The walk to Vane's private office felt like a march to an execution.
The estate's library was vast, but Vane's inner sanctum was different. It was smaller, windowless, and lined with dark, obsidian-colored wood that seemed to swallow the light from the single green-shaded lamp on the desk. It smelled of ancient ink, expensive scotch, and the heavy, masculine scent that Ren now associated with his own captivity.
Vane didn't sit. He walked to a small bar in the corner, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass. The ice clinked—a sharp, cold sound in the silence.
"Drink," Vane said, not looking back. "Your hands are still shaking. It's distracting."
"I don't want to drink," Ren said, his voice small but steady. He stood by the door, his emerald silk robe feeling like a target.
Vane turned, the glass in his hand. He didn't move toward Ren; he simply watched him.
"You've spent your whole life fighting, haven't you, Ren? Fighting the cold, fighting the hunger, fighting the men who looked at you like a meal. It must be exhausting."
Ren didn't answer. He couldn't. Vane was peeling back his layers without even touching him.
"And now," Vane continued, stepping into the pool of light by the desk, "you're trying to fight me. But here is the difference: I am the only person in the world who doesn't want to discard you. I want to keep you. I want to polish you until you forget you ever lived in the dirt."
Vane set the glass down and picked up a heavy, leather-bound book—the ledger. He opened it to a page near the back, where Ren's father's name was written in sharp, black ink. He took a pen and, with one smooth motion, drew a line through the entire page.
"The debt is not your problem anymore," Vane murmured. "Your father is a ghost. You are the only thing left on the balance sheet."
He walked toward Ren then, his footsteps silent on the heavy rug. He stopped so close that the heat radiating from his body made Ren's skin prickle. Vane reached out, his fingers tracing the bandage on Ren's hand.
"Does it hurt?" Vane asked, his voice deceptively gentle.
"Yes," Ren whispered.
"Good. Pain is a reminder that you're alive. It's a reminder that you belong to someone who can make it stop."
Vane's hand moved up, his fingers sliding into Ren's hair, tilting his head back. The power in Vane's gaze was suffocating.
"Julian thinks he loves you. But Julian is a boy who loves a sunset because it's pretty. I am a man who loves the storm because I know how to survive it. Do you understand the difference?"
"You're... you're a monster," Ren choked out, his eyes wet.
"I am the monster who keeps the other monsters away from your door," Vane countered, his thumb grazing Ren's lower lip. "And for that, I require total transparency.
No secrets. No lies. No hidden corners of your heart that I don't own."
Vane leaned down, his lips inches from Ren's. "Tonight, you will go to your room.
You will sleep in the silk I bought you. And you will dream of me. Not because you want to, but because I am the only reality you have left."
He released Ren so suddenly that Ren stumbled back against the door. Vane turned back to his desk as if the conversation was over, as if he hadn't just dismantled Ren's entire soul.
"Go, Ren," Vane said, his voice cold and professional again. "Elias is waiting outside to show you to your permanent quarters. Try to get some rest. Tomorrow, we begin the preparations for the wedding. There is much to be done to make you look like a Blackwood."
Ren turned the handle, his fingers fumbling with the brass. He stepped out into the hallway, his heart thundering. He felt marked. He felt seen.
And as he walked away, he realized with a shudder that he hadn't even looked at the glass of scotch Vane had offered. He was already drunk on the fear.