The weight of exhaustion still clung to Isidore when his eyes fluttered open. For one disoriented moment, he thought he was still drowning in that nightmare of Tristan—his pulse erratic, breath ragged. But then the silence of the room wrapped around him, broken only by the faint hush of wind pressing against the glass panes.
"Julian…"
The name slipped from his lips, hoarse and trembling. His gaze swept the room, searching for the child who always lingered near. But there was no sight of him—only the scattered remains of his toys, the little bear he had been playing with now lying on its side before the wide-open door.
Isidore's chest constricted. He called again, louder this time.
"Julian!"
No reply. No giggle, no pattering of small feet. Nothing.
Panic surged, burning away the haze of fatigue. He staggered toward the door, heart pounding like a drumbeat of doom. Just as he reached it, he collided with a solid figure.
Leon.
"Oh—sorry, Master," the man said quickly, blinking in surprise. He had just stepped in from outside, cigarette smoke still faint on his clothes.
Isidore's hands gripped his shoulders, desperation wild in his glassy eyes.
"Have you seen Julian? Outside—was he there?"
Leon froze, startled by the frantic tone.
"No, Master. I've only just returned. What's wrong?"
Isidore shoved past him, half stumbling out into the hall. His gaze darted everywhere—empty. The silence mocked him. He turned back, his voice cracking, almost breaking.
"He's not here. He was just—he was just here!"
From the dining room, Zayn appeared, lazily cleaning his teeth with a slender wooden pick. His expression was relaxed, almost bored, until he saw Isidore. The desperation in the omega's stance stopped him cold.
"Davenant?" Zayn strode closer, frowning. "What's wrong?"
Isidore's breath came uneven, chest heaving as he turned sharply toward him. His words tumbled out in a rush, raw and jagged.
"Zayn—where is Julian? I didn't see him. He's not here. Was he with you?"
Zayn blinked, confused.
"With me? No. Come on, Davenant, wasn't he with you? When I went to eat—"
Isidore's head dropped, his shoulders shaking. His breathing grew harsher, unsteady. He lifted his gaze again, eyes fever-bright, and the words burst out of him in a broken scream.
"If he isn't with you—and he isn't outside—then where is my son?"
The room went still.
Zayn's lilac eyes widened. His hand lifted, placating.
"Calm down, Davenant. He must be nearby. Don't—don't panic."
But Isidore shook his head violently, voice rough and sharp.
"Julian never leaves me. Never. Not without my permission."
The shrill ring of the landline cut through the tension like a blade.
The maid moved swiftly, wiping her hands on her apron before lifting the receiver.
"Hello?"
The voice on the other end was coarse, cruelly calm.
"We have your son."
The maid's hand shot up to cover her mouth, her eyes widening in horror. From the faint background, a smaller sound bled through—Julian's muffled cries, frightened but alive.
The receiver nearly slipped from her trembling fingers.
"Master…" Her voice broke.
Isidore jerked upright, his whole body rigid. His gaze locked onto her.
"What is it?"
Zayn, too, was at her side in an instant. His tone was sharp.
"What's the matter?"
The maid's lips quivered. She looked from one man to the other, then thrust the receiver toward Isidore with both hands.
"It's—the young master…"
Isidore snatched the phone, his breath shaking.
"Julian—where is my son?"
A laugh. Low. Sinister.
"You want to see him again, you bring us money. In Cash. No delays."
Behind the kidnapper's voice, Julian whimpered, calling faintly for his mama. The sound gutted Isidore. His hand trembled, knuckles white around the receiver.
"I'll give you anything," he whispered fiercely. "As much as you want. "Give me my child back — now."
"Good. We'll send the location. Don't try anything clever, or the boy vanishes. Understand?"
"No, he's only three. Don't touch him!"
"You're smart," the voice sneered. "Then act smart. "Leave the money exactly where we tell you. One misstep, one false move—and your son vanishes like smoke."
The line went dead.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Isidore stood frozen, the receiver still clutched in his hand. His whole body trembled, the words replaying in his skull. Then the phone slipped from his grip, clattering against the marble floor.
Zayn caught the change instantly. He stepped forward, voice hard.
"How did this happen, Davenant?"
