The pregnancy didn't make Lucien softer. It made him calmer. Which was worse.
His touches became more frequent, on Eliàn's waist, neck, lips. Gentle, yes. But too frequent. Too expectant. Every gesture layered with unspoken demand, like Eliàn owed him something every time their skin touched. His smile was always there, patient, polished, but behind it was a leash pulled tighter with every day that passed.
Lucien had stopped shouting. He no longer grabbed Eliàn by the arm or slammed doors when things didn't go his way.
Instead, he whispered. He monitored. He closed in.
Breakfast was now always together. Lucien sitting across from him in an expensive robe, sipping imported coffee as if they were a happy couple in some glossy magazine. He insisted on feeding Eliàn sometimes, cutting the toast, buttering it just the way he likes, placing the fork in his hand.
"You need to eat more," Lucien would say softly. "You're not just you anymore. You're ours now."
And Eliàn would nod. He always nodded.
He no longer argued. No longer fought back. Not even with his eyes.
That first week after the confirmation, Lucien moved Eliàn into the master bedroom, citing the need to 'watch over him better.' He installed a biometric lock on the doors, only his own prints could open it from the outside.
Every evening, Lucien would come home from work and walk straight to Eliàn's side, as if he'd been counting down the hours until then.
"You should be resting," Lucien would murmur, brushing invisible dust off his shirt. "You worry me when you pace."
"I wasn't pacing," Eliàn would reply, monotone.
Lucien would lean in, breathing in the scent of his skin like a man drunk on obsession. "Still. Sit down. You're carrying something precious now."
Something.
Not someone.
Lucien never referred to the child as a baby. Only as ours, or the future, or what binds us.
He never said I love you now too. Not in passing. Not gently. Like a weapon. Like a claim. He'd say it with his hand cupped to Eliàn's cheeks, waiting. Watching.
And Eliàn would whisper it back. Because silence was no longer an option. Because Lucien's fingers would stiffen slightly if he didn't respond fast enough.
"You're mine," Lucien whispered once, in the dark, laying behind him. His breath tickled Eliàn's ear. "Always were. You just didn't know it yet."
Eliàn didn't sleep that night. He stared at the ceiling, mind drifting through silence and static. He didn't cry. The tears had dried out weeks ago, left somewhere between the night he was drugged and the day he realized that no one was coming to get him out.
This wasn't a cage. It was a perfectly decorated tomb. Lucien brought in fresh flowers daily. Pale lilies. White orchids. All scentless. All pristine. He'd place them beside the window and kiss Eliàn's knuckles.
"You brighten the whole room," he'd say. But Eliàn couldn't even feel the sun anymore.
Phones were restricted. The house staffs now given on and off day and they now answered to Wite, not to Eliàn. A silent coup masked in courtesy.
Lucien still called him "darling." Still smiled when he walked into a room like they were newlyweds. Still paid beside him every night like he wasn't holding Eliàn hostage in luxury.
Eliàn stopped marking days. The calendar didn't matter anymore. Nothing moved forward. Nothing changed. Except the slow, weight growing in his belly.
Sometimes at night, he'd press his hand there, feel nothing, and imagine, just for a second, that he was empty, free. That maybe Lucien had been wrong.
But every morning, Lucien would say, "You're glowing," and Eliàn would go quiet again. Because there was nothing left to say. Because quiet was safer than hope.
Because Lucien had made sure of one thing above all else:
He was no longer just in Eliàn's life.
He owned it.