Summary:

“Ilya,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I don’t feel right.” The hand doesn’t pull away. Instead, it slides lower. Shane stiffens as fingers trace down his spine, lingering too long, dipping beneath the hem of his shirt. Skin-on-skin contact sends a jolt through him, not pleasure, not comfort, but something sharp and wrong. His breath catches. Then the hand grips him. Firmly. Possessive. Fingers digging into his ass through his jeans. Shane jerks slightly, confusion slicing through the fog. His heart stutters, a hard, uneven beat that makes his chest ache. That’s… not- *** Someone puts something in Shane’s drink. Ilya is not happy.