But Isidore barely heard him. His lips parted, whispering to no one.
"I have to do something… If I don't… if I'm too late, they'll—"
"Nothing will happen to Julian," Zayn snapped, trying to anchor him.
"You don't understand!" Isidore's scream tore from his throat, raw and broken, his voice echoing through the hall. His knees buckled. His vision blurred.
"Davenant—!"
Zayn lunged just in time, catching him before his slender frame struck the floor. He lowered him carefully, his arms tight around the trembling omega.
Leon stood frozen, his face pale as guilt curdled in his chest. His voice cracked.
"Damn it… I shouldn't have left. I shouldn't have gone for those cigarettes—"
The maid turned away, her hands pressed against her mouth, shoulders quaking. The weight of her guilt gnawed deep. She had been there, and yet not watching. And now the young master was gone.
In Zayn's arms, Isidore's breaths came shallow, his body limp. His pale lashes fluttered against fever-bright cheeks. He whispered again, a broken prayer, more to himself than anyone.
"My son… bring him back to me…"
The room was heavy with silence, but beneath it—tension coiled. Like a storm gathering before it struck.
Because somewhere, in the hands of men who smiled too easily, Julian waited.
And the clock had already begun to count down.
Zayn crouched quickly, tapping Isidore's pale cheek with a touch that carried both urgency and restraint.
"Davenant—open your eyes. Come on, stay with me."
But the omega's lashes only fluttered once before sinking shut again. His body went slack, surrendering to the weight of shock and despair.
"Damn it," Zayn muttered under his breath. Without hesitation, he slid his arms beneath Isidore's fragile frame and lifted him against his chest. The man felt unbearably light, as though grief had hollowed him out from the inside.
"Leon!" Zayn's voice carried down the corridor. "Call the doctor—now!"
The driver scrambled off, and Zayn carried Isidore swiftly up the staircase, his long strides echoing against the marble floor. He nudged open the door to Isidore's chamber with his shoulder and lowered him carefully onto the vast bed, the sheets cool and crisp beneath his fevered skin.
"Davenant…" Zayn's voice softened, almost breaking. He brushed the damp hair from Isidore's brow. "Don't stress yourself. You know what the doctor said—your body can't take it."
The lashes flickered again. A whisper escaped, fragile as broken glass.
"My son… I want my Julian."
Zayn's jaw tightened. He smoothed a hand across Isidore's shoulder, forcing his own voice into steadiness he didn't feel.
"We'll find him. Don't worry, Davenant. We'll figure out everything, on time. I swear."
The door creaked open. Heavy steps. And then the familiar, irritable sigh.
Dr. Maurice stood in the doorway, already pulling off his gloves with sharp, frustrated tugs. His eyes swept over the scene with exasperation.
"Again?" he barked, voice cutting through the tension. "How many times must I be dragged to this house? I swear, I'll resign—I can't keep up with this madness."
Zayn shot him a glare, lowering his voice to a hiss. "Not now, Maurice. Can't you see everything is hanging by a thread?"
But the doctor snapped, slamming his case down on the side table.
"I told him—take your medicine on time! Keep away from stress, avoid depression. But does he listen? No. Never!"
Zayn's patience cracked, his voice dropping into a dangerous growl. "Enough. Calm yourself. This is not the time for lectures."
Maurice opened his mouth again, but Zayn cut him off with a sharp gesture.
"And lower your voice. Can't you see? He's fainted. If he wakes and hears you snapping like a crow, he'll be devastated. So shut your mouth, Maurice, and do your damn job."
The physician stiffened, jaw clenched, his pride wounded. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath before forcing himself to kneel beside the bed, pulling out his instruments.
Zayn remained at Isidore's side, eyes never leaving the omega's face. He bent low, whispering only for him.
"Hold on, Davenant. For Julian's sake—hold on."
The abandoned building creaked in the wind, its walls streaked with mildew, windows broken like hollow eyes. Shadows pooled in every corner, thick with the stench of dampness and rust.
Inside, the kidnappers huddled around their prize. One leaned back on a rickety chair, smirking as he tossed a cigarette stub across the cracked floor. "Just a few hours," he muttered, his grin wide and greedy. "A few hours and we'll be rich."
