The grand dining hall of Lucien's estate glittered like a caged galaxy–golden chandeliers dripping light onto polished mahogany, crystal decanters gleaming with aged wine, and a single table stretching like a battleground between power and silence.
Eliàn sat at Lucien's left, clothes in soft midnight silk, expression blank, shoulders squared in habitual quiet. His face gave nothing away. Not the ache in his abdomen that pulsed like a second heartbeat. Not the discomfort that clawed at him with every mention of blood, territory, and betrayal being traded across the table like poker chips.
Lucien's guests were all men in suits. Mafia captains from both Northern and Southern provinces, business allies disguised as friends. Their eyes often drifted towards Eliàn–out of curiosity, interest, envy. He was the beautiful porcelain doll at the wolf's table. A prize. A mystery. A weaponised decoration.
Lucien caught one of them staring too long.
He didn't smile. He didn't blink.
He merely shifted his wine glass with a soft click.
The staring stopped.
But Lucien's jaw remained tense. Because Eliàn hadn't reacted. Not even a blink of discomfort or pride. He simply cut into his meal–precisely, mechanically, like he was somewhere else entirely.
When the laughter swelled across the table, Eliàn didn't flinch. When a joke was made about using enemies as fertilizer in greenhouses, he didn't even tighten his grip on the fork. Just stared forward–eyes calm, shoulders still, the world around him a buzzing nothing.
Lucien hated it.
He hated how he couldn't read Eliàn. Hated how the boy looked like a painting he couldn't smudge. Couldn't provoke. Couldn't even crack.
When dessert was served and the guests began to rise, Lucien didn't dismiss them through his pa, Wite, with his usual grace. He nodded once to Wite, cold and regal, and Wite knew they had to leave quickly.
The door hadn't even fully closed behind the last man when Lucien turned to Eliàn.
"You didn't say a word," he said flatly.
Eliàn placed his spoon down with slow elegance. "There was nothing worth saying."
"That's not your call."
Eliàn looked up, finally meeting his gaze–but his eyes were glassy. Polite. Distant.
"I'm not a piece in your presentation, Lucien," he said, soft as snow.
Lucien's knuckles curled on the table. "You are what I protect. And that means when I sit you beside me, you don't sit there like you're mute. You belong beside me."
"I belong nowhere," Eliàn replied.
His voice was a whisper. Barely more than breath. But it cut through Lucien like gunfire.
For a long moment, the air between them was taut. Electric.
Lucien stood and rounded the table, steps echoing like gunshots on marble. Eliàn didn't flinch when Lucien gripped the back of his chair, looming.
"You know," Lucien murmured, "sometimes I think you enjoy testing me."
"I'm not testing you," Eliàn replied, tone unchanged. "You're failing all on your own."
Lucien's breath caught. For a split second, rage threatened to burn through his restraint. But then...he saw it.
A flicker.
Not on Eliàn's face. But in his hands.
Trembling.
So slight on one else would've noticed–but Lucien had memorized those hands. He could feel them in the dark. He could feel the scars without touching them.
And in that tremble, he didn't see defiance.
He saw exhaustion.
He straightened slowly. "Go to the greenhouse," he said after a moment. "I'll send Wite with your pain meds."
Eliàn rose wordlessly, back stiff, and walked away.
Lucien watched him go.
Watched the sway of someone so quiet, yet so full of noise. Someone who never screamed, yet left Lucien deaf.
And when the door shut behind Eliàn, Lucien sat back down.
And poured himself another glass of silence.