The first thing Eliàn noticed was the heat, heavy and strange like it came from inside him. It pooled under his skin, in his temples, in the base of his spine. He blinked against the grainy blur coating his eyes, his body leaden against the silk sheets. The room smelled of roses and blood.
His stomach lurched. He barely made it to the en-suite bathroom before he vomited, dry heaves curling through him until his ribs ached. The taste of wine still lingered on his tongue, but there was something else. A metallic tang. Chemical.
He wiped his mouth, knuckles trembling. His vision still swam, the marble floor pulsing beneath him.
Lucien's voice reached him before the man himself did, low, unhurried, falsely sweet. "You're up early, sweetheart."
Eliàn stiffened. Lucien never called him that unless something had been done to him.
"I heard you. Are you alright?"
No. Something was wrong. His body felt...invaded.
Lucien stood at the door in an unbuttoned black shirt and slacks, his hair slightly tousled, a crystal glass of water in his hand. "Drink this," he said, stepping inside with slow, calculated calm.
Eliàn obeyed because that was the safest route. His fingers curled around the glass, barely managing to lift it. Water spilled down his chin. Lucien's hand was on his back in an instant, stroking slow circles like Eliàn was a child with a fever.
"I didn't mean for last night to go that way," Lucien said. "But you were getting reckless again. Telling me I don't understand. Running your mouth like you want someone else to pick you up and fix you."
Eliàn stayed quiet. His mind reeled.
Something inside him shifted, low, wrong, queasy. Not just from the wine. It was deeper. Hormonal. Familiar.
Lucien's voice dropped into a whisper. "But I fixed you, didn't I?"
Eliàn flinched at the brush of lips against his temple. His stomach rolled again. The scent of Lucien's cologne made bile rise in his throat.
He clutched the sink edge, knuckles white.
Lucien's eyes met his in the mirror. "You said you wanted to be close. Now we're closer than ever."
Eliàn didn't answer.
But in the silence, dread settled over him like a fog.
Later that afternoon, Eliàn lay in bed while Lucien ordered the chef to prepare a tray of soup. The curtains were drawn, letting in only slivers of gold light. He pretended to sleep when Lucien returned, watching through the slit of his lashes as the man set the tray down and leaned close again.
"You'll feel better soon," Lucien murmured, brushing a hand over Eliàn's cheek.
Eliàn's pulse thundered in his ears.
This nausea. The heat. The aching in his lower back.
No. It couldn't be.
But it was. He knew his body, even if he pretended not to. Even if Lucien pretended not to see.
Later, when Lucien left to make a call in his study, Eliàn pulled the sheets around his frame and stumbled to the where the mirror was hung.
His reflection in the mirror was still pale and perfect. His dark eyes didn't flinch. His lips didn't tremble. The haunted doll Lucien sculpted was still intact.
But inside, something cracked.
The warmth of Lucien's touch now seared
The kindness was a leash
He had to be careful. Calculated. Doll like. Until he figured out what to do.
Lucien would never let him go.