The room smelled faintly of dust and old turpentine. Acheron trailed his fingers over a stack of easels, their wood worn smooth in places from years of use. Painting had always been a constant for him from the very moment his tiny hands could wrap around a pencil; he had been sketching. First, the shapes and colours of the world around him… and later, when words failed, the things he felt but couldn't say.
His mother had always commented that he was a quiet child who didn't speak much. While that was true, it wasn't because he enjoyed silence but rather because the words never quite came together the way he wanted. Explaining himself felt like trying to thread a needle in the dark; frustrating, clumsy, and never quite right. But when he drew, he didn't need to explain.
Through his art, he could tell his parents he loved them without speaking, sketching their likeness in the corners of his notebooks. When he'd argued with a childhood friend, he'd drawn a storm cloud with two stick figures standing under it, holding a single umbrella together. Even then, art had been his translator. Colour, shape, texture, light, and shadow had become his voice. They were his soul.
It didn't matter what he felt, maybe it was joy, grief, frustration, or confusion; once a brush met canvas, the chaos inside him began to arrange itself into something he could understand.
Maybe that's why Hadeon had drawn him in so completely. Hadeon was the opposite of him: loud, magnetic, and always at the centre of attention. People leaned toward him like flowers to sunlight, desperate for his warmth. When someone like that turns their full attention on you, it's intoxicating... It had felt better than any drawing he had created before. That feeling became addictive; he wanted more and more of Hadeon's attention.
Even if it destroyed him.
A gentle breeze brushed over Acheron's cheeks, carrying the faint scent of the garden's lavender. The cool air made him blink, and only then did he realise he'd been crying. Droplets slipped down his jaw, mixing with flecks of dried paint on his skin. He gave a quick, embarrassed sniff, wiping at his face with the back of his hand only to smear a pale streak of blue across his cheek.
He glanced around as if someone might have seen, his lips twitching into the faintest pout before he reached for a rag. Instead of cleaning himself, he dabbed the cloth absentmindedly against his paintbrush, his mind still somewhere else.
This time, he had chosen a more secluded spot in the garden, tucked beneath the wide, sheltering branches of an old tree. The leaves whispered above his head, dappling his canvas with shifting patterns of sunlight and shade. Somewhere nearby, birds tweeted between branches, their songs punctuated by the occasional flutter of wings. The world moved on without him, vivid and alive, while he sat apart, watching, longing and painting.
His eyes fell to the canvas before him. He leaned forward, tilting his head slightly, a small crease forming between his brows in the same way it had since he was a child trying to get the details just right. Even now, with his shirt rumpled and his cheeks streaked in colour, he looked soft and fragile.
He wanted to belong to the world around him. He wanted to feel that pulse of life threading through him, the way others seemed to without effort.
He wanted something, or someone, to tether him here.
With a small, shivery breath, he set the brush down and touched the edge of the canvas. The painting stared back at him.
The background was an endless pitch black, the same smothering darkness that always seemed to want to wrap greedy fingers around his throat, trying to pull him under. In the foreground, a mouth stretched into a wide grin. The lips were faintly pink, almost warm-looking, the teeth unnervingly white and perfectly straight except for two sharply protruding canines, poised as if ready to pierce tender flesh. Acheron could almost hear the soft, knowing chuckle spilling from that mouth, could hear the way it called his pet name in that coaxing lilt. My Love. He could feel it brushing a kiss against his skin, warm and close, just like before.
His brushstrokes told on him. They betrayed him in ways words never could—short and jagged in one corner, long and almost tender in another. It was exactly how Hadeon had been with him: sometimes all softness and gentle caresses, sometimes brutal and unyielding. It was also exactly how Acheron still felt about him: Love and Hate. Fear and... Longing.
A frustrated whimper caught in his throat, small and pathetic, but it escaped anyway. He hated himself for missing Hadeon, hated the way his stomach still twisted at the thought of that familiar gaze landing on him. A small, treacherous part of him still wanted to submit. To melt under Hadeon's hands the way he used to, to tell himself that what happened was only because Hadeon had loved him too much. That if he had just agreed to be marked… maybe none of the worst moments would have happened.
At the same time, there is another part of him, a much louder part, that kept him breathing, fought tooth and nail against that lie. It told him Hadeon's so-called love was nothing but possession. That bonding with him would have been a cage. That somewhere out there, someone else was waiting. Someone who would see him, not own him.
He didn't notice when he started to cry again until a cool breeze whisked across his cheeks, drying the damp streaks in uneven patterns. He sniffled, a tiny sound, then absentmindedly used the back of his paint-smeared hand to wipe at his face. A streak of deep crimson paint ended up across his chin, and another blot of white on the tip of his nose, making him look more like he had been caught stealing icing from a cake than painting something born from his nightmares.
"Achie." Ivy's voice broke through the thick silence, light and gentle, like she was afraid to startle him. He flinched anyway, then turned with wide eyes, like a child caught daydreaming.
She stood behind him, holding a small tray. On it, a steaming mug of coffee and a slice of chocolate cake dusted with powdered sugar. She must have spent all morning making it, judging by the faint scent of vanilla clinging to her clothes. But her eyes, once warm and amused, had gone still, drawn to the enormous canvas before her. It towered above them both, nearly twice Acheron's height, and seemed to swallow the bright garden behind it in its shadow.
