Isidore trudged through the labyrinthine corridors of the opulent hotel, his footsteps echoing in the sterile silence. The weight of exhaustion clung to his bones like a second skin, a relentless reminder of the arduous business that had consumed his day. Initially, the allure of a plush bed and room service had beckoned him, but the lure of home and familiar comforts ultimately won out.
As he navigated the maze of hallways, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A figure emerged from the shadows, and Isidore's heart stuttered. The man was unmistakable: Tristan Ashford, the silver-tongued alpha whose visage graced billboards and magazine covers with a disarming smile. Yet, the Tristan before him was a far cry from the charismatic public persona. His eyes were wild, and his usual impeccable attire was disheveled, as if he had been dragged through a storm.
Isidore's instincts screamed at him to retreat, but he found himself rooted to the spot, a mixture of fear and fascination paralyzing him. Tristan's gaze locked onto Isidore's, and in that moment, Isidore felt a primal pull that sent shivers down his spine. Tristan's steps were unsteady, his movements erratic, and Isidore realized with a jolt that the alpha was in rut and inebriated.
"Help me," Tristan rasped, his voice a desperate plea that sent a shiver down Isidore's spine. Isidore eyes widened, disbelief warring with the reality unfolding before him. Tristan Ashford, the alpha who had the world at his feet, was begging for help.
Isidore's response was cold, born of self-preservation. "Stay away. You don't know what you're doing."
Tristan lunged forward, his movements fueled by a mix of desperation and desire. Isidore flinched as Tristan's hand slammed against the wall beside his face, caging him in. The alpha's breath was hot on his skin, and Isidore could feel the tension radiating from Tristan's body, a coiled spring ready to snap.
"Please," Tristan whispered, his lips brushing against Isidore's ear. "I need to."
Isidore shoved Tristan away, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and anger. "Stay away from me, you bastard."
But Tristan was beyond reason, driven by instincts that overrode any semblance of control. He grabbed Isidore's elbow, his grip bruising, and dragged him towards his room. Isidore yanked and twisted, trying to free himself, but Tristan's strength was unyielding. The door slammed shut behind them, sealing Isidore in a gilded cage with a predator.
Isidore's heart pounded as he backed away, his eyes wide with terror. Tristan advanced, his movements predatory, and Isidore's mind raced. He needed to escape, to find a way out of this nightmare. But Tristan was relentless, his hands reaching for Isidore with a feral intensity that sent a jolt of primal fear through Isidore.
"Let me go," Isidore spat, his voice raw with desperation. "You bastard."
Tristan's response was a guttural growl, his eyes flashing with a hunger that went beyond the physical. He grabbed Isidore by the ankle, yanking him towards himself with a force that left Isidore gasping. Isidore fought, his fists flying, but Tristan was a maelstrom of need and rage, his actions fueled by a primal urge that overrode all reason.
Isidore's trousers were torn away, the fabric ripping under Tristan's frantic hands. Isidore slapped Tristan, his blows landing with a satisfying thud, but the alpha barely seemed to notice. Tristan's belt was unbuckled, and before Isidore could react, his wrists were bound, the leather biting into his skin.
"You," Isidore screamed, his voice hoarse with terror. "Stop! You monster, I said stop!"
But Tristan was beyond hearing, his body moving with a mind of its own. He pushed Isidore onto the bed, the Isidore's cries of protest lost in the thick, oppressive air. Tristan's weight settled on top of him, and Isidore's world exploded into a kaleidoscope of pain and fear as the alpha thrust into him with a force that left him gasping.
The air was heavy, drenched in wine and smoke. Shadows rippled across marble walls. The chandelier above swayed like it too had fallen drunk.
Tristan's movements were brutal, each thrust a claim of dominance and need. Isidore's vision swam, the edges blurring as pain surged through his body, a relentless wave that threatened to drown him. Tristan's hands gripped his hips, holding him in place, and Isidore's cries were reduced to ragged gasps, his body trembling with each brutal thrust.
Tristan's breath scorched against Isidore's neck, ragged and uneven, as if he were drowning in something only the omega possessed. His lips brushed the fragile skin, and a low growl rumbled from deep in his chest.
