Meanwhile, far from the chaos Caesar was stirring in the shadows of the empire, the Romanov Palace stood tall and untouched — a monument of marble and silence, laced with centuries of secrets and bloodlines tangled in politics and pride.
Inside one of the palace's smaller salons — though "small" was relative when everything screamed opulence — two men sat across from each other, a low, silver-plated tea set between them. Delicate porcelain cups, untouched sweets, and the soft crackle of the fireplace were the only companions to the thick, wordless tension in the air.
Octavian — the ever-poised twin, refined and cold where his brother burned — sat with his back straight, legs crossed, his expression unreadable. He lifted the teacup with an elegance that could only be born, not taught, sipping slowly as though each drop steadied him.
Across from him lounged Prince Nikolai Henrik Søndergaard of Denmark — a royal enigma. Tall, broad-shouldered, and devastatingly beautiful in that lazy, careless way that made courtiers and diplomats alike forget their words mid-sentence. He was draped across the velvet settee like a bored god, the top few buttons of his silk shirt scandalously undone, a smirk playing on his lips like he was always in on a joke no one else knew.
The silence between them wasn't awkward. It was intentional. Measured. A battlefield in disguise.
Then, at last, Octavian spoke, breaking the air like a blade through still water.
"This marriage," he began, setting the cup back onto its saucer with a soft clink, "is political. Nothing more."
His voice was crisp, diplomatic — cold, like the frost that kissed the palace windows.
"No strings attached."
He glanced up, locking eyes with the prince.
"I want that to be clear."
Nikolai didn't flinch. In fact, his grin widened — slow, deliberate, hungry.
Octavian hesitated, then added, voice quieter but firmer:
"I'm an alpha. So... I suppose I'll be the one bearing the children."
He said it clinically, like it was just another detail in the contract. But there was the slightest flicker in his eyes — the kind that came from speaking something deeply personal, something loaded.
Nikolai's eyes gleamed like polished sapphires under the firelight. He tilted his head, studying Octavian as though he were the most fascinating painting in a museum full of forgettable art.
"Hmm," Nikolai hummed lazily, dragging the syllable out. "How efficient of you, Your Highness."
He shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees, chin propped on one elegant hand. That smirk never wavered.
"But forgive me... you speak of bearing my children like you're offering to carry groceries."
Octavian's jaw tensed ever so slightly. "It's a duty. Part of the alliance."
Nikolai chuckled — low, warm, and far too intimate.
"Oh, darling," he purred, "if you're going to have my children, the least we could do is make the process enjoyable."
Octavian's eyes narrowed. "This isn't a romance, Prince Nikolai."
"But it could be," the Danish prince shot back smoothly, his tone teasing but eyes sharp. "After all, what's marriage without a little seduction? A kiss here, a touch there... who knows, maybe we'll fall madly in love over state dinners and heir-making."
Octavian looked like he wanted to retort, but Nikolai stood before he could, walking over to the tea set and pouring himself a cup like he owned the room — like he already owned Octavian.
As he stirred in honey, he added casually, "I must say, I rather like the idea of an alpha like you carrying my heir. Regal, cold, controlled — and underneath that, probably desperate to be ruined."
Octavian froze, his breath hitching for a split second.
Nikolai turned, lifting the cup to his lips, taking a sip before murmuring, "But don't worry. I'm very good at keeping things strictly professional… unless you beg me otherwise."
The fire cracked in the hearth. The air grew warmer.
Octavian sat stiffly, eyes burning with silent fury — or maybe... something else entirely.
"I don't beg," he said icily.
Nikolai raised a brow, looking pleased. "Oh, we'll see about that, beloved."
Time had slipped away like wine down a silk dress.
The sun had long dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of indigo and bruised gold. Inside the quiet mountain villa, nestled far from civilization, the hours had bled into each other. Eun-jae was sprawled out on the plush velvet couch, utterly done with the day — and maybe with his life too, honestly.
