The silence that followed the storm in the library was absolute, a heavy, velvet shroud that muffled the clatter of the fallen journals on the floor.
Leon stayed braced over the mahogany desk, his breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. His mismatched eyes were blown wide with an adrenaline that hadn't quite faded, staring down at the man beneath him. Maurice lay utterly still, his chest barely rising. The "Doctor" was gone, replaced by a shell-shocked soldier who had finally been overrun.
In the final, frantic surge of their collision, Leon had felt the sharp snap—a momentary, microscopic failure of latex. The condom had shredded under the sheer force of their friction.
Leon froze, the reality of the situation sinking in as he felt the warmth of his own effusion spilling over. He had filled Maurice with his seeds, a primal, unscripted act that bypassed every boundary they had established.
"Oh... fuck," Leon cursed under his breath, the word sounding like a prayer and a sin all at once.
He looked down at Maurice. The doctor's face, usually so sharp and severe, was slack. His skin was slicked with a fine sheen of sweat, his cheeks flushed a bruised plum color. His eyes had rolled back, the lids fluttering as he drifted into a state of temporary, catatonic exhaustion.
Maurice had fallen unconscious, his body finally shutting down to process the sensory overload Leon had inflicted upon him.
Leon reached up, dragging a shaking hand through his damp blonde hair. He stared at the marks he had left on Maurice's wrists, feeling a sudden, sharp pang of something that wasn't quite guilt, but wasn't quite triumph either.
"I hope he remembers everything well," Leon murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Otherwise, I'll have to do it all over again until it sticks."
He leaned in, his shadow eclipsing Maurice's face. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to Maurice's mouth—properly this time, without the war, without the rage. He tasted the salt and the faint bitterness of the tea they had shared earlier.
A small, genuine smile touched Leon's lips. "Such a higher level of anger you have, Doctor... but still, I think I passed the exam."
He chuckled softly, a sound of pure, masculine satisfaction, and pressed a final, tender kiss to Maurice's damp forehead before beginning the delicate task of cleaning the wreckage he had made of the man he couldn't help but crave.
Elsewhere in the penthouse, the air was thick with steam and the scent of expensive, medicinal oils.
Isidore sat in the opalescent depths of the marble bathtub, the hot water reaching his chin. He didn't feel like getting out. He didn't feel like moving at all. There was a strange, heavy languor in his limbs—a feeling that was slightly "off," as if his very cells were vibrating at a frequency he didn't recognize.
His head was tilted back against the cold marble rim, exposing the long, elegant line of his throat. His beige, silken hair was damp, clinging to his forehead in dark, serpentine curls.
His mind was a carousel of Julian's innocent face and the vibrant Begonia flower.
Another sibling.
The thought sent a jolt of visceral panic through his gut. How could he even contemplate another child when the mere thought of the first child's father made him want to set the world on fire? He couldn't dare let Tristan back into his territory. He couldn't let that Alpha's scent colonize his home again.
And yet, his hands were tied together across his chest, his fingers digging into his own skin as he felt a traitorous blush creeping up his neck.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the mark on his neck pulse. It was a biological tether, a leash that Tristan held from miles away.
"Fuck," Isidore hissed, suddenly sliding down until the water closed over his face.
He stayed submerged in the silence of the water, the heat pressing against his eyes. He wanted to drown out the memory of the hotel room, the memory of the "flower," and the terrifying realization that his body might actually want exactly what Julian was asking for.
Downstairs, the peace of the foyer was shattered by the sharp, persistent vibration of a phone.
Zayn stood by the large windows, his expression darkening as he listened to the voice on the other end. It was Jesper, Tristan's manager, and his tone was nothing short of hysterical.
"You don't understand, Mr, Zayn! It's a digital bloodbath out here!" Jesper shouted through the speaker.
"Slow down," Zayn commanded, his voice a steady, professional calm that masked his growing unease. "What are the fans actually doing?"
"Everyone—literally every fan in the Ashford circle—is out for blood," Jesper explained, the sound of keyboard tapping audible in the background. "They're defending Tristan with a religious fervor. And they've found a target."
Zayn felt a cold stone settle in his stomach. "Of course I know. They are framing Dominion Enterprises."
"Worse," Jesper hissed. "They're blaming the studio, but they're focusing on the your partner. Yesterday's footage— where someone caught a glimpse of Isidore and his child at the hospital—it's gone viral. The narrative is that Tristan was 'distracted' or 'targeted' because of his connection to the Davenant family. They're calling Isidore a jinx. A black widow. A corporate predator who broke their hero's heart and now his body."
