The mansion was quiet–too quiet for a place that held power, blood, and unspeakable secrets within its walls. Tall, brutalist architecture stretched across the hills of Northern Ital, shadowed by gray skies and patrolled not by guards, but by the silence of fear. And somewhere within its grand halls, behind heavy doors, behind the scent of polished mahogany and iron...was him.
A 22 years old boy, name Eliàn, moved like silk. Every step on the marbled floor was deliberate, weightless, as if he were floating rather than walking. He wore a floor-length robe, black velvet trimmed with lace, his long lashes casting shadows over tired, hollow eyes. The bruises on his skin were fading now–barely visible against the pale porcelain of his neck. But he still felt them. Phantom burns, echoing in the quiet between footsteps.
He paused by the window, looking out at the rain-soaked garden that twisted below the mansion. He touched the chain around his neck–a delicate thing of silver links and a tiny locket he never opened anymore. A gift from Lucien. A symbol of love, Lucien had said once. But Eliàn knew it was a leash.
"You're up early," came the low, smoky voice from behind him.
Eliàn didn't flinch. He had trained himself not to.
Lucien, a 35 years old young man, moved through the shadows like a phantom, his black silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at the fine scars across his chest–marks of a warlord in a three-piece suit. Mafia royalty. His mouth curved into something that might have been a smile. His eyes, however, were made of frost.
"I couldn't sleep," Eliàn said softly, eyes still on the rain.
Lucien stepped closer, too close, and wrapped his arms around Eliàn's waist, placing his chin gently on the smaller man's shoulder. "Nightmares again?"
Eliàn nodded once. His fingers tightened around the silver chain.
Lucien didn't ask what the nightmare was about. He didn't need to.
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Flashback.
The motel smelled like mold and cigarette smoke. Sixteen year old Eliàn sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor, wrapped in a scratchy towel. Blood stained the corner of his mouth. He was crying– no, heaving–and holding his stomach like it could protect something that was already lost. The doctor who had been paid to check up on the valuable after the miscarriage told him the internal damage was severe. Too severe. But Eliàn had clung to life anyway. Clung to the lie that it wouldn't happen again.
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Back to present
His hand moved instinctively to his stomach now – flat and unburdened.
Lucien noticed, of course. He always did.
"You should eat something," Lucien whispered. "The doctor says you're still too thin."
Eliàn said nothing. What could he say? He had spent years disappearing.
"Tonight," Lucien murmured, "I want you in the red lace."
Eliàn closed his eyes. There it was–the shift. The conversation always ended this way. It didn't matter if it started with comfort or silence or even kindness. It always turned to control.
"Yes, Lucien," he said quietly, and walked away, disappearing into the hallway.
A boy forced into the shape of a man. A body built to suffer. A soul chained in velvet.
And Lucien? He simply stood there.
Watching.
Loving.
Owning.