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CHAPTER TWO: Zane's POV
Huling Na-update:
2025-04-29 20:23:32The club stank of cheap perfume and broken promises.
It always had. And on this particular evening likealways, Zane Knightly moved between the tables with the effortless grace of someone who knew how to make men ache without ever touching them. The flickering neon lights painted his bare skin in shades of red and blue, a masterpiece of temptation, a symbol of seduction, but his heart had long since learned to stay cold, stay hidden, stay tucked away. It was a job. A way to survive. Just another stage, another night, another lie he wore like cologne. The club, Velvet Eden, situated in a hidden alley of Paris’s underworld, was a den for the desperate and the dangerous, a get-away from their lives in the 'real world'. Zane knew better than to trust the men who came to watch him, thick with sweat and lust, tossing crumpled euros like confessions into the air. They didn't care about the boy behind the performance, they never did. Not even the kind ones. They all cared about the fantasy—the body, the smile, the illusion he fed them generously. It was after one of his performances that he appeared. The man in the tailored suit. He was not one of the usual drunk, leering faces. No, this one was different. Clean, composed, smiling with something too polished to be sincerity. "You’re wasting yourself here," the man said, offering a card with a foreign emblem Zane didn't recognize. "You're beautiful. Really beautiful and I know that you deserve more. Real work. Real money. I can offer you that." Zane should have run then. His instincts flared, his gut twisting in warning. Every single one of his senses went haywire, a blaring trigger sign. But desperation drowned out the alarm bells screaming in his mind and muffled his own voice. The rent was three months overdue. His stomach twisted tighter with hunger than fear. Hope — ever cruel and blinding — crept up and whispered, What if this is real? The offer was simple: fly to Turkey. A legitimate modeling contract. Private, exclusive work for wealthy collectors. No sleazy strip clubs, no cheap gropes from drunk tourists. A chance to step out of the shadows. They even promised an advance to be wired into his account, with which he used to settle all of his debt. He signed the contract without reading the fine print. The hotel room in Istanbul was too nice, too quiet. Zane didn’t sleep that night. A nagging unease gnawed at him. He thought about leaving, about finding the first cab back to the airport. But when he tried the door in the morning, it was locked from the outside. Panic set in fast and furious. His phone — gone. The windows — sealed. The taste of betrayal was sharp and metallic on his tongue. Two men arrived hours later. Silent. Smiling. They carried a case between them — black leather, the size of a coffin. Inside were clothes, chains, and a polished gold collar. Zane fought. God, he fought. Kicked, bit, screamed until his throat went raw. But the men were bigger. Stronger. It was over in minutes. His wrists were bound, a sedative plunged into his neck, and the world around him slipped into darkness. The captivity that followed blurred into endless days and nights. No clocks. No calendars. Only hunger and the cold ache of loneliness. He was cleaned, preened like livestock. Forced to kneel, to pose, to obey barked commands through gritted teeth. Any sign of defiance was punished swiftly — not always cruelly, but always effectively. Food withheld. Water rationed. Sleep stolen. Zane refused to speak. He let them dress him like a doll, but they would never take his pride. Inside, he kept a fire burning. Alive. Fierce. Waiting. When they finally dragged him into the palace — the auction house — he knew something terrible was about to happen. The velvet halls stank of money, power, and rot. Around him were others. Beautiful. Terrified. Dressed in nothing but humiliation and glitter. They herded them into gilded cages, hidden behind black curtains, waiting to be paraded like treasures. Zane watched. Waited. Counted the exits. Measured the distance between him and the doors he'd never reach. When it was his turn, his legs buckled halfway up the stairs. He hit the stage hard, a jarring shock of pain shooting up his side. Gasps rippled through the crowd. A predator’s excitement thickened the air. Zane forced himself to stand. He would not cry. He would not beg. If they wanted to own him, they would have to work harder than that. The blinding lights made his skin prickle. Sweat slid down his spine. He heard the auctioneer’s voice booming through the cavernous room: "Lot Eighty-Two. Male. Age twenty. English-American descent. Healthy. Certified. And obviously—a work of art indeed." Zane didn’t dare look at the crowd. Didn't want to see the faces of the men who would put prices on his soul. Until he felt it. A gaze. Heavy. Focused. Icy and burning at once. He turned his head instinctively — and saw him. A man seated alone at a velvet booth. Dark suit. Pale, cold eyes framed by the hard edges of a face that could have been carved from stone. Smoking idly, as if none of this mattered. But his stare was different. Not lust. Not greed. Something else. Something far more dangerous. Zane swallowed hard, his body tense like a bowstring pulled taut. Bidding began. He heard the numbers tossed like grenades: Two hundred thousand. Three hundred thousand. A million. And then— "Two million euros," came the voice. Calm. Flat. Absolute. The man with the pale eyes. The room stilled. The other bidders hesitated. Faltered. Looked away. Who was this man that quelled a room of monsters? What kind of devil was he? The gavel slammed down like a gunshot. Disrupting his reverie. And just like that — he was sold. When they dragged him down the stage and away behind this devil in black, Zane kept his spine straight. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing him break. The man was already waiting in a black car outside, his expression unreadable. Zane expected roughness, another blow, but instead, the man tilted his chin up with two fingers, studying him like a puzzle he intended to solve. "What's your name, boy?" the man asked, his voice brushed against the boy's ears like velvet dragged over a blade, his accent lingering in the air around them. Zane tore his face away. He spat, the glob landing inches from polished leather shoes. The man didn't strike him. He had expected him to strike. He had intended to provoke him. He watched the man smile, but there was nothing genial about his smile. It held a warning, amusement, maybe even excitement. But what it was for certain was dangerous. The slow, sharp smile made Zane’s blood run cold. In that moment, Zane realized: He hadn't escaped anything. He had merely stepped from one cage into the lair of a wolf. He had been traded by monsters to a devil. And somehow, somewhere deep inside him, he heard a voice. This was only the beginning.
