Chapter 6-- The Captive

Chapter Six: The Captive

The car ride was silent.

Lucien sat across from the man whose name he’d only heard whispered — Zayn Kingsley. The man who ruled half the city from behind black-tinted windows and bulletproof glass. Now he was here, in this car, a few feet away, saying nothing.

Zayn didn’t look at him. Not once.

He sat back in his seat, legs crossed, fingers resting on the armrest like he was thinking about something far more important than the boy in front of him. The only sound was the engine and the occasional click of the turn signal.

Lucien kept his hands on his knees, eyes down.

No one had explained what was happening. No one had told him why he was being taken. But he already knew. His father had made the decision. Cassian was gone. The lie had been sealed.

He was the sacrifice. The car turned sharply onto a private road. Trees lined both sides, tall and thick, blocking out the rest of the world. The path led to a high gate with cameras, guards, and walls that looked more like a fortress than a home. The gate opened. The convoy entered.

They passed through a second checkpoint before pulling into the long circular driveway. Lucien caught a glimpse of the mansion — massive, dark stone, older than it looked, with black shutters and long, heavy curtains covering the windows. The kind of place that never let in the sun.

The car stopped.

The driver got out first. Then the rear door opened.

Lucien didn’t move.

Zayn finally looked at him. Cold. Empty.

“Get out.”

Lucien obeyed.

He stepped into the cold morning air, legs stiff. The guards surrounded him like he was dangerous, like he could run. He didn’t.

Zayn didn’t speak again. He walked ahead. The guards pushed Lucien forward.

Inside, the mansion was worse. Quiet. Too clean. No laughter. No warmth. The only people they passed were maids who didn’t lift their heads and security officers who barely blinked.

At the top of the grand staircase, Zayn paused.

“You’ll be kept in the east wing. You don’t leave unless you’re called. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You don’t touch anything that doesn’t belong to you. You don’t talk to my daughter. You don’t look at my wives.”

Lucien said nothing.

Zayn turned to one of the guards. “Lock him in the old servant quarters. Strip the room of anything unnecessary.”

The guard nodded.

Zayn looked back at Lucien one last time.

“You’ll wish you never got in that car.”

Then he walked away.

The room was small. Dusty. Cold.

The mattress on the floor had no sheets. The single window had bars across it. There was no desk, no chair, no light switch. Just a flickering bulb in the ceiling that hummed like it hated being alive.

Lucien stood in the center of the room as the door slammed behind him. A loud click followed.

Locked.

Again.

His knees buckled. He sank to the floor slowly, back pressed against the wall.

He wanted to cry.

But the tears didn’t come.

He had cried enough in the Ainsworth house. When his mother died. When his name was erased. When birthdays came and went without anyone remembering he was alive. When Cassian got everything, and he got nothing.

His throat ached.

He pulled his legs to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and rested his forehead on his knees. His body shook, not from cold, but from exhaustion. Fear. A loneliness so sharp it pierced him from the inside out.

There were no mirrors in the room.

But he didn’t need one to know what he looked like. Pale. Thin. His lips split. His eyes too wide, too empty. He could still hear Zayn’s voice: "He breathes because I allow it."

Lucien closed his eyes.

He wasn’t safe.

He wasn’t home.

He didn’t know if anyone was coming to save him.

He didn’t even know if he wanted them to.

~~~

Downstairs, the wives had moved to the drawing room. The one in cream poured herself tea with careful grace.

“Zayn,” she said without turning around, “you brought home a stranger.”

“Not your concern, Daisy.”

Daisy turned now, her smile tight. “Everything under this roof is my concern.”

The other woman, in the wine-colored dress, stepped forward. “Who is he?”

Zayn poured himself a drink, ignoring both of them.

“Is he staying?” Daisy asked.

“For now.”

“He looked barely alive.”

Zayn’s eyes flicked up. “You’ll stay away from him. Both of you.”

Daisy blinked. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

The other woman, her name was Vera, spoke again. “We’ve followed your rules for years. Don’t test our patience.”

Zayn’s jaw flexed. “He’s not here for your amusement or your politics. Don’t touch him. Don’t talk to him.”

“And if we do?” Vera asked, eyes narrowing.

Zayn finished his drink and set the glass down hard. “Try it.”

Then he left the room.