Chapter Four: Friction Points

(Lucien's POV)

It was just past six when I padded into the living room, barefoot, coffee in hand, shirt loose around my shoulders.

Noah hadn’t come out of his room yet.

Good.

I wasn’t ready for him.

Not until I’d organized my thoughts — something he seemed uniquely skilled at scattering.

I lowered into the armchair by the windows, watching the city blink awake beneath me. Everything neat. Predictable. In order.

Just how I liked it.

Except now, one room down, there was a wildcard sleeping in my house.

I exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the mug.

He was small.

Not weak — I’d seen that spark in him, the flare of defiance when Red sedated him. But physically? He was slight. Lithe. The kind of boy who shouldn’t be walking alone at night, let alone playing in the lion’s den.

And yet… here he was.

His mouth hadn’t stopped running since he arrived. Sarcasm like a defense mechanism. He challenged everything — everything. The floor, the rules, my voice. He called my penthouse a “supervillain’s glass box” with a deadpan that almost made me laugh.

Almost.

It irritated me.

Which, of course, only intrigued me more.

I liked obedience. Expected it. I didn’t work with men who couldn’t follow orders. I didn’t live with anyone who questioned my structure.

So why did his rebellion feel less like a threat… and more like a hook in my chest?

Because he’s malleable, I told myself. Because under the sarcasm and twitchy fingers, he was a mess of unresolved tension and misplaced pride. And that kind of boy — the clever kind, the sharp kind — always begged best when broken in right.

I set my coffee down and tilted my head back, recalling how his knees hit the floor last night.

He hadn’t even noticed when it happened.

He didn’t fight it — because I never gave him a direct command.

It was all suggestion. Invitation.

And he took it.

That moment was all I needed.

He could learn.

He could submit.

He could belong.

I had taken dozens of submissives over the years — some brief, some persistent. None quite earned the title of mine. Too loud. Too needy. Too boring. Too fragile.

But Noah…?

He was a contradiction. Smart, but reckless. Fragile, but not breakable. Fast-talking, but slow to trust.

I could see it already — his neck in a soft leather collar. That smart mouth kept open with a ring gag. Hands bound in silk, knees trembling, tears clinging to his lashes as he whispered please like it wasn’t a word he’d ever meant to say.

Not just obedience.

Worship.

I wanted that from him.

Not now.

But soon.

Earn it first. So when he kneels, it’s not because he’s afraid. It’s because he wants to be on his knees for you.

The thought sent a quiet ache through me — low and grounding. I stood, stretched the stiffness from my spine, and moved toward the hallway.

His door was still shut.

Good boy.

He hadn't tried to run. Hadn’t made a scene. Likely because I left it unlocked — I wanted him to know he could leave, just so he’d realize he wouldn’t.

He’d wake up and remember the marble floor under his knees.

He’d remember the way my voice slid under his skin.

And he’d stay.

Not because I ordered him to.

But because he was already curious.

Already caught.

I pressed a hand against the doorframe, listening.

Nothing.

Still asleep.

It was too early to wake him.

So I turned, headed back to the kitchen, and opened the wine cabinet.

Not for the drink.

For the drawer below it.

I pulled it open, revealing a sleek, black velvet box.

Inside — a collar.

Unworn. Untouched.

I'd had it made months ago.

Custom cut.

Soft black leather, matte, no tag yet.

I hadn’t known who I was waiting for.

But now...

My thumb ran over the inside edge of it. Noah's name would look good on the tag. A small lock. Silver.

Eventually.

Not yet.

Let the boy fight. Let him spit sparks.

Then let him crawl.

I slid the box shut.

Later, I told myself.

Right now, I had to train him.

Slow. Intentional. Controlled.

He’d think it was his idea.

He’d think he wanted me.

And by the time he realized the truth, he’d already be mine.

(Noah's POV)

I woke up the way a browser crashes — slow, disoriented, and missing half my memory.

Everything felt too… quiet.

No fan noise. No keyboard clicks. No Discord ping.

The first thing I registered was comfort. A pillow softer than anything I owned. Sheets that probably cost more than my whole rent. The air smelled expensive, like leather, pine, and a little bit of sin.

The second thing I registered?

The fact that I wasn’t alone.

“Good morning.”

The voice slithered through my half-sleeping brain like code through a firewall. I snapped my eyes open and blinked up at a man who looked like he’d been drawn by a deviant artist with excellent taste and no morals.

Shirtless.

Tattooed.