Zayn flinched. The vitriol of an angry fanbase was a weapon more dangerous than a prop knife. Why would these fools trigger Isidore? None of this was his fault. The fault lay with whoever had sabotaged the production, whoever had exchanged a blunt blade for a lethal one.
"They're digging into Julian, too," Jesper added, his voice dropping. "They're asking who the father is. They're connecting the dots, Zayn. Crystalline blue eyes? The timing? It's a frenzy."
Zayn's grip on the phone tightened until the plastic groaned. "Stay still, Jesper. Don't release any statements. I exactly know what to do."
He cut the call abruptly, his eyes darting toward the grand staircase.
Isidore was already on the edge. If he saw the social media feeds—if he saw the strangers on the internet calling him a murderer and dissecting his son's paternity—he wouldn't just be angry. He would be destroyed.
Zayn turned, his boots clicking sharply on the marble as he headed toward the living room. He needed to find every tablet, every phone, every screen in this house and disable them.
He had to stop Isidore from watching the world tear him apart. He had to be the wall between the mother and the digital vitriol that was currently threatening to burn their sanctuary to the ground.
"I have to keep him in the dark," Zayn whispered to the empty room, his heart hammering with a protective rage. "Just for a little longer."
The steam had barely begun to dissipate from the opulent marble bathroom when the first sound reached Isidore's ears. It wasn't the rhythmic chime of the grandfather clock or the distant murmur of the staff. It was a jagged, discordant roar—a cacophony of human voices fueled by a very specific, digital brand of insanity.
Isidore, wrapped in a robe of heavy cream silk that clung to his still-damp skin, paused. He tilted his head, his beige eyes narrowing. Instinct, sharp and cold as a winter frost, pulled him toward the doors of his bedroom balcony.
He stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, and his breath hitched.
Below him, the pristine gates of the Davenant estate were being besieged. A sea of people, waving glowing smartphones like torches and brandishing poorly lettered signs, were swarming the perimeter. Objects—eggs, crumpled soda cans, and unidentifiable detritus—were being hurled over the fence, striking the manicured stone walls of his sanctuary with sickening thuds.
"What in the absolute hell is this?" Isidore whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of shock and a burgeoning, volcanic rage.
Downstairs, Zayn Maverick was frozen mid-step on the grand staircase. He had been on his way to disable the Wi-Fi, to bury the tablets, to effectively lobotomize the house's connection to the outside world. But he was too late. The world had come to them.
The sound of a heavy object shattering a decorative garden urn echoed through the foyer. Zayn's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He rushed toward the main entrance, his heart hammering against his ribs. He couldn't open the door. To open the door was to invite a tidal wave of parasocial madness into the heart of their home.
"Sir!, what is happening?"
Zayn spun around to see Leon emerging from the hallway. The blonde man looked… unusual. His hair was damp, sticking out in golden tufts, and there was a strange, glazed look of satisfaction in his eyes that didn't quite match the current catastrophe.
Zayn lunged forward, grabbing Leon by the lapels of his jacket and nearly hoisting him off the floor. "What are you doing roaming around like a lost tourist? Go and inform the security guard's?"
Leon blinked, his mismatched eyes wide with confusion. "What's wrong, sir? I just… I was busy. With a medical matter."
"They are all insane!" Zayn hissed, his voice a frantic, low-frequency vibration.
"Who is insane?" Leon asked, still sounding like he was floating on a cloud.
Zayn pointed a trembling finger toward the ornate front doors. "The fans! The Ashford acolytes! They've localized! They're targeting the penthouse, Leon!"
Leon's expression shifted instantly. The post-coital fog evaporated, replaced by the sharp, lethal focus of a man who had spent his life navigating the shadows. He looked toward the source of the shouting, his brow furrowing as the reality of the siege set in.
"If they are here…" Zayn's voice trailed off as he looked up at the landing of the staircase. "Then did Isidore already—"
Zayn didn't finish the sentence. He bolted up the stairs, taking them three at a time. He reached Isidore's suite and began to bang on the door with a desperate, rhythmic intensity.
Isidore stood there, a vision of pale, trembling fury. His damp hair was matted to his forehead, and his beige eyes were glowing with a light that suggested someone was about to die.
Zayn froze, his hand still raised to knock. "Davenant… look, I can explain."
"What is going on out there, Zayn?" Isidore barked, his voice a whip-crack that echoed through the hall.
Zayn let out a weary, hysterical laugh. "Well, you see… they loved us. They loved us so much they didn't know what to do with their emotions, so they end up here! To, uh… celebrate? It's a very aggressive celebration, really."