Isidore's scent—sweet, maddening, cloying like spiced honey poured over heat—spilled into the air. He felt it leave him in waves, traitorous, unbidden, wrapping around Tristan like a noose. The alpha shuddered, his body jerking as if struck.
"Stop—" Isidore barked, voice cracking sharp as glass. "You bastard, get off me!"
But the command only fueled the hunger blazing in Tristan's eyes. His pupils blew wide, his restraint splintering under the intoxication of that scent. His teeth grazed Isidore's throat, and the omega felt the sting of pressure—pleasure and terror twisting cruelly together.
Tristan's mouth opened wider, trembling against his skin as if it took all his strength not to sink in. Then his control snapped. His fangs sank into the tender flesh of Isidore's neck, a brutal, possessive mark.
Pain flared. Blood welled hot and sticky. Isidore cried out, every muscle straining. But the air was already thick, drugged with his pheromones, and Tristan was lost inside it—dragged into madness by a sweetness he could not resist.
The room tilted. Isidore's vision blurred at the edges, colors bleeding, sound receding, until only Tristan's weight, his teeth, and the burn of betrayal remained—before darkness took him whole.
Isidore jolted awake, his body drenched in sweat, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. The remnants of the nightmare clung to him, like a spectral presence that refused to fade. Zayn's voice cut through the haze, a soothing balm to his frayed nerves.
"Davenant,"
Isidore's hand trembled as he reached for the back of his neck, his fingers brushing against the mark that Tristan had left. The memory of the nightmare was still fresh, the pain and fear a lingering echo that refused to dissipate. He turned to Zayn, his eyes haunted, and zayn concern deepened as he took in Isidore's distressed state.
"Davenant, it was just a nightmare," Zayn said softly, his voice a gentle caress. "You're alright."
Julian, sensing his mother's distress, reached for Isidore, his tiny hands outstretched. "Mama," he cooed, his voice a sweet melody that cut through the remnants of the nightmare. Isidore pulled the child into his arms, holding him close, drawing comfort from his presence.
"How can I explain that it was all real?" Isidore whispered, his voice barely audible. "It keeps haunting me like shadows."
Zayn's hand rested on Isidore's shoulder, a silent promise of support. "Whatever you saw, it wasn't real. You're safe now,"
But Isidore knew the truth. The nightmare was a reflection of a reality that he had lived, a memory that refused to be buried. The mark on his neck was a constant reminder, a brand that Tristan had left, a claim that could never be erased.
As Isidore held Julian close, the child's warmth seeping into his bones, he knew that he had to find a way to confront the shadows of his past. He had to find a way to heal, to move forward, to protect not just himself, but the ones he loved. And in that moment, with Zayn's support and Julian's love, Isidore found a glimmer of hope, a beacon in the darkness that promised a brighter tomorrow.
Behind them followed another car. Sleek. Unremarkable. Yet its cargo was anything but innocent. Boxes of toys stacked high, masking the true intent of its passengers.
The kidnapers sat still. Their eyes did not stray to the glitter of glass towers or the brilliance of daylight. They were fixed only on the car ahead.
On the boy inside.
One leaned forward, lips curling. His voice was low, almost eager.
"We'll finally have him. That little one—today's the day."
His partner's glare cut him off.
"Don't daydream."
"But he's so cute," the first muttered, staring at the glint of toys as though they were bait for a child.
A sharp silence followed. His partner's stare hardened, slicing the air like a blade.
The first man swallowed his words and shut his mouth.
Both cars pressed forward through the sunlight. The streets shimmered with summer heat, oblivious. Unaware.
Each mile drew them closer to Isidore's penthouse.
Closer to the strike.
The car eased to a halt. Noonlight spilled across the driveway, bouncing off the glass façade of Isidore's penthouse.
The second car stopped behind them, quiet as a predator shadowing its prey. Inside, the two men exchanged a brief look—one of silent calculation, the other tinged with restless excitement. Their chance had come.
The driver of the lead car was the first to move. He circled to Zayn's side, pulling the door open with practiced ease.
"Sir," he said, bowing slightly.
