The air in the university hummed with a frantic energy, a stark contrast to the hollow dread settling in Gabriel’s gut. Ribbons of crimson and gold snaked around pillars, twisting with garlands of artificial ivy. Students, normally apathetic to anything beyond their textbooks and social media, scurried past, their faces alight with anticipation. Tonight was the masquerade ball, the annual spectacle that masked more than just faces. He felt it in his bones, a cold tremor that had nothing to do with the draft from the open windows. This wasn't a celebration; it was a ritual. And he, Gabriel, was the offering. He watched Mariana from across the bustling common room, her laughter bright and carefree as she helped string up shimmering fairy lights. She caught his eye, offering a quick, genuine smile that sliced through his growing unease. For a fleeting second, he wished he could trade places with her, feel that simple joy. But his world had splintered into shadows and ancient debts. His recent memory of Leo’s hushed warnings, the desperate, possessive fury in Malik and James’s eyes as they stormed his room – it all twisted into a knot in his chest. He had abandoned his careful manipulation, thrown it all away in that chaotic moment of raw, undeniable passion. He had surrendered to *them*, to the primal need that roared between them, and now he was caught. A hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and familiar. He didn't need to turn to know it was James. The scent of sandalwood and something sharper, metallic, filled his nostrils. —Pensativo, Gabriel? —James’s voice was a low purr, just for him. —É a ansiedade do baile, talvez? Gabriel finally turned, forcing a neutral expression. —Apenas observando a preparação. É… impressionante. Malik appeared on James’s other side, his presence like a physical force. His arm snaked around Gabriel’s waist, pulling him into a tight embrace that brooked no argument. —Ele está pensando em como será a noite. Não é, *meu anjo*? The possessive edge in Malik’s tone was unmistakable. Gabriel felt the weight of their gazes, a suffocating heat. He was no longer just a student, no longer just Elara’s unwilling agent. He was a prize, a symbol. And the thought curdled his stomach. He was a lamb, truly, being led to the slaughter, but he wasn’t sure if the butchers were the Brotherhood, Elara, or the very men currently claiming him. —A noite será longa —Gabriel managed, his voice steady despite the internal tremor. —E reveladora, talvez. James’s fingers brushed his jawline, a feather-light touch that still sent shivers. —Ah, sim. Reveladora. Para todos nós. Malik tightened his grip, his thumb tracing circles on Gabriel’s hip. —Vamos. Temos que escolher as máscaras perfeitas. Não queremos que ninguém nos confunda com a plebe. Gabriel allowed himself to be steered away, caught between their imposing forms. His mind raced, cataloging every detail of the decorations, every fleeting expression on the students' faces. He was supposed to be Elara's agent, gathering information, sowing discord. But with Malik and James's hands on him, their possessive gazes burning into his skin, it was hard to remember his purpose beyond the immediate, overwhelming reality of their presence. He was a chess piece in a game he hadn't chosen, and tonight, he would be moved. --- The heavy velvet of his suit jacket felt alien against his skin. Gabriel stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror, the dark fabric a stark contrast to the pale linen he usually favored. James had insisted on this particular cut, a fitted, almost severe line that made him look older, sharper. Malik had chosen the mask: a simple, elegant piece of obsidian, completely obscuring his eyes, leaving only the curve of his cheekbones and the line of his jaw exposed. It felt less like a disguise and more like a uniform. A uniform of surrender. He ran a hand over the cool, smooth surface of the amulet around his neck. The replica of Lucas’s amulet, Elara’s constant reminder of his servitude, hummed faintly against his pulse. It was a phantom limb, a persistent ache. *Lucas*. The thought of his friend, locked in some sterile facility, reciting Foundation rhetoric, was a cold knife twist. He had to save him. This mission, this charade, it was all for Lucas. He repeated it like a mantra, trying to override the confusing tangle of desire and fear that Malik and James ignited within him. His new abilities, awakened by the ritual in the tomb, still felt raw, untamed. He could hear the faint thrum of distant conversations through the thick walls, discern the subtle shifts in the air currents from the open window down the hall. His senses were sharper, almost painfully so. He’d learned to filter out the cacophony, but it was a constant effort. Tonight, he would need every ounce of that heightened awareness. —Pronto, anjo? —Malik’s voice, a low rumble, broke his concentration from behind the closed door. Gabriel straightened his posture, took a deep breath. He glanced at the watch on his wrist, Elara’s interface, its dark screen