He had read five books in one sitting. Not because he was particularly in the mood for literature, but because there was nothing else to do in this glorified royal prison Caesar had dumped him in. Each page had been accompanied by the slow, sinful pour of red wine — three bottles, to be exact. He wasn't even sure when he'd finished the third. His limbs were heavy, his lips wine-stained, and his head was spinning in that warm, fuzzy, borderline-regret type of drunk.
The rhythmic thumping of helicopter blades outside shattered the stillness, slicing through the evening silence like a knife. Eun-jae stirred, groaning as he blinked up at the dim ceiling, confused for a second before everything hit him again.
"Ugh... he's back," he muttered, dragging himself upright, every bone in his body protesting. He stretched like a sleepy cat, yawning and scratching the back of his head as he made his way to the door.
Before he could even open it properly, Caesar barged in like a man possessed.
"Whoa, okay—"
Eun-jae didn't even get the full sentence out before Caesar pulled him into a tight embrace, burying his face deep into the crook of Eun-jae's neck like he belonged there.
"What the hell—" Eun-jae struggled, trying to push him off. "Get off me, you lunatic."
"Let me just hold you for a while," Caesar whispered, his voice hoarse — low, dangerous, and yet weirdly... vulnerable. Like something had cracked in him during his time away.
His grip was strong. Not painful, just... needy. Like someone starved for affection, using Eun-jae as a lifeline. His breath was warm against Eun-jae's skin, sending a shiver down his spine — and not the good kind.
Then — without warning — Caesar's lips began pressing soft, lingering kisses along Eun-jae's neck. Then his jaw. Then the corner of his mouth.
Eun-jae jerked back, smacking Caesar on the chest with a flat hand.
"What the hell are you doing?!" he snapped, cheeks flushed — more from the wine than the affection, probably. "I'm not your damn wife, asshole!"
Caesar looked at him with those maddening light-blue eyes, still too close for comfort.
"You smell like grapes," he said, as if that was a valid response.
Eun-jae rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw the back of his skull. "No shit, Sherlock. That's what happens when you drink three bottles of overpriced Cabernet because you've been held hostage in a remote villa with no Wi-Fi, no phone, and no damn freedom!"
He stomped off into the hall, picking up empty glasses, books strewn across the floor, and the throw blanket he'd kicked off in his wine-induced slumber.
"Why were you drinking?" Caesar asked from behind, shrugging off his long brown fur coat with that usual effortless grace that made it extremely annoying to hate him.
Eun-jae poked his head out from the kitchen with a bag of chips in one hand and judgment in his eyes.
"Oh, I dunno. Maybe because I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere with a broody mafia prince who keeps kissing me when I didn't ask for it? Maybe because it's almost Christmas and my mom probably thinks I've been dismembered in some forest? Maybe because I haven't seen sunlight in three days and I'm pretty sure the wine is the only thing keeping me sane?"
Caesar just stared at him — not smugly. Not angrily. Just... quietly. Like he was soaking it all in, like Eun-jae's little tantrums were poetry to him. Which just pissed him off more.
"You aren't healed well yet," Caesar finally said, walking toward the kitchen like he owned the place. And honestly, he probably did.
"I didn't ask for a medical opinion, Doctor Obsessive," Eun-jae snapped, turning his back to him.
But then, after a beat of silence, Eun-jae came back into the hall carrying a tray with two bowls of fruit Hwachae — traditional Korean fruit punch, all pink and icy and beautiful in the low golden lighting.
He plopped the tray down on the table and pushed one of the bowls toward Caesar.
Caesar blinked. "What's this?"
"Hwachae," Eun-jae muttered, flopping down on the opposite couch and grabbing a spoon. "Came across a recipe in one of those dusty cookbooks you have. Figured if I'm gonna die out here, might as well die hydrated."
Caesar sat down, slowly, picking up his own bowl with care like it was some sacred offering.
"You made this... for me?"
"Don't flatter yourself," Eun-jae said between bites. "It's called sharing, Caesar. You should try it sometime. Not everything's about you."
Caesar smiled slightly, watching Eun-jae eat — wild-haired, wine-drunk, and full of sass. And for once, he didn't say anything back.