Zayn stepped out, stretching his arms overhead with a careless grin. His lilac eyes glimmered beneath the sun as he called toward the open door.
"Ohhh, come on now. Don't drag your feet."
His gaze shifted. Inside, Isidore sat with Julian nestled against his shoulder. The child had both tiny hands perched on his mother's shoulders, squealing as if the world itself had been delivered in toy form.
Zayn crouched, reaching.
"Davenant, you go first. Hand Julian to me."
Isidore hesitated. His face was pale, his body exhausted, but he complied. Carefully, he transferred the boy into Zayn's waiting arms.
Julian laughed instantly, his tiny mouth opening in delight as Zayn lifted him high.
"There's my little prince," Zayn chuckled, spinning him once in the air. Julian's giggles burst across the driveway like bells.
From the second car, doors clicked open. The disguised kidnappers stepped out, their smiles polite, almost rehearsed.
"Let me carry those, sir," the driver offered, gesturing toward the mountain of toys spilling from the trunk.
But the men interjected smoothly, lowering their heads.
"No, no—it's fine. It's our service to move things ourselves."
The driver raised a brow but stepped back. Zayn, distracted with Julian, barely spared them a glance.
"Come on, you two," he barked casually. "Move them inside. And be quick."
Julian clung to his uncle's periwinkle hair, tugging at the strands, while Zayn pressed him snugly to his shoulders. Behind them, Isidore had already moved toward the entrance.
The penthouse door swung open, the maid bowing low. Isidore adjusted his round glasses and stepped inside, his slender frame weighed down by fatigue. His sigh was audible, as though the mere threshold of his home had drained the last of his strength.
He collapsed onto the velvet couch in the grand hall. The cushions seemed to swallow him whole.
Zayn followed, still carrying Julian. He sat beside Isidore, setting the boy onto the couch where he immediately began clapping his tiny hands.
"Davenant," Zayn muttered, tilting his head with exaggerated scrutiny, "you look like hell, man."
Isidore's beige eyes flashed, his glare sharp.
Zayn raised both hands in surrender, rolling his lilac eyes.
"Alright, alright. Poor choice of words. Forgive me."
He leaned back, arms stretching across the couch. Then, his stomach growled audibly.
"Davenant, I'm starving. Is lunch ready yet?"
Before Isidore could respond, the maid appeared, drying her hands on her apron.
"Yes, sir. The lunch is prepared."
Zayn's face lit up. He sprang to his feet, clapping his hands once.
"Perfect! Come on, Isidore. You don't look well—you need food."
But Isidore turned his head away, beige hair sliding across his cheek like a curtain. His voice was soft but unyielding.
"I have no appetite."
"Come on, davenant. Don't be difficult."
"I said no."
Zayn's lips pressed thin, then parted with a defeated sigh.
"Stubborn as ever."
He gave up, striding toward the dining hall, already anticipating the meal.
The moment he left, the room grew quieter. Only Julian's giggles filled the space.
The boy had slipped down from the couch, padding toward the front door on unsteady feet. His eyes widened with delight when he spotted the men unloading his toys.
The kidnappers worked swiftly, stacking bundles of bright boxes inside the hall. Each motion was precise, disciplined, though one of them couldn't help but glance repeatedly at the child. His heart thudded as he watched Julian squeal and bounce in excitement.
For a moment, the hardened mask of his role cracked. His lips twitched upward in an involuntary smile.
The second man noticed, his glare sharp and cold. The first swallowed and dropped his gaze, resuming the task with mechanical precision.
Julian, oblivious, clapped his hands and squealed, the sound echoing like a melody through the hall.
On the couch, Isidore sat with his head bowed, fingers pressing against his temple. His body slumped, shoulders trembling faintly. The throbbing behind his eyes deepened, a pulsing reminder of sleepless nights and shadows that clung too tightly.
He closed his eyes, breathing raggedly.
Julian's voice reached him from across the hall—innocent, pure, joyous.
The sound twisted like a blade in his chest.
Because where his son laughed, danger lingered only steps away.
And Isidore, half-aware, half-drifting, did not yet realize that the shadows had already entered his home.