Curling his hand into a fist, the Dutchman punched the soft cushion of the loveseat. Fuck.
* * * *
Reza had no surname—at least, not one Eduard had ever bothered to learn. A member of the crew of the Prins Nicolaas, he was nineteen years old when he and Eduard first met. His tall, thin frame was covered with wiry muscle, his skin darkened like leather from working in constant sunlight. The moment Eduard laid eyes on the young man, he wanted him.