The painting was arresting in its detail and vividness, but there was something more, something that made her chest feel tight. A kind of predatory weight seeped from the brushstrokes, like the thing on the canvas might lean forward and sink its teeth into whoever stood closest. Ivy felt her body stiffen, instinct warning her to step back. She had witnessed plenty of different kinds of paintings that Acheron had created before, but none like this.
Acheron didn't notice her reaction. He just sat there with his paintbrush still in hand, hair sticking at the ends from where he'd been running his fingers through it while thinking. Paint smeared across his face with his lower lip jutted out in a faint, unconscious pout, the kind he got whenever he was trying not to cry again.
The sun still shone on the manicured lawn, warm and golden, as though the world beyond the canvas hadn't shifted at all. But here, in the shadow of the painting, mother and son stood in quiet stillness, their gazes fixed ahead. No words were spoken. None were needed.
***
Eamon's hurried footsteps echoed sharply against the polished marble floors of the Sauveterre Firm, each step ringing with the quiet authority of someone used to moving at a pace others struggled to match, though today, that pace came with an edge of fatigue. He had been awake for most of the night, mind grinding through legal arguments and strategic angles until the sky began to pale. By the time exhaustion finally forced him into a restless sleep, dawn had long passed, and it was nearly midday before he stepped into the building.
His assistant was hot on his heels, reading through the rest of the day's schedule in a quick, efficient tone. Eamon only half-listened, eyes flicking briefly over the busy reception area as they passed, noting the way heads subtly turned. Even after years of working here, he still carried the weight of the Sauveterre name like a second skin; polished, deliberate, and unshakable.
When he entered his office, the scene was exactly as he expected: a neat but steadily growing stack of documents already occupied the centre of his desk. Beside them, a large cup of coffee steamed invitingly, the rich scent cutting through the fog in his mind. His assistant had clearly anticipated his late arrival and made sure it was waiting for him, a small mercy he appreciated more than he let on.
There was no time to linger. Two court hearings loomed later this week, each requiring precise preparation. Buried in his schedule was also a meeting with the firm's cybersecurity expert. He slid his suit jacket from his shoulders, draping it over the back of his chair, and gave his assistant a few clipped instructions about prioritising files and pushing a minor meeting to tomorrow. Reaching for the first file in the stack, he had just begun scanning the opening lines when his cellphone vibrated across the desk.
The sound sliced through the quiet hum of the office, sharp and insistent.
The caller ID lit up with a single word: Dracula. Eamon stifled an eye roll before swiping to answer.
"Afternoon, Dad," he greeted, voice dry.
"So you do know what time of day it is." Acacia's tone was as blunt as a hammer, with the faintest thread of amusement buried deep, almost invisible, unless you knew her well enough to hear it.
"You told me to have a good rest," Eamon countered without missing a beat.
Acacia gave a short humph, the sound caught between disapproval and a smile she refused to show. He could almost picture her in her office, papers in hand, lips twitching but never quite softening.
"Mr M has filed a complaint," she said, flipping through something on her end. "Apparently, you're argumentative and refuse to follow instructions."
"That little—" Eamon cut himself off before the profanity escaped. That stubborn old man could find new and innovative ways to crawl under his skin every single week.
"Mr M has always been strong-willed," Acacia remarked, still turning pages. "I agree with what you've done so far. But if you don't want to take this to trial, and Mr M isn't willing to part with more money, then you'll have to… persuade her until she signs the agreement."
Eamon didn't answer. Silence sat between them, filled with the faint sound of papers shuffling on her end.
"Eamon," she continued, her voice dropping into something firmer, "You're a good lawyer. Fair. But sometimes fairness isn't enough. Sometimes you have to be cruel. To do what it takes to get the job done. If you're still planning to go up against the Blackwells, you need to stop being the negotiator and learn to be the executioner."
He leaned back into his chair, letting her words sink in. The name landed between them like a warning bell. The Blackwells were a different breed, both wealthy and connected. To top it off also merciless. The kind of family that didn't just fight back, they made you wish you'd never stood in their way.
Acacia Sauveterre, the first Alpha daughter of the Sauveterre Conglomerate. Born at a time when the family was in decline, she had been the answer to their unspoken prayers and the weight beneath their crushing expectations. She never bent beneath it, but she never let it chain her either. Against her parents' will, she carved out her own empire, Sauveterre Law Firm, brick by stubborn brick. And against their orders, she had married Edmun.
Acacia had a sharp foresight wrapped in an iron will. She fought for what she wanted, and she always won.
She saw pieces of herself in Eamon, his refusal to be swayed and his steady adherence to principle, but she also saw something missing. He fought, yes, but never for something truly his. Not until this case. Not until he sent a private investigator to track someone down. A choice that wasn't excessive by most standards, but deeply uncharacteristic of him. Something about this had lit a spark in him, and Acacia wanted to see if it could become a blaze.
"I hear you," Eamon said at last, his voice low but steady. His methods weren't wrong, but when you faced a tiger, you couldn't meet it as a rabbit. If he wanted to protect his client, he had to harden himself. Even if it meant earning enemies along the way.
When the call ended, Eamon set his phone down and rubbed the deep furrow between his brows. The dull ache at his temples pressed harder, promising a headache by the hour's end.
A knock at the door broke the moment.
"Come in."
The door swung open to reveal a Beta woman whose height would already have turned heads, but whose unapologetic love for skyscraper heels pushed her into a whole new league of intimidating. The sharp clicking of stelletos echoed across the floorboards, each step in rhythm with the lazy sway of her hips. She moved like someone who knew the world was watching and didn't care.