Dischord — Bonus Content 🔥

Thank you for reading Dischord! 💙

As a thank you, here’s an exclusive bonus scene that was too hot for the book.
Set six months after the epilogue, when Elian and Marek have settled into their new life in Edinburgh…

🔥 “Encore” — A Bonus Scene

Set six months after the epilogue. Marek’s POV.
Contains explicit MM content. 18+ only.

The gig ended at midnight.

It was a small pub in Stockbridge—the kind of place that served craft beer and acoustic music to patrons who actually listened. We’d played for three hours, Elian on violin and me backing him on the battered upright piano the owner kept in the corner, and by the time we packed up, my fingers ached and my blood was singing.

Not from the music.

From watching Elian.

Six months of living together, of tangled sheets and stolen mornings, and I still couldn’t get used to it—the way he moved when he played. The way his eyes fell closed during the slow passages. The way his whole body became an instrument, every line and angle serving the sound.

He was talking to the owner now, accepting the cash payment with that precise, polished grace that had once been armor and was now just… him. His hair had grown out, falling across his forehead in soft platinum waves that made him look younger. Less Ice Prince. More Elian.

Mine, I thought, watching him laugh at something the owner said. After everything, he’s mine.

The possessiveness should have scared me. Once, it would have. But I’d learned something in the six months since we’d driven away from St. Valerius: wanting someone this much wasn’t dangerous when they wanted you back.

Elian caught my eye across the emptying pub. His smile shifted—subtle, private, meant only for me.

Ready? his expression asked.

I was born ready.

We made it three blocks before I broke.

The alley was narrow and dark, tucked between a closed bookshop and a restaurant that had shuttered hours ago. I pulled Elian into it the way I’d pulled him into practice rooms and dressing rooms and every shadowed corner I could find, my hands already sliding under his coat, finding the warmth of his waist through his shirt.

“Marek—” His voice was breathless, half-protest and half-plea. “We’re two minutes from home.”

“Can’t wait.”

I pressed him against the brick wall, one hand braced beside his head, the other sliding down to cup his hip. He was already half-hard—I could feel it when I rolled my hips against his, grinding slow and deliberate, watching his eyes flutter closed.

“The way you played tonight,” I murmured against his ear. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“Tell me.”

God, that voice. That voice that had been trained to give nothing away, now rough with want, demanding things from me that he’d never asked anyone else for.

“You’re gold,” I said, the word falling out the way it always did when I watched him—the truth of what I saw, the color he became when he stopped performing and started playing. “Pure fucking gold, Elian. Every note. Every breath. I watch you up there and I can’t think about anything except getting my hands on you.”

His breath hitched. His fingers curled into my collar, pulling me closer, pulling my mouth down to his.

The kiss was desperate from the first second—all heat and teeth and the kind of hunger that six months of having each other had done nothing to diminish. He tasted like the whiskey he’d nursed during our break, like Edinburgh winter, like home.

I slid my thigh between his legs and felt him shudder. Felt him grind down against me, seeking friction, seeking more. The sound he made—a broken, needy whimper—went straight to my cock.

“Marek, please—”

“Please what?”

His head fell back against the brick, throat exposed, chest heaving. “Touch me. I need—I need your hands on me. I’ve been thinking about it all night.”

“You were supposed to be concentrating on the music.”

“I was.” His laugh was ragged. “You’re the music, Marek. You’re everything.”

And fuck, if that wasn’t the kind of confession that made my hands shake as I reached for his belt.

I worked his trousers open slowly, giving him time to stop me, to remember we were in public, in an alley, in full view of anyone who happened to walk by.

He didn’t stop me.

He spread his thighs wider and pulled me closer and whispered yes like a prayer.

I wrapped my hand around him—hot, hard, already leaking—and watched his face transform. The control cracked. The composure shattered. Underneath was the raw, beautiful truth of Elian Vane, the person he’d spent twenty-two years hiding and now showed only to me.

“That’s it,” I murmured, stroking slow. Too slow. Watching him writhe. “Let me see you. Let me hear you.”

“Someone could—ah—someone could see—”

“Do you want me to stop?”

His answer was to thrust into my fist, chasing the friction, abandoning any pretense of shame. “Don’t you dare.”

I didn’t dare.

I stroked him faster, twisting on the upstroke the way I’d learned he liked, thumbing over the head until his breathing fractured. His hands gripped my shoulders hard enough to bruise. His hips moved in desperate, uncontrolled jerks, nothing like the precise musician’s control he’d once been known for.

This was the Elian no one else got to see. The Elian who came apart under my hands, who trusted me with the chaos he’d spent his whole life suppressing.

“Close,” he gasped. “Marek, I’m—”

“I’ve got you.” I kissed his temple, his cheek, the corner of his trembling mouth. “Come for me, E. Let go.”

He came with a sound that was half-sob, half-moan, spilling over my fingers while I worked him through it. His whole body shook. His nails dug into my shoulders. His face was open, wrecked, absolutely devastated in the best possible way.

I watched every second.

I always watched. I couldn’t help it. The colors that bloomed around him during sex were unlike anything else—golds and reds and sometimes, in moments like this one, a pure, blinding white that made my synesthesia feel like a gift instead of a curse.

When his breathing steadied and his eyes fluttered open, he looked at me with an expression I’d seen a thousand times but never tired of: love. Pure, uncomplicated, unwalled.

“Your turn,” he said, voice still rough.

“We should—”

“My turn.” His hands moved to my belt with a precision that was, frankly, unfair. “I’ve been thinking about this since the second set. About getting on my knees for you.”

My brain short-circuited.

“Elian, we’re in an alley—”

“Yes.” He was already sinking down, looking up at me with those grey eyes that had once been ice and were now molten silver. “And?”

And nothing. There was no argument against that expression. Against the sight of Elian Vane on his knees in a dark Edinburgh alley, freeing my cock with those elegant musician’s hands, looking at me like I was every song he’d ever wanted to play.

He took me in his mouth slowly, deliberately, the same precision he brought to everything. But underneath the control was hunger—I could feel it in the way he groaned around me, in the way his hands gripped my hips, in the way he pushed himself to take more, deeper, faster.

“Fuck, E—” My hands found his hair. Gripped. Held on. “Your mouth. Your fucking mouth.”

He hummed in response, and the vibration nearly undid me.

I wasn’t going to last. I knew I wasn’t going to last—not with him looking up at me like that, not with the memory of his performance still echoing in my blood, not with six months of loving him and still wanting him this desperately every single time.

“I’m close,” I warned. “Elian, I’m—”

He didn’t pull back. Of course he didn’t. He doubled down, hollowing his cheeks, taking me deeper, one hand coming up to cup my balls in exactly the way that made me see stars—

I came with a groan I didn’t try to muffle, pulsing into his mouth while his throat worked around me. The colors exploded: gold and white and deep, arterial red, the colors of love and lust and everything we’d fought so hard to build.

When I could think again, he was rising to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“We should probably get home,” he said mildly. “Before someone calls the police.”

I laughed—breathless, wrecked, completely in love with this person who had once been my enemy and was now my everything.

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

“I love you.”

His smile softened. The performance fell away, and underneath was just Elian—the real one, the one who’d learned to let me see him.

“I love you too,” he said. “Now take me home and do that properly. We have the whole night.”

I took his hand. Kissed his knuckles. Led him out of the alley and into the Edinburgh night, where the streetlights glowed gold and our flat was waiting and the rest of our lives stretched out before us like an unwritten symphony.

We had the whole night.

We had forever.

— The End —

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