a silent, constant threat. He was meant to be her eyes and ears, her executor. He would gather everything, every whisper, every glance. He would find the weak points, the cracks in the Brotherhood’s facade. —Quase —Gabriel called back, adjusting the mask one last time. It settled comfortably, cool against his skin. He touched the slight bulge in his inner pocket, where Elara’s 'desativador neural' lay, a contingency for unforeseen obstacles. He wouldn't use it tonight unless absolutely necessary, but its presence was a small comfort, a shard of control in a situation that felt overwhelmingly out of his hands. He opened the door. Malik stood there, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, his own mask a fierce, predatory hawk. Beside him, James leaned against the doorframe, a vision in midnight blue velvet, his mask a sleek, aristocratic wolf. They were striking, dangerous. They looked at him, and Gabriel saw hunger, ownership, reflected in their shadowed eyes. —Perfeito —James breathed, his gaze raking over Gabriel, lingering on the amulet. —Absolutamente perfeito. Você é a estrela desta noite, Gabriel. Malik stepped forward, his hand reaching for Gabriel’s. His touch was firm, possessive. —Vamos. O show está prestes a começar. Gabriel nodded, letting Malik lead him out of the room, James falling into step on his other side. He walked between them, a fragile bridge connecting two formidable forces. Tonight, he would play the part. He would be the spy, the observer. He would be the bait. But deep down, a colder, darker part of him wondered if he was not just bait, but the trap itself, waiting to snap shut around them all. --- The grand hall of the university, usually a cavernous space for exams and assemblies, was transformed. Chandeliers blazed, casting a golden glow on hundreds of masked faces. The air thrummed with baroque music, punctuated by the rustle of silk and velvet, the murmur of hushed conversations. Waiters wove through the crowd with trays of champagne and exotic canapés. Gabriel moved between Malik and James, a living centerpiece. Their hands were constant on him, a proprietary claim. Malik’s fingers dug lightly into his hip, pulling him closer when James leaned in to whisper something in his ear. James’s arm draped over his shoulders, a deliberate gesture meant to block Malik’s access, while his thumb stroked the pulse point on Gabriel’s neck. It was a silent war, a constant, low-level competition for his attention, for his very presence. —Acha que ele está aqui? —Malik murmured, his voice tight, his gaze sweeping the room. He didn’t specify *who*, but Gabriel knew. The “novo jogador” Leo had warned him about, the one who bore the same protective symbol. The one who might be another threat, another pawn, or another master. —Todos estão aqui —James replied, a smirk audible in his tone. —Os que importam, pelo menos. E os que não importam, mas pensam que sim. Gabriel, however, wasn’t just a prize. He was a sentinel. His senses, sharpened by the ritual, picked up fragmented conversations. Whispers of a new “recrutamento” for the Ordem Primordial, hushed mentions of the Costa and Almeida families, their influence stretching like dark tendrils. He saw Professor Elisa, her mask a delicate filigree, her eyes sharp and assessing as they scanned the crowd, occasionally landing on him. He saw Professor Alves, talking animatedly with the Reitor, both wearing masks that concealed more than just their faces. The Reitor, Elara’s brother, a puppet master in his own right. —Você parece… distraído, *querido* —James’s voice was close, his lips brushing Gabriel’s ear. —Preocupado com algo? Gabriel shook his head, forcing a smile under his obsidian mask. —Apenas absorvendo tudo. É muita… informação. Malik’s hand tightened, pulling him flush against his side. —Deixe que nós absorvemos o que importa, Gabriel. Você é nosso. Esta noite é sobre nós. Sobre você. Não sobre os vermes que rastejam pelos cantos. Their possessiveness was suffocating, yet strangely exhilarating. It was a gilded cage, beautiful and inescapable. He was meant to be collecting information, but his attention kept being pulled back to the gravitational pull of their bodies, the fierce glint in their eyes. He was a magnet, drawing them in, and for the first time, the thought of resisting felt less urgent than the desire to simply *be* consumed. --- Amidst the swirling mass of masks and silk, Gabriel’s eyes caught on a figure by the grand archway. Tall, cloaked in deep emerald velvet, their mask a simple, featureless silver. But it wasn’t the attire that drew his gaze. It was the faint, almost imperceptible symbol embroidered on the sleeve, a coiled serpent devouring its own tail—the same protection symbol Leo had spoken of. The air around them seemed to shimmer, a subtle distortion that only Gabriel, with his newly awakened senses, could perceive. A new player. A new threat. Or a new key. The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. Elara had warned him of external forces, of the ancient struggle. This was it. Another