Leashed

RENZO POV

The silence was starting to feel personal.

Three days. That’s how long it had been since I woke up in this stupid safehouse, suffocating hell of a mansion, with Bram Hale shadowing my every step like a grim reaper who’d traded his heart and mouth for a fit body..

The man was a robot. Stoic. Controlled. Unshakable. He didn’t talk. Didn’t smile. Barely blinked. He just watched—always watched. Like he was studying me for weaknesses.

Which, fine. Most people did. But with him, it wasn’t about gossip or gain.

It felt like he was deciding whether I was worth saving at all.

I leaned back against the red armchair in the corner of my room, legs spread, the tablet he used to “communicate” propped up on the nightstand like an unwanted therapist.

The countryside stretched out in dark, quiet hills, scattered with a few distant lights. It was probably beautiful, but I couldn’t bring myself to care

He was seated by the door, as always, arms crossed like a statue molded out of quiet judgment. I’d tried everything to get a rise out of him—mockery, vulgarity, even the little show with the doctor. Nothing.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t scowl.

He just was.

It was infuriating.

“Are you bored yet, Hale?” I asked, tossing a grape into my mouth. “Or do you get off watching rich brats spiral?”

No answer. Not even a glance.

I stood, the silk robe around my waist catching the faint draft. I crossed the room slowly, deliberately, until I was standing in front of him.

He still didn’t move.

I tilted my head. “You know, most people would’ve said something by now. Called me a narcissist. Or an asshole. You just sit there like the world doesn’t touch you.”

Still nothing.

I stepped closer. “I could slap you across the face and you’d just blink, wouldn’t you?”

That got him to lift his head—barely.

His icy gaze met mine.

Not angry. Not cold.

Measured.

Like a loaded weapon deciding whether I was worth the bullet.

The air between us tightened, invisible wires stretched taut.

I grinned. “You’re like a monk with PTSD. What’s your deal, Bram? Killed too many people to sleep at night?”

He finally moved. One hand reached for the tablet, slow, efficient. He typed something with the edge of his knuckle and turned it toward me.

Him : Sit down.

I blinked. Then I laughed. “Oh, you wanna give orders now?”

He didn’t type again.

He just stood.

And suddenly, I wasn’t laughing anymore.

He was taller than I’d realized. Broader. His presence filled the room like smoke heavy, choking, inescapable. The kind of presence that made you rethink every arrogant thing you’d ever said.

Still, I didn’t back down.

I never backed down.

I took a step forward, chest brushing his. “You think you scare me, soldier boy?”

No reply. But I saw it in his eyes—the brief flicker of something sharp and dark

Anger.

Which somehow made it worse.

I turned away, heat crawling up the back of my neck.

I wasn’t sure if I was embarrassed or furious, and I hated that I couldn’t tell the difference.

That night, I waited until the clock struck two.

Everyone else in this house slept like they’d been drugged—especially the doctor, who I was ninety percent sure had started avoiding me. Bram, though? He didn’t sleep. Or if he did, it was with one eye open, standing upright like a fucking vampire.

But even vampires had blind spots.

I moved slowly, careful not to creak the wooden floorboards as I slid out of bed. My ribs still ached, but the pain had dulled to a manageable throb. Enough to get me down the hall, maybe out the side door. I didn’t even know where I planned to go—just away.

Away from the safehouse. Away from the questions. Away from him.

I slipped into a hoodie, pulled it over my head, and cracked the door open.

The hallway was dark. Still.

I crept down the corridor, bare feet silent on the polished floors, heart pounding a little harder than I cared to admit. I hit the stairs and—

A shadow stepped out from behind the pillar.

Fuck.

“Bram,” I hissed, teeth clenched.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Just blocked the staircase like a human barricade, arms folded, unreadable.

I squared my shoulders. “Move.”

He didn’t.

I gestured toward the door at the bottom of the stairs. “I just want fresh air. Five minutes. You can come with me.”

Still nothing.

“You know I’m not going to fucking run,” I snapped.

No reaction.

I stormed down two steps and jabbed a finger at his chest. “What are you, my warden now?”

He didn’t look down at my hand.

But he grabbed my wrist.

Fast.

Controlled.

His grip wasn’t painful. Not bruising. But it was firm. Final.

I froze.

He leaned in, lowering his head just enough that I could feel the heat of his breath near my ear.

Then he released me.

I walked back toward my room.

Waited.

I stayed on the stairs, chest heaving. I hated how fast my pulse was. Hated how easily he’d stopped me without saying a single fucking word.

I followed.

Because what else could I do?

Back in my room, I slammed the door behind me hard enough to rattle the hinges. “You think this is normal?” I barked. “You think it’s healthy to treat me like I’m some rabid dog on a leash?”

Bram stood in the corner, face unreadable, arms crossed.

I paced. “I almost died, okay? Don’t I get to feel something? Do something? Instead of being babysat by a fucking statue?”

He didn’t answer. But his eyes flicked toward the tablet.

I grabbed it and shoved it at him. “Go ahead. Tell me how I’m being dramatic. Or dangerous. Or that I need rest. Write whatever bullshit you’re dying to throw at me.”

He took the tablet.

Typed.

Turned it.

Me: if you want to live you’ll stop acting dumb… no wonder they want you dead.

The words hit harder than I expected.

I stared at them for a second too long.

Then I laughed, bitter and sharp. “That’s rich, coming from someone who walks around like he’s half-dead already.”

He didn’t rise to the bait.

He just walked to the window, stared out.

I watched the lines of his back, the tension in his shoulders. He wasn’t relaxed. Not really. He was always half-wound, like he expected war at any second.

He was a man built for violence but starving for silence.

I sank onto the edge of the bed.

“Why are you really here?” I asked and got no reply.

When I woke the next morning, the tablet was beside my bed with a new message on the screen.

Me: Try to run again, and next time I won’t stop you. You’ll be allowed to go out once the coast is clear if you want die then try escaping

I stared at the screen.

Then threw the blanket over my face and cursed into the silence.

“That bastard” I mumbled