Chapter Thirteen: Tease

(POV: Third Person Limited (Lucien)

The sky was still bleeding gray when Lucien unlocked the bedroom door.

Quiet. Soft. Unseen.

He didn’t need a reason. He never did.

It was his house.

His boy.

And yet… he entered like a thief.

Noah lay curled on the bed, exactly where Lucien left him hours ago. Hoodie half-zipped. Legs tucked up. The blanket twisted around his frame like he'd been holding on through a storm.

Lucien stood still at the edge of the room.

Watched the boy breathe.

In. Out. Shallow. Too light to be restful.

There was something in the way he slept — hoodie still on, arms wrapped tight around his own body — that made Lucien’s throat feel dry.

“You sleep like someone who’s always been cold,” he thought.

“What are you still running from… even in sleep?”

He walked over, soundless.

Pulled the blanket a little higher over Noah’s shoulder.

Not out of comfort.

But to see if he’d flinch.

He didn’t.

Lucien lingered.

Just long enough to memorize the slope of Noah’s jaw in half-light. The way his lashes sat like soft shields. The faint furrow between his brows — like he was dreaming something he didn’t want to remember.

He left the room without a word.

Later, when Noah finally woke, the room was empty — save for a single folded item at the foot of the bed.

A hoodie.

Black silk. Soft as sin.

No tags. No logos.

Just a tiny embroidery stitched into the collar on the inside: “Yours.”

Noah sat up, rubbed at his eyes, and stared at it.

He didn’t ask questions.

Didn’t wonder aloud.

He just pulled it over his head.

From the study down the hall, Lucien watched it happen on the monitor.

Saw the way Noah hesitated — just for a second — before tugging the hoodie on and adjusting the cuffs.

It hung a little too loose at the wrists.

Perfect.

Lucien leaned back in his chair, eyes cold.

“There,” he murmured. “A leash.” At this point you could say he's going crazy, y'know, he's viewing things from a whole different perspective.

—

The scent of roasted coffee and honeyed croissants warmed the morning air. Sunlight spilled into the penthouse like golden wine, coating everything in light — except Lucien.

He sat at the breakfast table, perfectly still, a newspaper in hand and one leg crossed over the other like he hadn’t watched a boy fall asleep in fear… and wake up to a gift sewn with ownership.

Noah padded in, hoodie sleeves too long, hair mussed and sticking up in that way only the truly unruly could achieve.

Lucien didn’t greet him.

Didn’t even look up.

But he noticed everything.

How Noah hesitated before sitting. How his fingers brushed the edge of the table like he wasn’t sure if he belonged there — or anywhere.

Lucien waited a beat before folding the newspaper shut and setting it aside.

"You're quieter today," he said smoothly, pouring his own coffee. "You sleep better after release?"

Noah choked.

Right there. Mid-sip of orange juice.

He coughed into his fist, eyes watering.

Lucien didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk.

He just sipped his coffee — black, no sugar — and watched the color bloom in Noah’s cheeks like a trigger pulled softly.

"You really need to get out more," Noah muttered, clearing his throat.

"I get out plenty."

"Yeah? Do the velvet hoodies help you blend in with the civilians?"

Lucien turned his head slowly.

"You're lucky I find your mouth useful."

"I'm lucky? Wow, and here I was thinking I earned this breakfast with my charming personality and objectively adorable face."

The corner of Lucien's mouth twitched — barely there.

But Noah caught it.

And Lucien hated that he did.

Because he felt watched back.

—-

By noon, Lucien decided it was time.

Noah needed grounding.

Correction.

Or maybe... he just wanted to see what would happen.

He didn’t explain where they were going.

Just handed Noah a jacket and said, “Come.”

Noah followed. Hesitantly.

The elevator took them deeper than Noah knew the building even had.

Steel doors. Stark lights. Cold walls.

"Okay," Noah muttered, adjusting his hoodie. "Definitely not brunch."

Lucien said nothing.

They entered the private gun range — sleek, clinical, underground.

Noah stopped short at the sight of black metal cases and targets lined up like execution walls.

Lucien picked a small pistol off the wall, checked it, and held it out.

"You’re mine," he said plainly. "You’ll learn to defend what I own."

Noah stared at the gun like it had grown fangs.

"Uh. No thanks. I’m good at running and screaming."

Lucien didn’t lower the gun.

"Take it."

"No."

"Take it."

"What the hell do you want from me?" Noah snapped, voice cracking. "You want me to say thank you for the trauma? Want me to be your twisted little soldier now?"

Lucien’s jaw flexed.

"You’re not being asked, pet."

"Stop calling me that like I’m not still a person."

Lucien stepped closer.

"Or is the hoodie the only thing you know how to hold onto?"

The words landed like a slap.

Noah’s entire body stiffened. Something flickered behind his eyes — not rage, not sarcasm — but something… old.

His hands trembled before he could stop them.

Lucien saw it.

The hoodie. The silence. The way he sleeps curled like he’s bracing for the blow.

He stepped back. Put the gun down.

And for the first time, asked — voice quieter now:

“What happened to you?”

Noah didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink.

He just turned his back and walked out. Shoulders tense. Hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands like shields.

Lucien stood there alone.

The silence in the range was deafening.

He stared at the gun on the counter, then at the doorway Noah had just walked through.

There was no satisfaction in the win.

Because he hadn’t won.

He’d hit something deeper than resistance.

He’d hit pain.

And now he needed to know why.

---

Later that night, Noah slept the same way again.

Curled. Covered. Hoodie still on.

Lucien watched through the screen in his study, fingers steepled in thought.

“Who hurt you, pet?” he murmured.

No one answered.

But in the quiet, Lucien decided:

He wouldn’t rest until he found out.

And when he did… someone would pay.