Chapter 2
Present
The mansion was too quiet.
Franklin could hear the slow tick of the clock in the hall, the faint crackle of the fireplace, and his own pulse pounding in his ears.
Damien's hand was still on his jaw.
He had kissed him like the world outside didn't exist, like Franklin wasn't a man but a possession. And Franklin, as always, had betrayed himself by answering that kiss.
"Five years," Damien said, voice low, dangerous. "And you still tremble the same way."
Franklin's fingers curled at his sides. He hated how well Damien knew him—his body.
Damien's thumb brushed the corner of Franklin's swollen lips. "I know."
The words made Franklin's chest ache. He wanted to argue, to throw the glass on the table into Damien's face, to scream that he was nobody's. But instead, his body betrayed him again—leaning closer, craving what he swore he despised.
Damien didn't miss it. His mouth curved faintly as he slipped an arm around Franklin's waist and pulled him down onto the sofa. The sudden shift knocked Franklin's breath out, his back pressed against cold leather while Damien hovered above, tall and broad, every line of his body screaming dominance.
"Damien—" Franklin's protest was weak, caught somewhere between resistance and need.
"Quiet."
The command silenced him more effectively than any force could.
Franklin's breath hitched. His fingers clenched into Damien's shirt, knuckles white, but he didn't push him away. He couldn't.
"Say it," Damien murmured against his skin. "Say who you belong to."
Franklin bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. The metallic taste filled his mouth. He hated that part of him wanted to say it. Hated that the words itched at the back of his throat like an old wound.
Instead, he turned his face away, defiant.
Damien chuckled, low and cruel, as if the denial amused him. "Look at me," he commanded
His hand slid to the back of Franklin's neck, tilting his head until hazel eyes met his own. "Why do you belong to ?" He asked again.
Franklin's throat closed. His lashes trembled. "You."
The air between them thickened. Damien kissed him again—slower this time, but heavier, like a promise sealed in heat and hunger. Franklin responded before he realized it, his chest heaving, his body arching into the touch he swore he didn't crave.
When Damien finally pulled back, his lips lingered close, his breath warm against Franklin's cheek. "You'll never be rid of me, Franklin. Not in this life."
Franklin's chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm. For a long moment, he couldn't move, couldn't breathe. He hated Damien's arrogance, hated his chains.
And yet, when Damien's hand slid down to lace their fingers together, Franklin didn't pull away.
Because the truth he would never admit was this: somewhere between five years ago and tonight, he had stopped fighting the chains.
He had started wearing them.
----
The night stretched endlessly.
Damien never knew restraint when it came to him.
From the leather sofa to the cold wall, and finally to the vast bedroom upstairs—through midnight and past—Damien's mouth never left Franklin's skin. Each kiss was not tenderness but possession, each bite a cruel flower blooming against pale flesh.
By the time Damien finally stilled, exhaustion pinned Franklin to the bed. The man beside him slept soundly, one arm heavy across Franklin's waist, as if even in dreams he refused to let go.
Franklin stared at the ceiling, chest rising in shallow rhythm. His lips were swollen, his body sore.
Carefully, he lifted Damien's arm and slipped out from under it. The man didn't stir. Damien slept like someone who owned the night.
Franklin dragged himself into the bathroom.
The mirror did not lie.
A stranger stared back—hazel eyes rimmed with exhaustion, pink lips bruised, and down his neck, chest, even his ribs, marks upon marks. Hickeys scattered like cruel constellations, proof of a man who never left him unbranded.
It was always like this. Always Damien.
Franklin exhaled, a sigh heavy with things he could not name. He stepped under the shower, letting the water scald his skin. It washed away the smoke, the taste of whiskey, the phantom heat of Damien's hands. But not the marks. Never the marks.
By the time he dressed, morning light had broken. His phone buzzed on the counter.
Mason's voice came through, hushed but urgent. "Franklin—big news. Director Noah has chosen you for his next film. Male lead."
Franklin froze. His grip tightened on the phone.
"Director… Noah. The Director Noah?" His own voice sounded strange to him.
"Yes. They confirmed it last night." Mason hesitated. "He'll be at the studio today. They want you there by noon."
For a moment, Franklin forgot the bruises, the exhaustion, even Damien asleep in the next room. A different memory rose—the first time he had seen Noah, years ago at a seminar.
A young director, elegant and commanding, speaking words Franklin had never forgotten: "Talent may be born, but greatness is made from pain and persistence."
Back then, Franklin had been nothing—just another extra fading into the background. But Noah's speech had been a flame in the dark. It was the reason Franklin had kept fighting, even when the world tried to crush him.
Now, years later, Noah Carter—the man who had inspired him to endure—had chosen him.
Franklin's chest tightened. He knew Noah probably wouldn't even remember him. But to Franklin, Noah was the reason he had survived.
His reflection stared back at him, skin still covered in Damien's marks, every inch a reminder of the cage he lived in.
And for the first time in a long while, Franklin felt something stir in him that wasn't exhaustion or resignation.
Hope.