Eun-jae set down his now-empty bowl of Hwachae with a little clink, flopping back into the couch like a grumpy cat who'd had enough of the world. His head was still hazy from the wine, but his sass? Alive and thriving.
He glanced over at Caesar, who was lounging across the room like some damn model out of a warlord catalog—fur coat draped behind him, expression unreadable, fingers idly playing with his wine glass as if nothing in the universe could faze him.
Eun-jae narrowed his eyes.
"Okay. Enough with the whole mafia-Disney villain act," he said, stretching his legs out, ankle over knee. "Can you at least tell me where the hell we are?"
Caesar didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just kept staring at him with that maddening calm—the kind of look that screamed I know something you don't, and it pissed Eun-jae off more than it should.
Eun-jae leaned forward, brows drawn, voice sharp. "Seriously. I've been here for days. No signal. No phone. No clue where I am. You've got me locked up like I'm your precious little porcelain hostage and you won't even tell me what damn continent we're on."
Still silence. Just that tiny, smug twitch of Caesar's lips.
"I swear to God," Eun-jae snapped, grabbing a throw pillow and chucking it in his direction. "Do not make me burn this palace to the ground. I will go full feral. Don't test me."
Caesar finally looked up, catching the pillow mid-air like some dramatic anime villain. He smirked.
"We're on an island," he said coolly. "In the Norwegian Sea. Uncharted. Privately owned. You won't find it on any map."
Eun-jae blinked. "You took me to a secret island?! What is this, some weird villain honeymoon getaway?!"
"No one can find us here," Caesar added, setting the pillow aside like it didn't almost take out his face. "Not the agency. Not your enemies. Not even my own people."
"So basically, I'm stranded in some luxury prison in the middle of nowhere with a lunatic alpha who thinks kidnapping is the same thing as protection," Eun-jae said, standing up and pacing dramatically. "Great. Fantastic. I'm living every spy's nightmare and every dark romance author's wet dream."
Caesar watched him, amused. "You make it sound so tragic."
"It is tragic, Caesar," Eun-jae snapped, spinning on his heel to face him. "Because I'm not your little pet. I didn't ask for this. And just because you like sticking your tongue down my throat doesn't mean you own me."
"I didn't say I did," Caesar replied smoothly, rising to his feet, voice soft but thick with that terrifying kind of calm. "But you're safer here. And deep down, you know it."
Eun-jae laughed. "Right. Safer with a guy who literally raped me two times."
"You were being hunted," Caesar said, stepping closer. "They would've killed you."
"And you think this is better?" Eun-jae hissed, jabbing a finger in his chest. "You think isolating me on a damn ice-rock surrounded by nothing but sea and silence is what I'd call safe? You're deranged."
Caesar's voice dropped to a whisper. "Maybe. But you're alive, aren't you?"
Eun-jae clenched his jaw, arms folded, heart thudding with rage and something he absolutely refused to name. "You don't care about me. You care about owning me."
Caesar's expression shifted—just a flicker. His smile thinned, eyes shadowed.
"I care about what's mine," he said softly. "And you? You stepped into my world. You lit a match in a room soaked in gasoline."
Eun-jae stepped back. "I am not yours."
Caesar didn't move. "Then leave."
Eun-jae froze.
"Doors aren't locked," Caesar said, voice almost too quiet. "You could try swimming. Try taking the boat. Hell, scream until your throat bleeds. But we both know you won't."
Eun-jae swallowed. "And why's that?"
Caesar leaned in, brushing past him, voice brushing his ear like silk dipped in danger.
"Because you're not scared of me, Eun-jae. You're scared of how much you don't hate being here."
Eun-jae's breath hitched. "You're insane."
"And you," Caesar murmured, heading to the window, "are the best thing I've ever stolen."
The air in the room had shifted—heavier, darker, charged like a thunderstorm that hadn't yet cracked open the sky. Eun-jae stood in the center of it, shoulders trembling, chest heaving, his breath sharp and furious like it was slicing through his lungs.
His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his own palms so hard they might bleed. His voice came out rough—raw and unfiltered, like every suppressed scream he hadn't had the chance to let out until now was finally tearing through.