Dark hair mussed from sleep, and a glass of red wine lazily cradled in one hand like this was a perfectly normal time for wine.

“You,” I croaked.

Brilliant, Noah. Really poetic.

“I was beginning to think you’d sleep through lunch,” he said, voice smooth like aged whiskey poured over ice and dangerous intent. “You’ve been out for quite a while.”

Right. The sedation.

Right. The kidnapping.

Right. This man.

My brain lurched back online, and I sat up with a jolt—only to find my wrists cuffed.

Not tight. Not brutal. Just… undeniably there.

Sleek steel, leather-lined. Too elegant for a hostage situation.

“Are you seriously wine-o’clocking me right now?” I deadpanned, yanking lightly at the cuffs. “Is this your thing? Sedate strangers and then sip Merlot while they come to?”

He smiled, and I hated that it made my skin prickle.

“No. I usually drink Syrah.”

I stared.

He was enjoying this. Too much.

“What do you want?”

The man — no, this Lucifer cosplayer — took a step closer. “You accessed something that belonged to me. You forgot?”

I felt my blood chill.

Bitcoin wallet.

Shit.

“And instead of punishing you,” he continued, circling my bed like a shark with excellent posture, “I offered you a job. Hack for me. Stay here. Eat, sleep, work. Under my protection. Under my roof.”

“Under your surveillance,” I muttered.

A hum of amusement.

“Only as much as necessary.”

I scoffed, eyes flicking to the window. Penthouse view. Tinted glass. No sign of an exit.

“So... prison.”

He tilted his head. “Would you rather I kill you?”

I shut up.

Point taken.

“Why does this convo feel familiar?” I asked, rubbing my forehead.

“That's because we've talked about this before. We've already concluded you'll be working for me before you went to sleep last night, but it seems your memory is a little blurry.”

Lucien — if that was his name — crossed the room and returned with a remote. The cuffs clicked open.

My wrists tingled as blood rushed back in. I rubbed at them warily, ready to bolt the second he looked away — but then he gestured toward the open door.

“Get dressed. Breakfast is waiting. Your new wardrobe’s in the closet.”

Wait— wardrobe?

I followed him out on jelly legs and into a space that could only be described as “intimidatingly aesthetic.” Everything was glass and black marble. Art that probably had a backstory. A scent diffuser so fancy I assumed it had a PhD.

He nodded to the double doors near the hall.

“Yours now.”

I stepped in.

Walk-in closet. Not huge — but curated. Color-coded. Custom-fitted. I ran my fingers along a soft black button-down and frowned.

The clothes weren’t me.

Not the tech hoodies I usually wore. Not the old anime tees with pizza stains.

These were all... dark.

Structured.

Deliberate.

There was leather.

Chains.

A silver ring choker hanging beside a zippered shirt I was too scared to touch.

“Is this—” I turned to look behind me, but Lucien was gone.

Smart man.

Because now I had questions.

Was this a test?

Was I supposed to wear the soft cotton or the leather harness?

I picked the cotton. Obviously.

But even the soft shirt fit too well. Tailored to my frame. Slim at the waist. Made my arms look too thin, my collarbone too obvious. It didn’t feel like my skin.

I muttered a curse and padded barefoot toward the dining area.

Lucien was already sitting at the head of a long table, sipping coffee, watching the news like some kind of mafia Gatsby. The smell of fresh toast and eggs hit me like a punch of nostalgia I didn’t ask for.

“Eat,” he said, without looking.

I sat.

Slowly.

There were no guards.

Just him and me. Like this was normal.

I glanced at the plate.

No pizza. No chips. No Coke. Just a full English breakfast and a glass of water so clear it made me suspicious.

“So, like… what’s the plan?” I asked.

“You’ll hack for me,” he replied smoothly. “There’s a schedule. You’ll find it on the desk in your room. You’ll eat three meals a day. You’ll sleep by 11.”

My eyebrows shot up. “You made me a bedtime schedule?”

He smiled again — that kind of smile. The one that made your lungs feel too small.

“You don’t take care of yourself,” he said simply. “So I’ll do it for you.”

“I’m not a child,” I snapped.

He didn’t blink. “No. But you are mine now.”

I felt that word — “mine” — like a tripwire under my ribs.

I stared at him, but he’d already gone back to his coffee like he hadn’t just said something that made my spine short-circuit.

This wasn’t about work.

This wasn’t even about punishment.

This was a game.

And I’d just been forced onto the board.

And what kind of shit did his men sedate me with? I still feel my memory scattered.