The rain was falling in sheets, thick and cold, swallowing sound as easily as it did light. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and mildew. Somewhere in the distance, dogs barked–sharp, hungry. But inside the dim storage unit turned human cage, there was only silence.
Eliàn huddled in a corner, his body trembling, fevered, and small. His thin cotton shirt clung to him like wet paper, stained with sweat, bile, and old blood. The ropes around his wrists had long since cut into his skin. The gag had been removed hours ago – not out of mercy, but because he no longer had the strength to scream.
He was seventeen.
A boy.
A commodity.
A body
They had taken everything. Again. His dignity, his voice, his self. And now, they planned to sell what was left.
That night was supposed to be his last.
Until Lucien came.
The doors burst open like the wrath of a god. Gunfire echoed like thunder, briefly screams like lightning flickers in the chaos. The smell of smoke mixed with copper. The world became a blur of boots, broken glass, and falling men.
Then–silence again.
And out of the thick, smoky darkness, he appeared.
Tall, poised, dressed in black. His white shirt barely touched by the carnage around him, gloves bloodied but his face call. His presence stilled the room like gravity – the kind of man who made others step back without him speaking a word.
28 years old, Lucien Moretti.
His eyes met Eliàn's.
Not disgust. Not pity.
Interest.
The kind that lingers.
He walked slowly toward the boy, crouching just enough to meet his eye. "Name," he said.
Eliàn's lips cracked when he tried to speak, "Eliàn" he said , barely audible.
Lucien didn't look annoyed. Instead, he reached out and gently cupped Eliàn's face. He used a gloves thumb to wipe a streak of dried blood from under his eyes. His voice dropped into something softer, almost melodic.
"Don't worry. You won't go back to them."
And just like that, something inside Eliàn broke.
Or healed.
He didn't know which.
The next days blurred into warm sheets, soft voices, and too-quiet halls. Lucien's mansion – a fortress disguised as a palace. Eliàn has a room, a doctor, warm meals. He was treated... delicately. No chains. No yelling. No darkness.
It terrified him.
Lucien visited often, never with company. He asked about nightmares. He brought books and sometimes just sat in silence. There were no jokes. No laughter. Just an overwhelming calmness that swallowed everything else.
One morning, Eliàn finally asked, voice barely above a whisper, "Why did you save me?"
Lucien stirred his coffee. "Because I wanted to."
"That's all?"
He looked up. "Do you need more?"
Eliàn looked away. His throat burned. He didn't realize he'd started crying.
"No one's ever wanted me before."
Lucien said nothing at first. Then, without warning, he stood and walked over, taking a slow seat beside him on the Velvet sofa. His hand rested on the boy's thigh – possessive, not comforting.
"I do."
The days became weeks. Eliàn stopped asking when he could leave. Lucien never said he couldn't – but he never told him he could.
Lucien had rules. No locked doors. No unannounced guests. No contract with the outside world. Eliàn followed them all. He told himself it was gratitude. That he was being protected. That Lucien's quiet violence toward outsiders wasn't about control – it was proof of love.
After all, monsters don't save people. But Lucien had saved him.
And so, he smiled. Wore the clothes chosen for him. Ate at the same long marble table. Slept in a room next to Lucien's – until one night, he didn't.
That was the first night he called it love.
But it wasn't.
It was possession wearing the mask of mercy.
And it had already begun.