Atop the Nizamrak Building, over two hundred stories aboveground, Luc Saint-Cyr stepped out of his long black hoversine into the cool breeze of an autumn night. He drew in a deep breath of crisp, clean air, blew it all out, and rolled his shoulders. Up here, the hustle and hubbub of the city faded. The quiet whoosh of traffic faded into the background.

While his android driver docked the hoversine with the rest of the fleet, Luc took three steps to the railing. The cool, damp breeze, heavy with the scent of rain, blew up the sheer sides of the building and buffeted his skin. Tarth City lay below in all its splendor, lights ablaze in every direction all the way to the horizon. Their glow cast a white sheen against flat clouds so close he could almost reach them. He closed his eyes, listening to the muffled roar of a sleepliner docking far off at the starport to the west. To the east, a rumble of thunder began and rolled overhead, threatening storms.

Luc gripped the handrail and braced himself against it, arms stiff, head down. No matter how late he worked, when he returned, the empty penthouse taunted him with memories. Some nights, it was all he could do to get out of the car. It had only been three weeks.

You'd think Wulf died. His heart ached as if he had. He shook his head, taking another sighing breath. Luc shoved himself away from the railing and trudged toward the Loft. You were lovers for five years. Give yourself time, old man. You'll get over him. Maybe you'll fall in love again someday. You're immortal. Wulf isn't. It would have happened eventually. You'll get over him. After all, you have plenty of time.

Outside the entrance, he stopped, fingertips against his brow. He lifted his head, straightened his shoulders, and opened the door.

"Good evening, sir," McDoth greeted him. The android butler bowed politely, his black-and-white uniform immaculate. "Welcome home. How was your day?"

"The usual, McDoth." He shrugged out of his coat. "Busy, but accomplished nothing."

The android took his coat and draped it across one arm. "Shall I see to your dinner, sir? Or did you eat at your club?"

"Not hungry, but thank you." He headed for the bar and picked up a fresh bottle of Kelthian whiskey. "I'll be in my room."

"Very well, sir." McDoth, the referee serving Luc as a butler in this lifetime, offered him a glass, but didn't release it until Luc met his steady gaze. "I miss him as well."

Luc swallowed, tongue jammed hard against the back of his teeth. When he could trust his voice, he cleared his throat. "Don't worry over him. He's made his choice. He has a new life."

"It's not him I'm worried about."

Luc grunted. "Well, stop it. I'm fine. I'm over him."

"I've served you too many lifetimes not to know when you're lying. And I will worry over you if I wish. Please" -- McDoth released it -- "use the glass."

Luc turned away, smiling despite himself. But in his room, he set the glass on the dresser and carried the bottle to his canopied bed. He sat on the end of it, refusing to face the man in the mirror across from him.

He opened the whiskey, tilted it up and drank half, wiped his chin, and grimaced. No alcohol affected him; he drank it for the memories of the people he'd loved and the times they'd shared. Luc wiped the top of the bottle with the heel of his hand and finished off the rest in two big gulps. Might as well have been tea. Nothing.

Drawing back the bottle in one hand, he paused and then hurled it at the mirror above his dresser. Glass shattered.

Small portals at the bottom of the walls immediately opened and cleaner-bots rolled out. Luc crunched the glass underfoot as he walked over and picked up a framed flatpic of Wulf and himself.

Five years! Luc blew bits of glass off the frame. Where did it go wrong? How did I let this happen? He shook himself, tucked the picture into the top drawer. You've got to stop brooding, old man. Channel it into work. That's what you need to do. Keep focused. You can't lose control like this. Stay focused. Stay -- His eyes stung, and he shut them and pressed his thumb and fingers against the lids.

He turned toward the bed, cast off his clothing, and kicked it into a pile. Gone was the Luc Saint-Cyr who folded everything neatly and set it aside. Wulf's constant chaos had worn off on him, and he'd taken to shedding his clothes in quick order to meet Wulf in the center of the bed.

Oh God. He clenched both fists, aching at his loss. Why didn't I see how unhappy he was? How did I ruin everything?

Luc grabbed one of the pillows from Wulf's side and tugged it beneath his chest, pulled another close to his face. Remember how he felt in your arms. Never let yourself forget, no matter how many centuries you live. His hot mouth linked with yours. His cock, hard within your fist. His body open and willing. Begging for you. Remember how he trusted you.

Luc reached down and gripped his own hard cock the way Wulf had. Emotionally exhausted, his mind drifted off to another haunting dream of Wulf at his side.