Cyprian's Pov
Suddenly, I felt the rope in my hand yank tight. I tried to scream, to scramble away in blind panic—but it was useless. I was sure of it now: I was tied to the side of the bed.
"That's enough. Leave."
I recognized the voice—Black Tiger. His was the kind of voice that branded itself into your memory, impossible to forget in a hurry.
The door creaked as it swung shut. Just before it clicked into place, he added—calm, unnervingly so for a man whose voice could bring strong men to their knees—"Tell the men to prepare for the doctor. He'll need one."
What did he mean by I would need a doctor?
Silence settled—then footsteps. Measured. Unhurried.
Each one drew closer, pounding louder in my ears than they did against the floor.
I shoved myself upright, limbs shaking, breath shallow. My back hit the headboard, but there was nowhere left to go. The walls felt too close. The air too thin. And still—he kept coming.
He sat at the edge of the bed without a word. The mattress dipped under his weight, that slight shift pulling me deeper into the moment, into the quiet terror swelling inside me.
Then his hands moved—steady, deliberate—as he reached for me. He removed the blindfold carefully, almost tenderly, as though any roughness might shatter something fragile between us.
Light stabbed into my eyes. Hot, raw. I squeezed them shut against the burn, a soft gasp slipping from my throat.
"You can open your eyes now."
The words were soft. Patient. But they left no room for refusal.
I hesitated, then blinked them open, vision swimming until the world slowly came back into focus. Even then, I couldn't meet his gaze. Every time I tried, something twisted deep in my chest—tight, unbearable. Shame or fear, I wasn't sure. Both, maybe. My face flushed, my skin too hot, and I kept looking away.
But even without fully looking, I saw him.
The sharp cut of his brows—flawless, untouched by disorder.
The hard symmetry of his nose.
The line of his mouth—full, unsmiling, carved in perfect stillness.
He was, without question, the most handsome man I had ever seen. And the fact that I noticed—that my mind could register that, even now—made something sour rise in my throat. Shame clung to the thought like oil. Like filth. Like I had no right to it at all.
If my mum could hear the thoughts in my head right now, she'd spit in my face without hesitation.
I dropped my gaze.
His hand came up—just one finger, but it was enough. He tilted my chin up, and I froze.
I would never get used to the darkness of his eyes in a way that chilled me. There was no cruelty there. No softness either. Just an unnerving stillness, a cold curiosity that stripped me bare.
"You're bleeding," he murmured, voice lowered—quiet enough it almost sounded kind.
I wanted to look away again, but I couldn't. His eyes pinned me down as surely as the rope had. His thumb dragged lightly across my bottom lip, over the tape. Barely a touch. But it was enough to make my breath catch, enough to send an involuntary shiver through my bones.
Something is wrong with me.
That thing which I thought I had buried was starting to unearth itself—but God forbid!
I swallowed hard. My stomach twisted, pain tightening beneath my ribs, but still—still—my body reacted. Trembling under the lightness of that touch.
He watched. He didn't miss a thing. Every flinch. Every breath. Every betrayal of my skin.
"I'll take off the tape," he said, calm as ever. "Don't scream. If you do, I'll put it back. And I won't remove it again."
I nodded—fast. Too fast.
His fingers peeled the tape off in one swift motion. The sting hit instantly, and I winced, sucking in air.
He didn't move away. His hand hovered near my mouth, waiting. Testing. But I didn't scream. I wasn't stupid.
I inhaled—shaky, shallow.
Exhaled.
The air burned down my throat like I'd been drowning and only now breached the surface.
And then… I looked at him again.
His jaw was cut sharp, a blade of bone beneath skin. The dark beard framing it was perfectly trimmed—no stray hairs, no missed lines. Clean. Controlled. A face built from edges, not softness. Yet one that was obviously catered to.
One would think he was an elite, not a gangster.
I had always dreamed—secretly, hopelessly—that one day I'd have a beard like his. Not the patchy mess of uneven scruff I had now, but something full. Masculine. Undeniable. The kind of face that silenced the words: You look like a girl. Or fine boy. The kind of face that carried weight—presence. That marked you as a man, through and through.
Maybe then I'd stop feeling split down the middle. Maybe then I'd want the things men were supposed to want. Maybe then Luca's effect would die.
"Do you want to join the gang?"
The words shattered the thought. His voice was as still as his expression. Unmoving. Unreadable.
I blinked. My breath hitched. His face stayed the same—steady, smooth—while mine betrayed everything: the quick stammer of my breath, the shallow rise and fall of my chest.
"N-no," I rasped, my voice breaking. I shook my head hard, like I could shake the weight off too. "No."
He smiled and shook his head like he was impressed by my answer, and that scared me more than any threat he could have made. More than any weapon I knew he carried somewhere under that flawless shirt.