The sedan slowed down, its tires crunching over the gravel of the Vane Estate as it came to a stop.
Through the tinted windows, Ren saw the looming silhouette of the manor—a fortress of limestone and glass that looked more like a museum than a home.
The engine of the car stopped, and the silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint click of the electronic locks disengaging.
"We're here," Cillian said. He didn't move immediately. He just sat there, his fox-like eyes curved into a thin, pleasant crescent as he watched Ren's reaction. "Don't look so miserable, Ren. I've gone to a lot of trouble to make sure you're comfortable."
Ren didn't respond. He kept his gaze fixed on the back of the driver's seat, his jaw clenched.
He recalled how he had tried to sneak into this very estate to assassinate Cilian a dozen times, but he failed each time, and he never came close to reaching Cilian's feet.
That was how powerful this fortress was.
Who knew he would get in like this? How disgusting.
Cillian stepped out and turned round the car, opening Ren's door, but it only felt mockingly chivalrous to Ren, who glared at him.
"Come on, we can't stay out all night."
But Ren still didn't move, he just glare. Cilian wasn't exactly the patient type so instead of repeating himself, he reached in, grabbing the chain of Ren's cuffs to pull him out.
The night air was crisp, but it didn't feel fresh. It felt like Vane territory.
"There we go." Cilian said but Ren staggered on his feet.
He had nothing on his feet and had no pants on either, so the crisp air hit his skin sharply. How long had it been since he had stepped out into the open?
He had been locked up for about three months, after having escaped and getting caught again over and over, like an endless nightmare.
Now, the joy of coming outside wasn't even there anymore. He had just one thing in his mind and that was murder.
As they entered the grand foyer, Ren braced himself for a cell or a cold basement, knowing the kind of sick bastard Cilian was, and how he liked to watch him suffer.
But instead, Cillian led him up a marble staircase, his grip on Ren's arm firm but not bruising. He stopped in front of door at the end of a private wing.
"I remembered how much you liked the sun in the mornings," Cillian whispered, his voice smooth and airy, as if they were still those two young boys making plans to run away when they grew older. "So I chose a room with south-facing windows. And the walls... I had them painted that soft sage green you always said reminded you of the gardens at the Pierce estate."
Goosebumps immediately ran down Ren's spine and then Cilian pushed the door open.
Ren reluctantly stepped inside, and the breath left his lungs as if he'd been struck in the gut. It wasn't just the color. It was the desk in the corner. The specific silk of the curtains. Even the scent of the room—sandalwood and citrus—was a perfect, calculated replica of his bedroom from before the massacre.
It was a crime scene dressed up as a sanctuary.
Ren felt a wave of nausea so violent he had to steady himself against the doorframe. The 'kindness' in Cillian's voice was like a slow-acting poison.
"You like it, don't you?" Cillian asked, stepping behind him. He didn't touch him, but his cold pheromones wrapped around Ren like a physical veil. "I spent months getting the details right. I wanted you to feel at home."
"Home?" Ren finally found his voice, though it was thin and trembling with rage.
He turned to look at Cillian, whose lips were turned up in that effortless, deceptive smile.
"You burned my home to the ground, Cillian. You stood there and watched it turn to ash. Do you think painting a wall green makes up for the blood you tracked into it?"
Cillian's smile didn't falter. He reached out, his thumb grazing the iron collar, his touch light and terrifyingly steady.
"I didn't say it made up for anything, Ren. I said I wanted you to be comfortable." He leaned in, his fox eyes glinting with a sharp, predatory amusement. "After all, you're going to be here for a very long time. It would be a waste if you spent it all being... difficult."
Ren pulled back, his eyes burning. He's trying to rewrite it, he realized. He wants to play house in the ruins he created.
"I'll never be comfortable in a house owned by a murderer," Ren spat.
Cillian chuckled, a soft, melodic sound that didn't match the coldness in his gaze.
"We'll see. Memory is a funny thing, Ren. Eventually, the comfort of the bed matters more than who bought it."
Ren clenched his fists and couldn't stand it any longer. He swung his cuffed hands, planning to bash the bastard's face with the metal but even that, Cilian had calculated.
He just needed to take a step back and Ren staggered.
"I wonder, what can a malnourished Omega do to a dominant Alpha?" He asked and watched Ren panting. "I told you, Ren. You'll have to survive me first before you can chase your silly revenge." He placed his hand on Ren's shoulder but Ren shrugged him off. "There's nothing you can do as you are. So, once again, I'll say it. Be a good boy. Once the time comes and you see a chance to drive a knife through my heart, I might be nice enough to let it happen."
Ren stopped panting, his eyes widening and then he looked up at Cilian in disbelief.
"What do you think? Doesn't that make you feel more relieved?"
No, it wasn't relief Ren felt. It was disgust. To him, Cilian was just toying with him, trying to feed him with false hope, only to strangle him with that hope.
Once again, his antics were nothing but entertainment to that bastard. He doesn't even take his revenge seriously.
He doesn't see Ren as a threat.
Ren trembled, the reality of his situation hitting him like a knife to the heart.
He would never believe what this man said… not ever again.