Elias pov

I wake up first, the way I always do when the night has been pleasurable enough to leave echoes in the bones.

The bedroom is still drowned in pre-dawn gray. Heavy silk curtains block most of the light, but a thin cruel line sneaks through and falls exactly across Vane’s face. He looks almost peaceful like this—mouth slightly parted, lashes dark against the faint violet shadows beneath his eyes, the deep frown he usually wears finally smoothed away. My gaze travels slowly, greedily, cataloguing every new mark I left on him.

The red crescent of my teeth on his left shoulder.

The purple bloom of fingerprints on his hip.

The faint rope-burn pattern where he’d gripped the headboard so hard the wood groaned.

Mine.

All of it mine.

I shift carefully. My body answers with a deep, satisfying ache—between my legs, along my spine, in the tender flesh of my inner thighs where his thumbs had dug in like he wanted to leave permanent dents. The soreness is exquisite. Proof. I press my thighs together once, deliberately, and swallow the tiny hiss that wants to escape.

Beside me Vane stirs.

His breathing changes first, more aware. Then his lashes flutter. Then those hazel eyes open, cloudy with sleep, and find me immediately.

For one heartbeat the room holds its breath.

I don’t give him time to rebuild the wall.

I curl inward, pulling my knees up, wrapping my arms around myself like a child expecting punishment. My hair falls forward, curtaining half my face. I let my lower lip tremble. Just enough.

“Daddy…” My voice comes out small, cracked, barely above a whisper. “Do you… do you hate me now?”

The word ‘Daddy’ lands like a blade between his ribs. I watch it happen. His pupils blow wide. His jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jump. Guilt crashes over his features like cold water.

He reaches for me before he can stop himself.

His palm cups the back of my neck—big, warm, trembling just slightly. “Elias…” His voice is gravel dragged over velvet. “Don’t. Don’t say that.”

I keep my eyes down. Let one perfect tear slide free and drip onto the sheet between us. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have… I made you… It’s my fault you—”

“Stop.” The word is torn out of him. He pulls me against his chest in one rough motion, tucking my head beneath his chin. His heart is hammering against my ear, guilty, protective. “This is on me. All of it. You were… you were hurting. I should have known better. I’m the adult. I’m supposed to protect you, not—” His voice fractures. “We pretend this never happened. Do you understand? Never again.”

I nod against his throat, small, obedient, broken.

Inside, something hot and victorious uncoils in my chest.

He thinks he’s saving me.

He thinks he’s still in control.

Perfect.

Breakfast is torture of the most delicious kind.

I descend the curved staircase slowly, each step sending fresh sparks of pain through my lower body. My thighs tremble. My entrance throbs painfully, I’ve chosen soft gray cashmere pants and a high-necked white sweater long sleeve, collar folded precisely to hide the worst of the bruising. Still, every movement reminds me of him. Of last night. Of how deeply he carved himself into me.

Mother is already at the table, impeccable in cream silk, diamonds flashing at her ears and throat. She glances up as I enter, mouth tightening.

“You look like death warmed over, Elias. Have you been out all night with those useless friends of yours again?”

I don’t answer. I just lower myself carefully into the chair opposite her.

The moment my backside meets the cushioned seat, a knife of fire slices up my spine. I can’t stop the tiny, involuntary flinch. My fingers grip the edge of the table hard enough to turn white.

Vane, seated at the head, notices immediately. His coffee cup pauses halfway to his mouth. His eyes flick to me—sharp, concerned, guilty. He sets the cup down without drinking.

Mother doesn’t notice the exchange. She’s too busy slicing into her grapefruit with surgical precision.

“You need to pull yourself together,” she continues, voice cool and cutting. “Look at your brother. Already engaged to the Liu heiress. Connections, Elias. That’s what matters in this world. Your father might be willing to open doors for you, but doors won’t open for lazy, unambitious boys who can’t even sit up straight at the table.”

Another small shift. Another bloom of pain. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from gasping.

Vane’s gaze hasn’t left me.

I feel it like a physical touch, worried, helpless.

Then the dining room door opens.

My half-brother enters.

The marks are obscene.

Lipstick smeared along the column of his throat. A dark purple love-bite just above his collarbone. His shirt is buttoned wrong—one off by an entire hole. His hair is still sex-mussed. He looks thoroughly, smugly debauched.

Mother’s fork clatters against porcelain.

“Must you parade your indiscretions so openly?” she hisses. “Keep your little flings discreet, Cyrus. We have standards.”

Cyrus only smirks. Drops into the chair directly beside me.

“Morning, little brother,” he drawls.

His voice is lazy. Satisfied. The same tone he uses after he’s spent hours in my room, after he’s left me shaking and marked and promising myself it would be the last time.

I stare at my untouched plate. My stomach twists with revulsion.

Mother starts up again, something about my manners, my posture, my future prospects. I barely hear her. My entire body is tuned to two points: Vane’s burning stare across the table, and the sudden, invasive heat that lands high on the inside of my right thigh, Cyrus hand.

Under the tablecloth.

His fingers squeeze once proprietary, mocking—then slide higher, brushing the seam of my pants where the fabric is still faintly damp from earlier, from the shower I took trying to wash away the evidence of last night.

Terror and nausea rise in my throat so fast I nearly gag.

If Mother sees this—

If Vane sees this—

I jerk my leg away. Too sharply. Pain flares bright and hot behind my eyes. My chair scrapes backward an inch.

Everyone looks.

Cyrus smile turns sharper. He withdraws his hand slowly, as though he has all the time in the world.

I can’t breathe properly.

Then—salvation.

A large, warm palm closes over my left hand where it lies trembling on the tablecloth.

Vane.

He doesn’t look at me. He keeps his face perfectly neutral, listening to Mother’s latest lecture about social climbing and appropriate alliances. But beneath the table, his fingers lace through mine. Firm. Steady. Possessive.

He squeezes once.

This was comfort.

My pulse stutters. Heat—different from pain, different from fear, floods my chest, my throat, the backs of my eyes. I squeeze back. Just the smallest pressure. A secret answer.

Yes.

Yours.

Only yours.

Mother is still talking. Cyrus is still smirking. The world keeps turning.

But under the table, in the hidden space no one else can touch, Vane is holding my hand like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

And I know, with a clarity brighter than any sunrise, that stage two has already begun.

He thinks last night was a mistake.

He thinks he can bury it.

He thinks he can protect me from himself.

But every time he looks at me now—every time he flinches at my discomfort, every time his gaze lingers on the shadowed marks he left—he will drown a little deeper in guilt.

And guilt, I have learned, is the most exquisite leash of all.

I lower my lashes.

Hide the triumphant glitter in my eyes.

Let them talk.

Let them judge.

Let Cyrus think he still has any claim.

Because the only hand I feel is the one currently crushing mine beneath the table in silent, desperate promise.

And that hand belongs to the only man who matters.