Morning After

Elias woke slowly, warmth everywhere.

For a moment he didn’t know where he was—only that he felt safe, wrapped in strong arms, a steady heartbeat under his cheek. The fire had burned down to embers; faint orange light flickered across the room. He was still on the wide rug in front of the hearth, covered by a soft throw blanket. Vane’s body was curled around his from behind, one heavy arm draped over Elias’s waist, hand splayed possessively across his stomach.

Elias didn’t move. He was afraid to. Afraid the night had been a dream, afraid Vane would wake up and remember who they were and pull away.

But Vane stirred first. His arm tightened briefly, pulling Elias closer, lips brushing the back of his neck in a sleepy, unconscious kiss. “Morning,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

Elias’s heart flipped. “Morning,” he whispered back.

They stayed like that for a long minute, breathing together. Then Vane’s body tensed—not much, but enough for Elias to feel it. The arm loosened. Vane rolled onto his back, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Elias…” he started, tone already careful.

Elias turned quickly, propping himself on an elbow so he could see Vane’s face. The guilt was there now, etched in the lines around his eyes.

“Don’t,” Elias said softly. “Don’t say it was a mistake. Please.”

Vane looked at him, really looked—and something pained crossed his expression. He reached up, thumb brushing a stray tear Elias hadn’t realized had fallen.

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Vane said quietly. “But we need to talk about what happens next.”

Elias swallowed. “I know.”

Vane sat up slowly, pulling the blanket around them both. He didn’t let go of Elias completely—kept one hand on his thigh, like he couldn’t stop touching. “I lost control last night. That’s on me. You’re young, you’re—” He stopped, jaw tight. “You’re my responsibility.”

“I wanted it,” Elias said. “I’ve wanted it for years. You didn’t take anything I wasn’t begging to give.”

Vane’s eyes closed briefly. When he opened them again, they were darker, more conflicted. “I noticed you a long time ago,” he admitted, voice low. “The day I married your mother, you were standing in the corner looking lost. I thought… I told myself it was just protectiveness. That I’d be the adult you needed.” He gave a bitter half-laugh. “I lied to myself pretty well until last night.”

Elias’s breath caught. “You… wanted me too?”

Vane’s hand slid up to cup his cheek. “More than I should. More than was right. And now…” He exhaled slowly. “Now it’s done. And I don’t know how to go back.”

“Don’t go back,” Elias pleaded. “Please. I don’t want to.”

Vane leaned in, forehead resting against Elias’s. “You said last night you’re already ruined. That something’s coming that’ll make me hate you.” His thumb stroked Elias’s jaw. “Tell me what it is.”

Elias’s stomach knotted. He wasn’t ready. If he said Cyrus’s name, if he admitted the blackmail, the photo—Vane might pull away for good. Or worse, go after Cyrus and blow everything up.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “Not yet. But someone… has something over me. Something bad. About how I feel about you.”

Vane went very still. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but Elias felt the anger underneath—like steel wrapped in velvet. “Someone’s threatening you?”

Elias nodded, eyes stinging again.

Vane’s arm came around him, pulling him close. “Listen to me,” he said against Elias’s hair. “No one uses you. No one hurts you. Not while I’m breathing. You tell me when you’re ready, and I’ll take care of it. Until then—you stay close. You don’t go anywhere alone. Understand?”

Elias nodded into his chest, relief flooding him. Vane’s hand slid down his back, soothing, possessive.

They stayed like that until the winter sun climbed higher and the house started waking up. Footsteps on the floor above. The distant clatter of staff starting the day.

Vane kissed him once—slow, deep—before standing and pulling on his discarded shirt. “Shower,” he said. “Then come find me in the study. We’ll figure breakfast out.”

Elias watched him leave, heart full and terrified at the same time.

The shower was quick, he didn’t want to wash Vane’s scent off, but he had to look normal. When he came downstairs, Rowena was already in the dining room, voice sharp as she spoke to the housekeeper about the menu.

“Full breakfast,” she was saying. “We’re all eating together. Family appearance matters, especially with the New Year’s gala coming.”

Cyrus strolled in a minute later, hair still damp, smirk in place. His eyes found Elias immediately. Something flickered there—suspicion, maybe jealousy—when he noticed Elias’s slightly swollen lips and the faint mark on his neck.

“Morning, little brother,” Cyrus said, tone light but edged. “Sleep well?”

Elias didn’t answer. He took his usual seat, hands in his lap.

Vane appeared last, composed as always—tie perfect, expression unreadable. He sat at the head of the table. His eyes met Elias’s for a brief, burning second before he turned to Rowena.

“Sounds good,” he said about breakfast. “We’ll all eat together.”

Servants brought in plates—eggs, bacon, fruit, toast. Rowena launched into her usual lecture: appearances, the importance of the upcoming gala, how Elias needed to be more presentable with Isabella, how Cyrus should stop the tabloid rumors.

Elias barely heard her. He was hyper-aware of the two men on either side of him.

Cyrus’s hand moved first—sliding under the tablecloth, landing on Elias’s right thigh. A casual squeeze, reminder and threat all at once. Elias tensed, fork frozen halfway to his mouth.

Then, from the left, Vane’s hand found his. Fingers laced together, warm and steady, thumb stroking the inside of Elias’s wrist. Comfort. Protection.

Elias’s breath hitched. Two hands. Two completely different touches.

Cyrus’s fingers crept higher, malicious, brushing the inside seam of Elias’s pants. Vane’s grip tightened—not letting go, grounding him.

Rowena kept talking, oblivious.

Heat flooded Elias’s face. His body reacted shamefully, traitorously—blood rushing south, cock thickening against his will. The mix of terror and safety, cruelty and care, was too much.

Cyrus’s hand slid fully between his legs, cupping him through fabric, stroking once—slow and deliberate.

Vane’s thumb kept circling his wrist, calm, soothing.

Elias bit the inside of his cheek hard to stay quiet. His hips shifted involuntarily. Another stroke from Cyrus, faster now. Vane’s hand squeezed—steady, stay with me.

It was too much. The shame, the thrill, the impossible conflict.

Elias’s breath stuttered. He came silently, mess spilling warm inside his underwear, body shaking with the force of it.

No one above the table noticed.

Rowena was still talking about seating charts.

Cyrus withdrew his hand with a tiny, satisfied smirk.

Vane’s fingers stayed laced with Elias’s, warm and unshakable.

Elias stared at his plate, face burning, heart pounding.

The game had changed.

And it was only just beginning.