The other held the boy. Julian.
Tiny shoulders quivered against his chest. His cheeks were wet, streaked with tears that seemed never-ending. No matter the pile of toys scattered across the grimy rug, no matter the snacks placed clumsily before him, the child's cries refused to stop.
"Mama," Julian whimpered, clutching at the stranger's shirt with trembling fingers. His voice broke, raw with the ache only a child could carry. "I want Mama…"
The man holding him shifted uncomfortably. His arm was awkward at first, stiff like he didn't know how to cradle a child, but something softened. He lifted Julian higher, tucking the boy against his neck. His voice dropped, almost coaxing. "Come now, dear… good babies don't cry like this. Hush."
His companion curled his lip in disgust. "What the hell are you doing? You look like some kind of maid."
The one with Julian shot him a sharp glare. "Shut your mouth."
But the boy's sobs pierced through, louder, desperate. The harsh one clapped his hands over his ears with a groan. "For God's sake, make him stop! This brat is driving me insane."
Instead of snapping, the man with Julian began to sway, murmuring under his breath. His tone was awkward, unpracticed, but gentle enough to coax the boy. "Little… little baby. Want to see your mommy, huh? Then… eat something first, hmm? Just a little. Mommy will come for you."
The chair creaked as his partner leaned back, fighting not to laugh. "You've gone soft. Look at you. Cooing like a nursemaid."
But the words faded, because something had shifted.
The impossible happened.
Julian's sobs dwindled to hiccups. His lashes fluttered, damp and heavy, and then—miraculously—he nestled against the man's neck. His tiny fingers clutched at the collar, his breathing evening into shallow sniffles.
The hardened criminal stilled. Something foreign coursed through him, something that cracked his ribs wide open and clawed at his heart. Warmth. Vulnerability. An ache he hadn't felt in years, maybe ever.
His throat tightened as he rubbed the boy's back with a rough, calloused hand. "We promise you, little guy," he whispered, his voice thick. "We'll hand you back to your mama. Safe and sound."
The words surprised even him.
Julian's sniffles softened, a quiet whimper breaking against his shoulder.
For a moment, the building no longer felt abandoned. The shadows seemed to breathe slower, calmer, as though even the darkness had been soothed by the fragile trust of a child.
But outside, far beyond the cracked windows, other eyes were watching.
Two men crouched in the derelict frame of the building opposite. Their figures melted into the light, binoculars trained on the scene inside.
"They've crossed the line this time," one muttered, lowering the lenses. His jaw was sharp with fury. "Stealing the boy? They don't know who they're playing with."
Beside him, his partner's shoulders trembled. A muffled sound escaped his throat—half-choked, half-broken. He was crying.
The first man's patience snapped. He swung his boot, kicking his companion hard in the ribs.
The younger man hissed, clutching his side. "What the hell was that for?"
"Because you're acting like a fool," the other growled, eyes flashing. "Sniveling like some weakling. What's wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?"
The tear-streaked one lowered his gaze. His lips parted, but the words caught, trembling. Finally, he muttered, "You wouldn't understand. Just… let it be."
But his eyes betrayed him—locked on the sight of Julian, small and helpless in the kidnapper's arms. The way the child clung. The way he trusted, even in fear.
The first man narrowed his gaze, suspicion and irritation mingling. He almost pressed further, but shook it off with a curse. "Forget it. We have bigger matters. Should we inform Master Tristan of this abduction?"
His partner straightened, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He gave a short nod. "Of course. We need to. What if they harm the child?"
"Harm?" The other sneered, but there was unease in his tone. He could not deny the truth.
"Yes," his partner said firmly. "That boy is no ordinary child. If they do something reckless…" His words trailed into a grim silence.
The first man tilted his head, conceding with a low hum. "Hmm. You've got a point. Very well—we'll inform Master Tristan."
No more words.
Their figures melted back into the darkness. Silent, efficient. Ghosts slipping away from the ruin.
Inside, Julian shifted in his sleep, murmuring for his mother once more. The man holding him pressed his lips tight, heart aching with something he dared not name.
"Don't worry, little one," he whispered again. "You'll see your mama soon."
But the promise rang hollow in the abandoned hall, swallowed by shadows that never kept their word.