Breakfast ruined

The door clicks shut behind me. Locked.

I slide down the wood until my ass hits the carpet, knees drawn tight to my chest, arms wrapped around them like I can hold myself together if I squeeze hard enough. My sweatpants are ruined—cold, sticky patch clinging to my softening cock and the crease of my thigh. Every time I shift, the fabric drags against oversensitive skin and I flinch.

I can still feel both of them.

Vane’s hand: steady, warm, protective, thumb stroking slow arcs over my knuckles like he was trying to say you’re safe without words.

Cyrus’s hand: cruel, knowing, victorious, fingers wrapped around me like he was claiming property he never intended to release.

My phone buzzes again on the floor where I dropped it. Screen lights up—another notification from him.

I don’t want to look.

I look anyway.

New photo.

This one is grainy, taken from his angle under the table: my lap framed in soft morning light, the unmistakable tent of fabric, his large hand gripping the outline of my cock mid-stroke, the damp spot already blooming dark against the gray cotton. In the background, slightly out of focus but unmistakable, my fingers are laced through Vane’s white-knuckled, clinging.

Caption:

“Look how pretty you came while holding Daddy’s hand. You always were a greedy little slut.”

My stomach heaves.

I fling the phone across the room. It skids under the bed. I don’t care.

Self-hatred burns hotter than the aftershocks still pulsing through me.

I came.

At the breakfast table.

In front of Mother.

In front of Vane.

Because Cyrus decided to remind me, in the most disgusting way possible, that he still owns pieces of me I’ve spent years trying to scrub clean.

I press the heels of my palms into my eyes until I see stars.

It doesn’t help.

The worst part isn’t even the orgasm itself.

It’s how fast it happened.

How my body answered him even while my mind screamed no.

How the combination, the safety of Vane’s grip and the violation of Cyrus’s—tipped me over an edge I didn’t know I still had.

I hate that I responded.

I hate that part of me, deep down in the sickest corner, felt alive in that moment.

A knock on the door.

I freeze.

“Elias?” Vane’s voice. Low. The same tone he used last night when he was trying to convince himself he hadn’t just ruined everything. “Open the door.”

My heart slams against my ribs.

I can’t face him.

Not like this.

Not with the smell of sex and shame still clinging to me.

Not with Cyrus’s fresh bruise blooming purple on the inside of my thigh, right where his fingers had dug in after I finished.

Another knock. Softer this time.

“Baby… please.”

The word baby hits like a fist.

He never calls me that.

Not anymore.

Not since I was small enough to crawl into his lap during thunderstorms.

I drag myself up on shaking legs. My thighs tremble. My ass aches with every step. I feel filthy in a way soap won’t fix.

When I open the door, he’s standing there in the hallway light—shirt sleeves still rolled to his elbows, hair slightly mussed from where he kept running his hand through it during breakfast. His eyes are bloodshot.

He doesn’t wait for permission.

He steps inside, closes the door behind him, and shuts it.

Then he just… looks at me.

I can’t meet his gaze. I stare at the third button of his shirt instead. It’s undone. I can see the hollow of his throat working.

“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.

I shrug. Try to make it casual. Fail.

He reaches out—slow, giving me time to pull away.

I don’t.

His palm cups my cheek. Thumb brushes under my eye. I didn’t even realize I was crying.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs. “What happened down there? You looked like you were about to pass out.”

I swallow.

Lie.

I have to lie.

“Just… overwhelmed,” I whisper. “Mother. The marriage thing. Everything.”

His jaw tightens.

“I know she’s hard on you.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “But you know I won’t let her force anything on you, right? Not while I’m breathing.”

I nod. Small. Fragile.

He exhales through his nose, like the weight of the world just shifted another few pounds onto his shoulders.

Then his gaze drops.

To my neck.

To the high collar of my sweater that suddenly feels paper-thin.

He reaches up—hesitates—then gently tugs the fabric aside.

The hickey he left last night is still there. Dark wine-red, ringed with faint teeth marks.

His thumb traces the edge of it. Reverent. Guilty. Hungry.

“I bit you,” he says, almost to himself. Voice wrecked. “I hurt you.”

I shake my head quickly.

“You didn’t hurt me. Not… not in a way I didn’t want.”

The confession slips out before I can stop it.

His eyes snap to mine.

Dark.

Tortured.

“Elias…”

I step closer. Press my forehead to his chest. Listen to the frantic thud of his heart.

“I needed it,” I whisper. “Last night. I needed you. And I still do.”

He makes a broken sound in the back of his throat.

His arms come around me—hard, possessive, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

“I’m supposed to protect you,” he rasps into my hair. “Not… not this.”

I tilt my head back. Look up at him through wet lashes.

“You are protecting me,” I say softly. “From everything else. From her. From… from him.”

The word him hangs between us.

Vane’s arms tighten fractionally.

His voice drops to something dangerous.

“What did Cyrus do?”

I freeze.

I can’t tell him.

I can’t tell him that while he was holding my hand like I was precious, his eldest son was stroking me to completion under the table.

I can’t tell him that Cyrus still has photos.

That Cyrus still has leverage.

That Cyrus still makes me come even when I want to die from shame.

I can’t tell him any of it.

So I do the only thing I know how to do.

I lie with my body.

I rise on my toes.

Press my mouth to the corner of his jaw.

Whisper against his skin.

“Please don’t leave me alone right now. I can’t… I can’t be alone.”

It works.

Because Vane has never been able to say no to me when I sound this broken.

He exhales roughly.

Walks me backward until my knees hit the mattress.

Lowers me down like I’m made of glass.

Then he climbs over me—clothes still on, careful not to put his full weight down.

He just holds me.

Forehead to mine.

Breathing shared.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Whatever it is… I’ve got you.”

I close my eyes.

Bury my face in his neck.

Breathe in cedar and guilt and the faint trace of last night’s sex.

And somewhere deep inside, the plan keeps turning.

Cyrus thinks he still owns me.

Mother thinks she can sell me off like stock.

But Vane, my Vane—is holding me like I’m the only thing keeping him sane.

And as long as he believes he’s the one protecting me…

I can make him do anything.

Even destroy his own son.

I let one more tear slip free.

Let it soak into his collar.

Then I whisper, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear:

“Thank you, Daddy.”

His arms tighten until it hurts.

Good.

Because the pain means he’s already falling for it.

And I’m going to make sure he never gets back up.