Aiden carried Elliott straight to the palace. He didn't rest, didn't slow, not until they were out of the temple—out of that place where anyone dared to want to hurt Elliott. He only let himself breathe when they were well inside the palace, behind the gates, within a domain that was his. His fortress. His rules. Where Elliott could be kept safe. Where his orders would be obeyed without question.
The healers had already been alerted. They were ready the moment Aiden entered the chamber, still carrying an unconscious Elliott in his arms like he was the only thing keeping Aiden tethered to the earth.
He laid him on the bed. He didn't need to speak. The physicians knew. They moved quickly, and quietly. One cleaned the wound on his cheek, smearing healing salve across torn skin. Another worked on his burned hands, wrapping them in linen after applying medicine. The head healer coaxed a bitter concoction down his throat, tilting his head carefully to soothe his lungs. Elliott's eyes stayed closed, lashes still, his breaths faint and uneven.
Afternoon bled into evening. Evening into night.
By then the healers had left— dismissed curtly by Aiden the second they were no longer needed.
Now the room was quiet, except for the slow, steady breaths of the man in the bed.
Aiden stood at his side, silent, still. Watching.
There were too many emotions in his gaze—too many to name, too many to even admit to himself—as he stared at Elliott.
His Elliott. Wrapped in silk sheets like something too fragile to touch. His cheek was bandaged, healers swearing the cut would heal without a scar. His hands, though red and blistered, were medicated and swaddled gently. The asthma relapse hadn't been fatal this time; once the flecks had been coughed from his lungs, his breathing steadied. He would recover.
But Aiden's heart didn't believe it. Not fully.
His fingers twitched at his sides. He wanted to touch him. Just brush his hair back, feel the warmth of his skin, hold him close until he was certain. But he didn't. He couldn't. He didn't deserve to.
Again.
Again he had failed. Again Elliott had been hurt in front of him. He had sworn it would never happen again—never again. And yet here they were. Elliott, broken and bandaged. And Aiden, useless, forced to watch.
Last time, he swore vigilance would be enough. That if he was cautious, if he was careful, he could stop anything before it touched Elliott. But he had been wrong. Again.
And now, again, the world whispered. They dared. They whispered that it was deserved. Last time, when Elliott had been poisoned, they said it was because he was too trusting, too kind. Now, they murmured he was punished. That the gods themselves had turned their wrath upon him.
Aiden wanted to burn the tongues from their mouths.
But even that wasn't the true weight in his chest.
No—what he felt now wasn't fury. Not primarily. It was something worse. More dangerous. Something that had always been there, festering quietly in some dark corner of his heart, growing with every shared moment, every smile, every touch withheld and every whisper cherished.
He had called it love before. He had wrestled with that truth. Accepted it, in time.
But this—this thing rising in him now—was not love. Not entirely. Not the healthy kind.
It was obsession.
It was born the first time Elliott had been poisoned, when Aiden spent nights kneeling at his bedside, listening to his shallow breaths, not knowing if the next would come. It was born of fear. Of helplessness. Of rage.
And now—it wanted out.
It wanted to consume.
The beast reared its head at last, no longer content to lurk in shadow. It wanted to wrap itself around Elliott's throat like a collar—not to harm, but to feel his pulse. To make certain it never faltered. It wanted to press him down into the mattress, caging him with its weight, breathing him in like he was air itself.
It didn't care if Elliott accepted. It didn't care if Elliott protested.
It wanted to lock the doors. Bar the windows. Keep him here, in this room, in this palace, where no threat, no whisper, no god could ever touch him again.
The rational part of his mind tried to protest, to remind him this was madness—that Elliott would resent him for it, that this wasn't love but something twisted. That it wasn't feasible.
But the obsession didn't care.
It silenced the voice of reason with a snarl and pressed tighter against his ribs, whispering the only words that mattered: Mine. Mine to protect. Mine to keep.
And it wasn't just obsession for its own sake. It was fear. Aiden's deepest, most bone-crushing fear.
The fear of seeing Elliott collapse. Of watching him gasp for breath, not knowing if he'd ever draw another. The fear of those nights—those endless, sleepless nights—where Aiden sat in silence, watching him breathe, waiting for a rhythm that might suddenly stop.
He could survive blades. He could endure wounds. He could take poison, scars, battlefields without fear. But the thought of losing Elliott—that uncertainty, that abyss—that terrified him beyond reason.
And if one day Elliott didn't pull through? If one day there was no more breath, no more heartbeat?
