Chapter 186: Chapter 186: Talking at last

“Because he is my fucking brother!”

The words hit the apartment like a thrown vase.

For half a second, Adam didn’t breathe. His hand was still wrapped around the wine stem, knuckles pale, the glass hovering over the counter like he’d forgotten what he intended to do with it.

Max stood a few feet away with his coat still in his hands, shoulders rigid, eyes too bright – like he’d said something he’d been keeping buried for years and his body hadn’t caught up to the fact that it was now out in the room.

Adam stared at him.

Then, very slowly, he set the wine glass down.

Carefully, as if he made a sudden movement, the entire situation might explode.

He blinked once.

Twice.

And then his mouth finally moved, the bite returning because if he didn’t bite, he might do something worse like panic.

“What,” Adam said, voice flat with disbelief, “in the name of the family circle is this?”

Max’s jaw worked once. He looked like he wanted to regret it and couldn’t afford to.

“Don’t,” Max said roughly.

Adam’s eyebrows lifted. “Don’t what? Don’t ask? Don’t react? Don’t notice that you just dropped that on my kitchen floor like it’s a normal piece of small talk?”

Max exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled. His gaze flicked to the door, to the hallway beyond it, to the camera he knew Adam had in the peephole, to all the quiet ways the city listened. Then it came back to Adam.

“It’s not a family circle,” Max said, his voice low. “It’s a fucking mess.”

Adam’s mouth twitched, humorless. “Oh, good. That clears it up.”

Max took a step, stopped himself, and dragged a hand through his hair like restraint was suddenly physical.

“Hadeon Lyon,” Max said, as if forcing the name out hurt. “My father. Damian’s father.”

Adam’s stomach dropped.

He didn’t like the way Max said ’father’—like it was an insult.

He kept his face steady anyway. “You’re… one of the bastards.”

Max’s eyes flashed. “Yes.”

Adam took a deep breath and let his gaze drop to the wine glass still in his hand. He could throw it. He could shatter something and turn this into an explosion instead of a conversation. He understood that instinct well: make it loud, ugly, and impossible for anyone to get close enough to harm you.

It would be easy.

It would also be the same old escape route.

He’d spent his entire life avoiding connections, accepting only those he could control and rejecting anything that required softness. And now Max was standing in his kitchen with secrets that could kill people or make them powerful, and Adam realized with a slow, inconvenient clarity that he didn’t want to run this time.

He wanted Max.

“Well,” Adam said finally, voice rough, the bite softened into something almost amused, “and here I thought I had secrets.”

Max didn’t smile, but his shoulders relaxed slightly, almost as if he were relieved but didn’t want to jinx it yet.

Adam exhaled long and hard. “Let’s talk,” he said. “For real. This time.”

Max’s gaze held his. “Yes.”

Adam glanced at the wine, then at Max. “I’m going to need something stronger than this if you’re about to unload the full ’family package.’

”

Max’s mouth twitched. “The contract had rules for a reason.”

“The contract is over,” Adam said, already moving. “And this isn’t a concert hall. This is my apartment.”

He headed toward the living room, then paused at the cabinet with a decision already made. He opened it and took out a bottle that had been sitting untouched for months – something amber and unapologetic, intended for nights of courage.

He poured himself a small glass.

Then, to his surprise, Max stepped closer and held out a hand.

Adam blinked. “You?”

Max’s green eyes didn’t flinch. “If we’re doing this,” he said quietly, “I’d rather not do it while you’re drinking alone.”

Adam stared at him for a beat, then huffed a short laugh. “Fine.”

He poured a second glass and handed it over.

Max took it, fingers brushing the glass, careful even now about the boundaries Adam had drawn. He took one slow sip, and the alcohol didn’t change his expression much, but it did seem to loosen something behind his eyes. The tension didn’t vanish. It just became less brittle.

They moved to the living room like it was a negotiated ceasefire.

Adam dropped onto the couch, robe pulled tighter, damp hair still curling at the nape. Max sat in the opposite armchair, posture contained but no longer distant, a glass in hand, like a reluctant truce.

Adam took a small sip, then looked at him directly. “Alright,” he said. “First question.”

Max’s gaze held. “Go ahead.”

Adam’s voice went calm, which meant it mattered. “Do you actually want the bond?”

Max didn’t deflect.

“Yes,” he said.

Adam’s throat tightened. He took another sip to keep his face from doing anything stupid, but his mouth decided to betray him anyway.

“Then why didn’t you push for it?” Adam asked, the words coming out sharper than he meant. “Why did you let me put distance between us from the beginning?”

For a beat, Max just looked at him.

He tilted his head slightly, actually thinking, the way he did when he was choosing truth over convenience.

Then something in Max’s expression changed, slightly at first, then dramatically. Recognition. A connection clicking into place.

His mouth curved.

Not the polite Claymore charm. Something realer and more dangerous.

“Oh,” Max said softly.

Adam’s brows drew together. “What?”

Max’s grin widened, slow and bright in a way that made Adam instantly suspicious of his own question.

“You wanted to be chased,” Max said.

Adam froze.

Then his face heated fast enough to feel like a second aftershock of the earlier heat, and his instinctive response rose sharp as a blade. “No, I didn’t.”

Max hummed, amused. “You did.” He took another sip and, because he was apparently committed to being insufferable, added a beat later, “You should have told me. Coincidentally, I like to chase.”

Adam’s ears went hot. He stared very hard at his whiskey like it had personally betrayed him. “Don’t change the subject.”

Max’s grin lingered for a second longer… then he let it go.

He didn’t lean forward. He didn’t press. He didn’t try to corner Adam into admitting anything else while Adam was still flustered and defensive. Instead, Max shifted back in his chair and gave Adam space, as he always did when the mood wasn’t right.

It was infuriatingly considerate. It was also the final time Max would do it.

“Fine,” Max said, voice calmer. “No chasing. Story.”

Adam didn’t look up, but his shoulders eased by a fraction.

Max’s gaze drifted to the middle distance – not away from Adam, not dismissive, just… somewhere inside his own history.

“I’m one of Hadeon Lyon’s bastards,” Max said, as if repeating it made it less sharp. “One of the very many.” His mouth tightened. “And the only one Damian still speaks to.”

Adam’s eyes flicked up automatically, curiosity overriding embarrassment. “Still.”

Max’s mouth twitched, humorless. “I said what I said.”

Adam leaned back into the couch, whiskey glass held loosely now, and listened. His voice came softer despite himself. “So… how did you and Damian meet?

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