'LUCIAN POV'.
The car door clicked shut behind me—quiet as a promise. Inside, the air was cool and expensive, laced with silence thick enough to hold its own weight.
I didn't look at him right away.
I didn't need to. I could already feel him.
Small presence. Heavy energy.
He hadn't cried.
Not during the vows. Not when his mother held him like she was sending off a lamb.
Not even as the doors closed around him, sealing away the only world he'd ever known.
Brave little thing.
Eventually, I looked. Subtly. From the corner of my eye—just enough to see.
And what I saw made warmth curl low in my chest, amused and careful.
Well well... no wonder they always had him covered in lace and pearls.
Pretty doesn't cut it.
That sun kissed honey hair, wavy and unruly, brushed back just enough to let a few rebellious strands fall beside his cheek. Eyelashes long. Eyes heavy-lidded but calm.
And his lips… damn.
Soft enough to call him delicate. Sharp enough to make a man bleed.
His skin was fair—too fair they look white, and yet… here he was.
The training showed in his posture. Sitting perfectly straight. Hands folded like a pageant doll.
But there were cracks. Tiny ones.
A tension in his fingers. A delayed breath.
The very slightest curl of irritation behind stillness.
He smelled like warmed silk jasmine.
A quiet sweetness that slid into the air like silk.
Jasmine first—clean, floral, almost shy.
Then vanilla—warm, comforting, far too inviting for someone who glared at me like he wanted to set me on fire.
Subtle enough to forget.
Sharp enough to remember.
Good blend. Quite dangerous and I'm ready for this little danger.
They said he was obedient. Quiet. Loving.
But the boy beside me sat like he'd just survived a war you couldn't see.
I wonder what he sounds like when no one's scripting him. I wonder if he even knows what his real voice sounds like yet or, he knows he's just suppressing them.
My gaze trailed briefly to his profile again.
"What's your name?," I asked, voice smooth but low. Measured.
He turned his head—slightly. Just enough to acknowledge I'd spoken…
And then turned away again.
"I'm sure you know that." He said, of course I know… I've heard it from my parents and I also heard him say it at the altar but I wanted to hear him say it again. "It's Mikael," he added.
Bold. But careful.
Alright, Mikael.
We'll play it your way.
The engine hummed as we turned past the gates and began the long drive through my estate.
His eyes flicked to the windows. He didn't ask what he was seeing.
Just watched, absorbing.
Let him look. Let him wonder.
I didn't build this life to impress the weak, I built it for those who don't tremble in power.
And Mikael?
He hadn't trembled once.
He hadn't surrendered.
Not yet, and I'm ready to see how long it can last. If he's not like the rest that act all cutesy and daring to him because of the power he holds.
As the car stilled beneath the archway of the front hall, I finally turned my full attention to him.
"The top floor is yours," I said, quiet but steady. "You'll have privacy. No one enters without your permission."
He didn't answer.
But he heard me.
You can always tell when someone hears you—not by where they look, but how the stillness deepens after your words pass.
He wasn't ignoring me.
He was choosing not to respond.
Spite, maybe. Or strategy. Or both.
What exactly did they raise in that house?
Whatever it was… it wasn't tame.
And truth be told?
I've never really liked well-behaved things.