The hallway outside the motel room was dim, pulsing faintly with the dying glow of a red sign that flickered against the cracked walls. Marcus walked back from the bar, a tray balanced effortlessly in one hand — two plates of greasy food, a bottle of beer, and a glass of water. The scent of cheap alcohol and oil clung to the air, but he didn't seem to notice. His face was unreadable again — smooth, calm, controlled.
He stopped at the door.
A sound leaked through the thin wood.
At first, it was faint — a sharp inhale, a muffled choke. Then it came again, clearer this time.
"P–please don't do this… please…"
Marcus froze.
That voice — Vincent's voice — but not the one that usually carried smug laughter and teasing remarks. This was different. Fragile. Terrified.
For a second, Marcus's chest went still. Then, without thinking, he set the tray down on the small table beside the door, his movements silent, deliberate. His hand reached for the handle, twisting it.
The door gave way with a creak.
The room was dimly lit — still drowned in that crimson haze from the neon outside. The bed was a mess of sheets and panic. Vincent was there, on the floor near the edge, knees pulled to his chest, one hand clutching his throat. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. The blood — Marcus's blood — had smeared across his neck and shirt, and he was frantically trying to scrub it away with trembling fingers.
Marcus stopped dead in the doorway.
For a second, he didn't move. His brain couldn't piece together the scene — this wasn't the cocky, smirking man who threw flirty insults at him like weapons. This was someone else entirely — someone breaking.
Vincent's voice cracked again. "Get off me—please… I said I didn't mean to—please stop…"
Each word stabbed through the air, fragile and real. He wasn't seeing Marcus. He wasn't even here.
Marcus took a step forward, slow and careful, as if approaching a wounded animal. "Vincent…"
No response. Just another sob, another frantic motion of his hands against his throat.
Marcus didn't think. He didn't plan. His instincts took over — that cold, feral part of him that always acted when someone was in danger. He crossed the space between them in a heartbeat, kneeling down. The moment his hand touched Vincent's shoulder, the man flinched so hard it almost looked painful.
"Hey—hey, it's me," Marcus murmured, his voice low, steady — the same voice that once commanded fear now trying to stitch calm into the air. "Vincent, look at me."
Vincent's eyes snapped up — wide, glassy, unseeing at first. Then they flickered with confusion, like a drowning man ...
Vincent shook his head. "Don't—" His voice cracked. "Don't touch me… please—"
But Marcus didn't listen. He moved closer, his tone firm now, quiet but unyielding. "Vincent."
Something in his voice cut through the fog. Not the command, not the force — the familiarity. The truth in it.
Vincent's trembling stilled for a second. His gaze flicked up, eyes glassy with tears.
"It's me," Marcus whispered. "You're safe."
Those two words — you're safe — hit harder than any threat ever could.
Vincent blinked hard, the tremors still running through his fingers. His breathing was uneven, shallow. Marcus's hand slid from his shoulder to the back of his neck, slow enough to be read as comfort, not control.
The contact made Vincent crumble. His body gave out against Marcus's chest, shaking violently, words tumbling out between hiccupped sobs — "I didn't mean to—he said I was useless—he—"
Marcus didn't ask who. He didn't need to. The tone in Vincent's voice was enough — it was memory, not reality. A past bleeding into the present.
"Shh…" Marcus whispered near his ear, his breath calm, warm against Vincent's skin. "No one's here. You're safe. Do you hear me?"
Vincent trembled harder. "He—he said I ruined everything—"
Marcus's arms wrapped tighter around him, his hold strong but steady, a caged safety. "No one can hurt you now."
The irony didn't miss Marcus — him, the man who'd just terrified the same person hours ago. Yet, here he was, holding him like he was made of glass.
Vincent's breath hitched again, his forehead pressing against Marcus's shoulder, tears streaking his skin.
Vincent clutched at his shirt like a drowning man, his voice fractured. "He used to—" The words stopped there, choked by a sob. "I couldn't breathe—"
Marcus froze, every muscle locking in place. The protective instinct that had driven him moments ago twisted into something darker — fury, not at Vincent, but at whoever had left him like this.
He didn't ask questions. Didn't demand details. He just whispered again, lower, rougher this time, "No one's touching you here. Not while I'm here."
Vincent's sobs softened, not stopping, but slowing — like his body believed before his mind did.
Marcus's shirt darkened, but he didn't move, didn't speak beyond the steady rhythm of his voice — an anchor in the chaos.
Marcus stayed like that, one arm still around him, one hand tracing idle patterns along his back, slow and steady, as if rewriting whatever memory haunted him.
He glanced toward the untouched food on the table, the beer cans glinting under the red light, and exhaled through his nose.
It wasn't what he expected tonight to be. But maybe — just maybe — this was something more real than anything they'd had so far.
And as he looked down at Vincent, finally breathing evenly in his arms, Marcus's jaw tightened. The predator was still there — but this time, it wasn't hunger burning behind his eyes.
It was protection.
Possession — not out of control, but out of promise.
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PLEASE SUPPORT PRETTY LADIES AND HANDSOME GENTLEMEN,
WITH THE FEELING OF BEING PROTECTED,
VINCENT.
WITH CARE ( HE'S TOTALLY OVER PROTECTIVE ) ,
MARCUS.