Broken

Three days.

That’s how long Cyrus had owned him.

Three days of late-night texts, of being pulled into empty guest rooms or the back seat of Cyrus’s car, of hands that gripped too hard and words that cut deeper than the touch. Elias hated every second, hated the way his body responded even when his mind screamed no, hated the way he closed his eyes and tried to pretend it was someone else.

He tried to imagine Vane’s scent on Cyrus’s skin, the faint cedar and warmth that clung to his stepfather’s clothes. He tried to picture Vane’s larger, steadier hands instead of Cyrus's impatient ones. But the lie never held. Cyrus was too rough, too careless, too impatient. The fantasy only made Elias feel dirtier, smaller, and more broken. Each time it ended, he’d sit under the shower until the water ran cold, scrubbing at his skin like he could wash the memory away. It never worked. The ache for Vane only grew, twisted tighter around his heart.

That afternoon, his phone buzzed on the desk.

Cyrus: Club Noir. Room 412. 9 pm. Don’t make me wait.

No greeting. No question. Just an order, like Elias was something he could summon whenever he felt like it.

Elias stared at the screen until the words blurred. His thumb hovered, wanting to type no, wanting to block the number, wanting to disappear. But the photo was still there locked behind Cyrus’s password, waiting. One tap and it would reach Vane. Reach Rowena. Reach the world.

He had no choice, he went.

Club Noir was one of those places the rich used when they wanted to pretend they were dangerous. Dim lights, thumping bass, the smell of expensive liquor, and sweat. Elias kept his head down as he climbed the private stairs to the upper floors. Room 412’s door was cracked open just enough for a thin line of warm light to spill into the hallway.

He didn’t mean to look. He told himself he’d knock and get it over with. But something made him pause, made him lean closer and peer through the gap.

Cyrus was on the bed, shirt gone, pants shoved down just enough. A woman was straddling him—long dark hair, red dress rucked up around her waist, skin flushed and shining with sweat. She was beautiful in a confident way, the kind of woman who knew exactly what she wanted and took it. Her head was thrown back, lips parted, moaning loud and unashamed as she rode him hard. Cyrus’s hands gripped her hips, guiding her roughly, his own head tipped back, eyes half-closed in obvious pleasure. The sounds were raw, skin against skin, her gasps, his low grunts. It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, almost violent, and clearly exactly what both of them wanted.

Elias’s stomach twisted. He’d never seen Cyrus like this—lost in it, enjoying it. Their own encounters had always felt cold, mechanical on Cyrus’s end, like he was proving something. This was different. This was a real desire.

He turned to leave, heart pounding, when the woman’s voice floated through the door, teasing.

“I heard you’ve been playing with some little gay toy lately. Still got energy left for me? He didn’t wear you out?”

Cyrus laughed. A real laugh, sharp and cruel.

“Him?” he said, voice rough from exertion. “That pathetic little thing? He’s good for one thing—sucking cock when I’m bored. Who the fuck would actually bend him over? I just wanted to see what it felt like to use a guy. Trust me, you’re a hell of a lot better.”

The woman giggled, grinding down harder. “Poor baby. Must be desperate if he lets you treat him like that.”

“Desperate and disgusting,” Cyrus muttered, thrusting up into her. “Forget him. Focus on me.”

Elias stumbled back from the door like he’d been slapped.

The words burned. They sank into him Pathetic. Desperate. Disgusting. He should have felt relief—Cyrus didn’t want him, not really. The blackmail would run out of steam eventually. But instead, humiliation flooded him, suffocating and humiliating.

And worse, far worse—he looked down and saw the front of his jeans straining. He was hard. Achingly, undeniably hard. From watching. From hearing himself reduced to nothing.

He hated it. Hated his body for reacting, hated the sick heat pooling low in his stomach. He turned and fled down the hall, down the stairs, out into the cold night air. His chest burned as he ran, breath coming in sharp gasps, tears stinging his eyes.

By the time he reached the mansion, his hands were shaking so badly he could barely get the key in the lock.

The house was quiet. Rowena was at some charity gala. Most of the staff had the night off for New Year’s Eve tomorrow. Elias stepped into the main living room—and stopped.

Vane was there.

He sat alone on the long leather sofa, a glass of whiskey in one hand, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. The fireplace glowed low, casting warm light over his face. He looked tired, but still impossibly handsome, broad shoulders relaxed against the cushions, legs stretched out, the picture of a successful business stress-free man.

He glanced up when Elias came in. “You’re home early,” he said, voice calm and deep. “Everything okay?”

Elias couldn’t answer. He just stood there, staring. All the years of wanting, of hiding, of pretending—he felt them crash over him at once. The memory of Cyrus’s words echoed in his head. The photo would come out eventually. Vane would hate him anyway. He would lose him anyway.

But if they shared something real, if Vane had touched him, taken him, wanted him—even once…

Then maybe the threat wouldn’t matter anymore. Maybe the shame wouldn’t be one-sided. Maybe Elias could have something true before it all burned down.

His voice came out small, trembling.

“Dad… can I sit with you?”

Vane’s brow furrowed slightly, concern flickering in his eyes. He shifted over, making space. “Of course. Come here.”

Elias walked forward on unsteady legs. The distance between them felt endless and too short at the same time.

He sat down closer than he ever had before. Close enough to feel the warmth coming off Vane’s body. Close enough to smell cedar and smoke and everything he’d been chasing in stolen moments.

Vane turned toward him, setting the glass aside. “Elias. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Elias looked up at him, really stared. The strong jaw, the kind eyes that had always seen him when no one else did. The mouth he’d imagined a thousand times.

He leaned in before he could stop himself, before fear could pull him back.

And pressed his lips to Vane’s.