Aiden knew he wouldn't survive it.
So this obsession grew. This dark, selfish, consuming part of his love. A part that didn't care about anyone else's opinion—not even Elliott's.
It wanted him safe, no matter the cost.
If the world threatened Elliott, Aiden would destroy the world.
If the gods themselves dared to be against him—then he would fight the gods.
Aiden looked at Elliott. At the gentle slope of his nose. At his lips, stained the color of dark wine. At his almond-shaped eyes—closed now, lashes resting against pale skin. At the way his chest rose and fell gently, steadily, as if mocking Aiden's storm.
Aiden was losing control. He knew it. The rage, the fear, the sheer need and want—it was a storm inside him, howling, clawing at his mind, demanding release.
He knew he should take a step back. Leave, breathe—his emotions were too volatile. If he stayed, he risked doing something neither of them could come back from. He knew that.
But he didn't.
The obsessive side of his love didn't let him. The rational side was silenced—like a reasonable courtier dragged away before a tyrant's throne. The obsessive side had always won, if only for a moment. And this moment was no different.
So instead of stepping back, he stepped forward. One step. Then another. Until he was leaning down, until Elliott filled his entire vision.
Before he could even register what he was doing, his fingers twitched. Not toward Elliott's hand, as they usually did in moments like this—no. That wasn't enough anymore.
They twitched toward Elliott's throat. Toward that slender, fragile neck—not to harm, never to harm, but simply to feel. To remind himself Elliott was still there. Still alive. Still his.
His hand hovered, trembling. One palm braced against the bed, caging Elliott in beneath him. The other hovered closer and closer to the emperor's throat, shaking. Not with fear. Not with hesitation. No—with anticipation.
Just one touch. Just one. That was all he told himself he needed.
And then—his fingers made contact.
Elliott's skin was warm. Warm like sunlight breaking over snow. Softer than silk, softer than anything he'd ever dared imagine. And most important of all—it was alive. Thrumming with life.
Aiden's breath hitched. His eyes shut. Just one touch, he told himself. But he knew he was lying, even to himself.
One touch was never enough.
It couldn't be. Not for him.
This was wrong, reason whispered. Too much, too far.
He didn't care. Couldn't care. Caring about morals, about boundaries—that was a luxury Aiden couldn't afford, not when the memory of Elliott collapsing still burned behind his eyes. Not when every heartbeat beneath his fingertips was proof that he hadn't lost him yet.
His thumb pressed gently against Elliott's pulse. He felt it, steady and soft, and a shiver rolled through him. His fingers trailed, brushed the curve of his throat, then curled upward, into the damp strands of hair at the nape of his neck. Damp still, faintly, from the bath earlier that morning.
Mine, the voice in Aiden's head growled. This time, reason didn't even dare to intervene.
Aiden leaned in further. Closer. His face hovered just above Elliott's neck, so near he could feel the warmth of him, could taste the faint salt of his skin on his breath. Every exhale of his brushed against Elliott's throat. Every inhale dragged in the scent of him.
He ached to close the distance. To trail his lips over the slope of that pale neck, to mark him, to brand him—not as emperor, not as beloved, but as his.
Just another inch. Just a little closer. Just—
Elliott's eyes fluttered open.
The faint brush of breath on his neck had roused him. Aiden froze, stiffened, jerked back barely enough so he wasn't directly over that vulnerable throat. He braced himself for questions, for suspicion. For anger.
But none came.
Instead—Elliott's lips curved into a smile. Slow, drowsy. Wry, yes—the memory of pain was still there, raw and fresh—but a smile nonetheless.
"...Aiden?" he whispered, voice hoarse, tender.
He saw Aiden leaning over him, saw him close, and without hesitation—without knowing—Elliott lifted his linen-wrapped hands. Fragile, blistered, trembling—but they rose anyway. They hooked weakly around Aiden's shoulders and pulled him down into a loose hug. As much as he could manage without hurting himself.
And just like that—the storm stilled.
The rage dimmed.
But the obsession?
It didn't retreat.
No, it purred. It stretched. It basked. Because Elliott was touching him. Smiling at him. Choosing him. Voluntarily letting Aiden touch him.
Aiden exhaled. His whole body sagged. His forehead dropped, resting against the hollow of Elliott's neck. His hand—once bracing him—tightened, clawing into the silken sheets as if to anchor himself, as if to stop himself from clinging too hard, from crushing him with the weight of his need.
But the thought pressed anyway, insistent, vicious, tender:
Mine.
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AN: 🌝