Isidore's jaw clenched. He reached out and shoved Zayn aside with a strength that caught the Alpha off guard. "I am not a child, you idiot. I heard them. I saw them. Where is Julian?"
The color drained from Zayn's face. "I… well, he was with his nanny. In the back."
Isidore didn't wait. He began to descend the stairs, his silk robe billowing like the wings of a vengeful angel. He reached the foyer just as the maid came rushing in from the kitchen wing, frantically wiping her hands on her apron.
Isidore's heart didn't just lurch; it felt as if it had been gripped by a cold, skeletal hand. "Where? Where is he?"
"Young Master!" her voice high with panic. "Young Master is still outside with that pot!"
Leon appeared behind them, his clothes now perfectly adjusted, his expression a mask of cold steel. "Sir, Julian is in the east garden. Near the rose quartz fountain."
Zayn and Isidore froze simultaneously. The east garden was the most exposed part of the estate—the part closest to the lower fence where the mob was the loudest.
"My son," Isidore whispered, and then he moved.
He didn't run like a man. He ran like a predator whose young had been threatened. Isidore burst through the side terrace doors, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone.
The garden, usually a place of serene perfection, was a battlefield. Rocks were skittering across the grass. The air was filled with the rhythmic chanting of his name, twisted into an insult.
"TRAITOR! SCANDAL-MONGER! ASHFORD-KILLER!"
In the center of the chaos, crouched near a patch of blue hydrangeas, was Julian.
The boy was utterly oblivious. He was leaning over his ceramic pot, whispering softly to the Begonia, his crystalline blue eyes—Tristan's eyes—wide with a gentle, peaceful wonder. To Julian, the shouting was just background noise, like a distant thunderstorm that couldn't touch him.
Isidore's breath hitched in his throat. He put on a final burst of speed, his heart screaming. He reached Julian in seconds, dropping to his knees and scooping the child into his arms with a desperate, crushing intensity.
Julian squeaked in surprise, the pot wobbling in his small hands. "Mama? You came to see the flower?"
"Are you okay? My baby, are you okay?" Isidore gasped, burying his face in Julian's neck, checking for scratches, for bruises, for any sign that the world had touched his treasure.
Julian just laughed, his small hands patting Isidore's damp hair. "Mama is wet! Like the flower!"
Relief washed over Isidore like a tide, but it was short-lived.
SQUELCH.
Isidore gasped, his body jolting. A large, overripe tomato had been hurled over the fence with professional accuracy, striking him squarely on the back of his head. The red pulp slid down the cream silk of his robe, staining the expensive fabric in a mockery of blood.
"TRAITOR!" a voice screamed from beyond the hedge. "STAY AWAY FROM MR. ASHFORD! YOU RUINED HIM!"
The rage that ignited in Isidore's chest was unlike anything he had ever felt. It was a cold, white-hot nova. He turned his head slowly, his beige eyes flashing with a lethal, terrifying clarity.
Julian, sensing the shift in the air, clutched his hands around his mother's neck. "Mama? Who are they? Why are they loud?"
Before Isidore could respond, a shadow fell over them.
Leon stepped out onto the grass, his towering frame silhouetted against the afternoon sun. He had discarded his jacket, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. He looked less like a driver or a friend and more like a high-level enforcer.
"STAY BEHIND THE LINE!" Leon roared, his voice a thunderous command that actually silenced the crowd for a heartbeat.
"ANYONE WHO THROWS ANOTHER OBJECT WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW FOR ATTACKING A DAVENANT RESIDENCE! WE HAVE YOUR FACES ON HIGH-DEFINITION FACIAL RECOGNITION! RETREAT NOW!"
The crowd wavered, the authority in Leon's voice shaking their collective bravado.
Leon turned his head slightly, his gaze softening as he looked at Isidore and the soot-smeared Julian.
"Mr. Isidore," Leon said, his voice dropping to a respectful, urgent tone. "Take the Young Master inside. Mr, Zayn and I will handle the perimeter. Do not look back."
Isidore stood up, clutching Julian to his chest. The tomato juice was dripping onto his shoulder, but he didn't care. He looked at the fence, then at his son, and then back at the house.
"Leon," Isidore said, his voice trembling with a deadly calm. "Make sure they regret today. Make sure every single one of them understands whose garden they decided to rot in."
Leon gave a sharp, predatory smile. "Consider it done, sir."
As Isidore retreated toward the house, Julian looked over his mother's shoulder at the shouting people. He waved his small hand, still holding a stray petal from his flower.
"Bye-bye, loud people!" Julian chirped.
Isidore didn't stop until he was back inside the foyer, the heavy doors locking behind him with a mechanical finality. Zayn was there, his face a mask of guilt and fury.