CHAPTER THREE

The boy hadn't spoken once since they'd left the auction house.

Andrei liked that.

Not the silence itself — he was surrounded by enough silence in his life to build a graveyard from it — but the way the boy wore his silence. Not out of fear. Not brokenness. But defiance.

Like a blade tucked behind his tongue. Waiting. Waiting for his moment.

Andrei leaned back against the leather seat of the car, exhaling slow streams of smoke that escaped through the slightly opened window. Istanbul’s lights streaked past in a rapid, blurred, gold, red and dirty white against the blackened sky. The car's engine purred beneath them, an expensive, imported machine designed to outrun anyone who might have the silly idea of engaging in a chase or race.

Zane — the name still lingering in Andrei’s mind though it had yet to be offered — sat opposite him, wrists still bound loosely, ankles chained together, a dark jacket thrown over his bare shoulders. A token kindness. Or perhaps a mockery.

The boy sat rigid, every muscle pulled tight, like a panther in a too-small cage. His golden-silver hair was matted against his forehead, tangled and damp from sweat. His lips, plush and pink from biting back words or screams, trembled once — not from fear, but from pure, unfiltered rage.

Good.

Andrei didn’t want another empty doll.

He already owned too many broken things.

"You’ll find I am a fair man," Andrei said at last, his voice quiet enough to almost be mistaken for kindness. "If you fight me, you will lose. If you cooperate—" He let the sentence trail off like smoke from the cigarette he cradled between his fingers; a shapeless, lingering thing.

Zane didn't even blink.

Andrei smiled, a real one this time, and flicked ash onto an ash tray.

The boy would take some breaking. But he would not shatter the way others did.

He would bend like tempered steel.

He would burn and he would take shape.

Andrei could already see it — the beautiful, slow, inevitable surrender written somewhere deep beneath that furious glare.

It was only a matter of time.

The car wound through a network of empty roads until at last, they reached it — the villa.

Hidden behind high stone walls and a forest of cypress trees, the estate was spread over acres of stolen land just outside the city. It had once belonged to a corrupt Ottoman prince, then a British oil baron, then a black-market magnate whose demise had been both violent and unexplained.

Now it belonged to Andrei.

Or rather, to the empire he had been born into — an empire paid for in favours, bullets, and blood.

The iron gates creaked open, and the car drove up the long straight road leading up to the mansion. Moonlight painted the courtyard silver, throwing long shadows over the marble fountains and coiled ivy on the building’s old walls.

Zane lifted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he took it all in.

Not awe.

Not fear.

Calculating.

Andrei saw it in the quick flash of his gaze: the boy was already assessing escape routes, weighing odds, measuring his captor.

Smart.

Good.

The driver parked by the entrance. Andrei stepped out first, adjusting the cuffs of his black coat, then turned and beckoned to the boy.

For a moment, Zane didn’t move.

Then, slowly, he unfolded himself from the car, chains clinking softly as he stood. The jacket slipped from his shoulders, pooling at his feet, leaving his body bare to the cool night air.

Andrei watched him without shame, without hunger. Only with the cold judgement of a General assessing a captured enemy soldier.

The boy was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at for too long.

Wounds — physical and otherwise — marked him, but they hadn’t ruined him. They had refined him.

Andrei stepped closer.

Zane tensed, expecting a blow, a leash, a barked command.

Instead, Andrei reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small key.

With meticulous patience, he unlocked the shackles binding the boy’s wrists first, then his ankles.

The metal bonds fell to the ground, clattering on the stones.

For a moment, Zane simply stood there, stunned.

Freedom.

However temporary, however poisoned.

Freedom.

Andrei leaned in, speaking so low that only Zane could hear:

"You’re not my prisoner, boy. Not unless you choose to be."

He pulled back, watching the war explode behind those furious eyes.

The boy didn’t trust him. Of course not. He would kill him and make a run for it the slightest chance he got.

He would test the limits. Try to run.

Andrei almost hoped he would.

He wanted to see him fight.

Inside, the villa was nothing like Zane had ever seen. Casted in shadows, the great hall was dark, cold, but still brutally elegant with beauty he did not know people could posses.

Polished wood floors. Antique chandeliers. Dark oil paintings stared at him from the walls.

The butler — an older man with deep scars tracing his neck like spiderwebs — appeared from the shadows without a sound, bowing his head briefly.

Andrei waved him off.

He didn’t want an audience tonight.

"This way," he said simply, turning on his heel and trusting the boy to follow.

He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.

Zane’s bare footsteps padded after him, hesitant but stubborn, echoing softly in the vast halls.

Andrei led him to a room on the second floor — small compared to the villa’s grandeur, but still larger than anything Zane had probably known. The bed was low and wide, piled with thick furs. A private bathroom adjoined it, and on a small table by the window, a tray of food still steamed: roast lamb, fragrant rice, fresh fruits, and water poured into crystal decanters.

A calculated mercy.

Or another weapon.

Andrei stepped aside, letting the boy see it all.

Letting him choose.

Zane hesitated at the threshold, the entrance to this new cage — however beautiful, it was still a cage.

He was hungry and Andrei could see it. Could smell the starving tension radiating off him. But pride was a blade Zane gripped tightly, even if it cut into his own flesh.

"You can eat," Andrei said, voice neutral. "You can bathe. You can sleep. You will not be chained again unless you force my hand."

Still, Zane lingered.

Andrei sighed. Lit another cigarette. Leaned against the doorframe with lazy arrogance.

"You can also try to kill me, if you like," he said, smoke curling from his mouth. "Many have. Although most are now dead, none have succeeded. But... you’re welcome to try."

That earned him a flicker, the barest ghost of a smile, vicious and tight and aching with pain.

It made Andrei's blood hum with something dangerously close to admiration.

"You’ll find I’m not easily broken either," Andrei added, his lips curling in a wolfish grin.

Zane stepped into the room without a word.

And the moment he crossed the threshold, Andrei turned and left, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft, final click.

No locks.

No chains.

Only a choice.

In the quiet that followed, Andrei leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

Tonight, he had not simply bought a boy.

He had claimed a storm.

And he had a feeling that surviving it — taming it — would be the most thrilling, most dangerous thing he had ever done.