Pinakabagong kabanata
MINE TO OWN CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The snowfall didn’t let up the next day. If anything, it came down thicker, heavier; blanketing the estate in sheets of white.They returned to the grand Dostoevsky mansion. Zane didn’t leave his room.Not because he couldn’t, but because every time he considered it, something in his chest tightened. The dream from the night before had burrowed deep, like a splinter he couldn’t pull out. The shape in the window. The scent and taste of ash.And the snow. Always the snow.He was buttoning his shirt when the door clicked open. There was no preceeding knock. Just the slow, calculated entrance of someone who owned the space.It could only be one person.It was Andrei.His coat was damp with melted snow, his dark hair curling slightly from the wetness. He shut the door behind him with a soft click and leaned against it like a man blocking an exit.“You didn’t show up for breakfast.”Zane didn’t look at him. “Didn’t realize it was mandatory.”“It is now.”There was a certain sharpness in the
MINE TO OWN CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The cold wasn’t biting so much as it was consuming. It was the kind of cold that didn’t bite at your skin but slipped under it, entering into your bones and soul. Snow covered the evergreen trees outside like sugar on pastries, the skies were a pale blur of lavender and silver.Zane sat by the window in the upstairs library, a thick wool throwover slung around his shoulders. The fire crackled behind him, but he didn’t move closer. He watched the snow with distant eyes, a cup of untouched black coffee cooling in his hands. The silence in the lodge today wasn’t comforting. Wasn't soothing. It was deliberate. Suspended. Like the screeching calm after an explosion.Katherina hadn’t been seen since that explosive night two days ago.Neither had Joana.The house had gone still in a way that reeked of calculation.Andrei, on his part, had barely left Zane’s side. It was a dangerous thing. But not in the way Zane once thought—the threat of violence or captivity. But now, it was something subt
MINE TO OWN CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The snow had started again by morning. Not heavily, but in a hush, a thin layer of frost brushing over the glass panes of the estate windows. Zane stood at the edge of the balcony adjoining Andrei’s room, he stood wrapped in one of his robes. The steam from his coffee mingled with the pale mist of his breath. Behind him, the warmth of the suite fed by the cackling embers in the fire place gave comfort to his aching body. Andrei slept still, finally. He slept deeply.Last night hadn't ended in fire, there was no explosion of canal desire. The night had ended in quiet. In the undoing of something that had stretched too tight for too long. Zane hadn't expected softness, not from Andrei. But that was what he’d received. And that was what unsettled him more than anything else as he stood in the cold of the morning.Andrei Dostoevsky had held him like a lifeline. Like he was a part of him. Now Zane watched the snow fall and wondered what came next.He didn't have long to wonder.There was
MINE TO OWN CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The next morning, the air was still heavy with the scent of candle wax, sweat, and sex. The stone floor beneath him—them still felt cold, the velvet drapes a cushion between the hard, cold floor and his body. Somewhere, far off, morning had begun to rise, but this room—this confessional as Andrei had called it—remained suspended in time. The candles had burned low and melted into shallow puddles on the iron candle stands, they flickered faintly almost spent and exhausted by their vigil.Andrei was gone.Zane’s limbs ached. His muscles remembered every motion, every grip and grasp, every moan, every gasp, they remembered every shudder of surrender. But it was the absence beside him that truly stung. No warmth left in the spot where Andrei had once knelt. No trace, except for the feeling of a kiss Zane could still feel on his mouth, the lingering his scent on his skin.He dressed slowly. His shirt—torn. Belt—missing. His jeans were rumpled, boots abandoned near the door. He found his re