"I fucking hate you," he spat, eyes burning. "I hate you so much I could die from rage, you son of a bitch."
His words were venom—meant to slice, to wound, to hurt. But Caesar… Caesar just turned around slowly, as if the storm brewing in front of him was no more than a breeze. He cocked his head slightly, watching Eun-jae with that maddening smirk that could make someone want to slap him and kiss him at the same time.
Then he chuckled.
A low, velvety sound that rolled off his tongue like he was entertained. Like Eun-jae's fury was a joke. Like he was enjoying this.
"I know," Caesar said smoothly, licking his lips like he was tasting the chaos. "It actually turns me on."
The room practically snapped in half with tension.
Eun-jae blinked, stunned for half a second—then rage kicked back in, hotter than ever.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he yelled, storming toward Caesar. "Are you proud of that? Proud that you make people want to claw their own skin off just being around you?"
"I prefer to think of it as... evoking passion," Caesar replied coolly, voice like silk dragged through ash. "Better to be hated with intensity than forgotten with indifference."
"You are psychotic," Eun-jae hissed. "You ruin everything you touch. You think because you saved me once, you get to own me? You think locking me up on this godforsaken island and playing house makes this okay?"
"I don't want a house," Caesar said, stepping closer, his tone dropping into something darker. "I want you. All of you. The anger, the spitfire mouth, the shaking hands and bitter words. I'll take it all."
Eun-jae shoved him back—not hard, but enough to make a point. "You're insane. You're obsessed. You think your trauma gives you a free pass to treat people like toys?"
Caesar's smile thinned. "No. I think my trauma made me smart enough to realize the value of something rare."
"I'm not rare," Eun-jae growled. "I'm a person. Not a collectible. Not some wounded stray for you to chain up and heal with wine and pretty words."
"You say that like you haven't gotten comfortable here," Caesar murmured, gaze flicking to the soft blanket Eun-jae had curled under earlier, the stack of books he'd devoured, the empty wine bottles.
Eun-jae flushed. "Don't mistake survival for comfort, Caesar."
He tried to step back, but Caesar caught his wrist—gently, not tight, not forceful. Just enough to pause him.
"I don't want to hurt you," Caesar said, voice softer now, the sharp edge tucked away for a moment. "But I will protect what's mine. Even from itself."
"I'm not yours," Eun-jae whispered, the fire in his eyes dimming for a second.
But Caesar just smiled.
"Say that again," he whispered, brushing Eun-jae's hair back with the kind of tenderness that was more terrifying than any rage. "Say it like you believe it."
Eun-jae didn't speak.
Because in that terrifying, quiet moment... he didn't know if he could.
Eun-jae was exhausted—mentally, emotionally, spiritually. He was bone-deep done. He didn't even have the energy to throw sarcastic jabs anymore. All he wanted was some goddamn peace.
Dragging himself up the stairs, he barely paid attention to his surroundings as he pushed open the bedroom door and slammed it shut behind him with a tired sigh. Clothes hit the floor in a lazy trail as he stripped, his thoughts a blur of wine, boredom, and pent-up fury. He didn't even bother putting on music. Silence was sacred now.
He walked into the bathroom, turning the silver tap so the jacuzzi could fill up, steam already beginning to rise. As the soft bubbling sound echoed off the marble tiles, he wandered over to the mirror. Naked. Unfiltered. Just him.
And then he saw it.
He blinked. Leaned closer. Blinked again.
"What the...?" he muttered.
There it was—etched into his lower back like some kind of high-tech branding. A faint glowing cyber tattoo, sleek and faintly luminous, like something out of a dystopian hacker film. He'd never gotten a tattoo in his life. He hated needles. He hated commitment. He never asked for this.
Heart pounding, he twisted to get a better look—and that's when he saw it.
His head jerked around. His ass lifted slightly in front of the full mirror.
"Oh you've got to be kidding me—WHAT THE HELL—"
On his left ass cheek. Small. Cute. Offensively adorable.
A pink Hello Kitty tattoo.
His eye twitched.
His jaw clenched.
A deadly silence passed before—
"CAESAR!!!"