piece on the board, another shadow in the game. But as the figure turned, their silver mask seeming to gaze directly at him, a cold fury, pure and instinctual, surged through Gabriel. He was tired of being a piece. Tired of being observed. Tired of waiting. Malik felt the shift in him, a sudden tension in Gabriel’s body. —O que foi? O que você viu? James’s gaze followed Malik’s, searching the crowd. —Gabriel? Fale conosco. Gabriel didn’t answer. He looked at the emerald-cloaked figure one last time, a silent challenge in his masked eyes. Then, he turned fully to Malik and James, a newfound resolve hardening his features. He saw their hunger, their possessive devotion, and he understood. He wasn't the lamb. He was the shepherd, and these two wolves were his. He pulled Malik’s hand from his hip, gripping it firmly. Then he reached for James, taking his hand as well. His eyes, unseen behind the obsidian mask, burned with a new fire. —Vocês disseram que eu sou de vocês —His voice was low, resonant, carrying a power that made both men stiffen. —E vocês estão certos. Mas… vocês também são meus. Malik’s breath hitched. James’s eyes widened behind his wolf mask. They stared, unmoving, as Gabriel’s grip tightened, an unspoken command passing between them. The music faded into background noise. The crowd became a distant hum. Only the three of them existed. —Eu… —Malik started, but Gabriel shook his head, cutting him off. —Não. Silêncio. —He pulled them closer, until their bodies were pressed against his, chests heaving in unison. His gaze held them captive. —Eu quero devoção. Absoluta. Eu quero submissão. Total. Eu quero que vocês se ajoelhem para mim. Agora. Malik’s jaw dropped, then snapped shut. James’s aristocratic mask seemed to crack, revealing raw shock, then a primal, ecstatic hunger. They looked at each other, a silent, furious communication passing between them. Then, slowly, deliberately, they dropped to their knees, right there in the middle of the ballroom, oblivious to the murmurs and stares that rippled through the thinning crowd. Their masks, their carefully constructed facades, crumbled. Their eyes, wide and desperate, fixed on him. —Meu Rei —Malik whispered, his voice hoarse, head bowed. —Meu Alfa —James echoed, equally broken, equally devoted. They pressed their foreheads against his thighs, a silent, profound act of surrender. The weight of their loyalty, their desperate need for him, settled over Gabriel like a crown. He watched them, kneeling before him, two powerful men reduced to fervent supplicants, and felt a surge of exhilaration, dark and potent. This was not Elara’s game. This was his. He gripped their hair, pulling their heads back gently, forcing them to look at him. —Bom —Gabriel breathed, his voice thick with triumph and something akin to a dark affection. —Agora, me levem para casa. E me mostrem o quão devotados vocês são. They stood, pulling him between them, a united front, their every movement a testament to their newfound purpose. They led him away from the ball, through hushed corridors, their pace urgent, fueled by a craving that mirrored his own. They burst into his room, the door slamming shut behind them, sealing them away from the world. Masks were torn off, clothes ripped, discarded in a frantic heap on the floor. Hands were everywhere, urgent, possessive, claiming every inch of his skin, branding him with their touch. The ritual in the tomb had awakened something ancient, primal, and these two men were its perfect conduits. Their mouths devoured his, tongues tangling in a desperate dance. Malik’s teeth scraped his jaw, a possessive mark. James’s lips trailed fire down his neck, a searing promise. They tore at each other’s clothes, a symphony of ripping fabric and desperate groans. Gabriel was lifted, carried, thrown onto the bed, the mattress groaning under their combined weight. He was between them, a fulcrum of raw desire, their bodies a heated vise, trapping him, binding him. He felt Malik’s heavy weight pinning his hips, James’s hands roaming his chest, tracing the outline of the mark on his skin, a connection, a sealing. They marked him with bites and kisses, with the friction of their bodies, with the sweat that slicked their skin, making them one tangled, gasping entity. Malik plunged into him with a growl, a guttural sound of pure possession, while James’s fingers found his most sensitive points, pushing him higher, closer to the edge. Gabriel cried out, a sound that was half pain, half pure, unadulterated pleasure, lost in the overwhelming sensation of being utterly, completely taken. Their names, Malik, James, became a prayer on his lips, a desperate litany. They moved as one, a storm of bodies and breath, a pact sealed not with words, but with flesh, with the raw, undeniable truth of their shared obsession. They were a golden cage, and he, the captive, had finally found his throne within it. Ele começou como a presa de dois monstros, mas, ao sentir o peso daquelas duas cabeças rendidas em seu colo, Gabriel soube: o trono sempre fora dele.

Capítulo 30: Laços