MINE TO OWN CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Zane didn't sleep that night. He paced his room like a panther forced to remain in a cage, his shirt clung to his skin, his heart a constant drum in his chest. Andrei's restraint echoed in his mind like a slap, it was a denial of self he had never witnessed before. How could someone want something so much, have it amd still not take it? "Not yet." The words had burned. Had left a hole in him. They had reminded him that he was still playing a game he couldn't control—one where the rules were written by Andrei Dostoevsky, and the consequences were his to decide. By morning, the rain had lightened to a drizzle, casting a silver hue over the estate. Zane still couldn't get over how magical this place looked in all weathers. He showered but didn’t dress to impress. Simplicity was the armor he chose now—black jeans, loose grey shirt, combat boots. It was a declaration. He didn’t need silks or lace to haunt Andrei’s mind. He was already there. A knock came at his door. Mikhail. "Breakf
MINE TO OWN CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Zane woke up to the scent of rain and freshly cut grass, it still clung to the stone walls outside filling the air around the estate with it's fresh green smell. He found it refreshing. He didn’t remember falling asleep, only that the memories of the other night. The sound of Andrei’s voice. The previous night, him locking the door behind him as he entered into the study. He had wanted Andrei to make a move. He wanted him to react, physically, needed him to. The slow-burn of whatever sick game they were playing was now eating him alive. He lay still now, eyes on the ceiling, sheets tangled around his hips. An ache, low and heavy in his core.Andrei’s voice still haunted him."Good boy."He blinked slowly, and for a second, Zane wasn’t sure if he was more angry or more aroused. Perhaps both.A tray had been delivered—breakfast. He left it untouched. The coffee grew cold.He got up, showered, dressed in black again. The color suited him now, like a camouflage in a house made from blood
MINE TO OWN CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Zane awoke before dawn, his body tangled in sheets dampened by sweat, the scent of himself heavy in the air. The feeling between his legs still lingered, a cruel afterglow. The call from last night echoed through his mind like a sin whispered in a chapel to a priest in a dark booth. He hadn't dreamed it. The receiver still hung slightly turned to one side on the cradle, silent and accusing. His fingers flexed unconsciously as he sat up. No bruises from that, but somehow, it felt deeper than any blow. Andrei had touched nothing but his will and made him unravel. Zane ran a hand down his face and swung his legs over the bed. The fire had long since died, its embers reduced to ash, much like the tension in his limbs. But his mind? That was an entirely different battlefield. He didn’t dress immediately. Instead, he walked barefoot to the window and stared out at the frost-dusted lawn below. The estate, always watchful, always breathing and somewhere in it, Andrei moved too. Somewhere
MINE TO OWN CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Zane woke to silence—not the peaceful kind, but the heavy, anticipatory quiet of a house that watched and potentially under attack. The morning light filtered through the high arched windows of the East Wing suite Andrei had relocated him to two nights ago. With marble walls and velvet drapes, security cameras tucked discreetly into ceiling corners, it was a prison masquerading as privilege, as luxury. His ribs, arms and body ached from his sparring session with the estate’s private guard last night. That also had been new. Andrei had ordered it, but not as a punishment—"Let him learn," he’d said, not bothering to watch. But Zane had felt those eyes regardless, unseen, but always there. He rose slowly, dragging his aching limbs out of bed and to the mirror. Fresh purple-blue bruises coloured his skin. They were ugly reminders of how easily these men, these people could remake him in their image. But they hadn’t broken him. He prayed they never will. He shaved in silence. Dresse
MINE TO OWN CHAPTER TWENTY
The echo of that kiss lingered long after the taste had faded from Zane’s lips. He hadn’t meant for it to spiral. At least, that’s what he told himself. That's what he told himself again and again as if repeating it would absolve him of the truth. He had planned it, every angle, every tilt of the head, every calculated breath before Dimitri’s collar was caught in his hand. He’d timed it down to the minute Andrei and Katherina would round the hedged path. Down to the light that fell through the trees, casting silhouettes of lips touching and fingers gripping. Down to the moment Andrei saw them. And now, alone in the greenhouse again, the air thick with night and blooming flowers, Zane stood with his arms folded, waiting. He could feel his anger radiating off his skin, but beneath it, beneath it was chaos. The door creaked open. He heard the sound of boots on stone. Purposeful and slow. Andrei stepped inside. Not storming. Not seething. Silent. His jaw was stone, his shoulders pe
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