? Recently… I’ve felt like a fraud.
It’s not that religion is less important; it’s more that faith itself has become… complicated. The moral code I’ve spent my life enforcing feels like it’s slipping. Or maybe it’s me who’s slipping. For years, I told myself it was the scripture that kept me in line. I used to embrace the commandments and expectations without question. That the words of Leviticus, of Matthew, were guardrails. But the truth is, I held onto them like a lifeline—not to save me from sin, but to save me from myself. If I followed the rules, I wouldn’t have to face the fact that I never fit neatly into the world they built for me. They used to mean something to me. But they feel hollow now, almost stifling.
I speak to the kids at Saint Helena every day. They’re young and impressionable, and they trust me to guide them. I wonder what exactly I’m leading them toward, because I don’t even know how to guide myself.
Maybe this is part of it. All these years of feeling like I had to fit into a box—straight, devout, the man everyone expects me to be. But I’ve never let myself acknowledge how much I enjoyed that kiss with Julian seventeen years ago.
I run my hands over my face again, feeling the roughness of a day’s worth of stubble. The things I’ve done with women, even if they strayed from traditional vows, at least felt natural—still within the bounds of something forgivable. But this? The things I think about now… they feel like an outright rebellion.
I can almost hear the scripture whispering its condemnation.
