The "permanent quarters" were not the guest suite.
Ren was led to the third floor, to a room that sat directly across from the Master's wing. It was a masterpiece of opulence—a four-poster bed draped in charcoal velvet, a fireplace already roaring with orange flames, and windows that looked out over the jagged cliffs and the black sea beyond.
But as Ren lay in the center of the massive bed, he felt like a speck of dust in a cathedral.
What's going to happen now?
The house was too quiet. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like a footstep. Every whistle of the wind felt like a whisper. He stared at the ceiling, the emerald silk of his robe bunched up around his waist, his mind replaying the feeling of Vane's hand on his thigh.
No!
He tried to think of Julian. He tried to imagine a life with the kind, blonde boy who wanted to buy him flowers. But Julian's face was blurry, washed out by the vivid, terrifying memory of Vane's stormy eyes.
Creak.
Ren sat up, his breath catching.
It came from the hallway. A slow, heavy footfall. Step. Pause. Step.
Someone is coming
Ren crept to the door, pressing his ear against the cold wood. The footsteps stopped right outside his room.
He is outside my room
He held his breath, his pulse racing in his ears. He expected a knock. He expected the door to swing open. He expected Vane to walk in and claim the debt he had just erased.
But there was no knock.
Instead, there was the faint, unmistakable click of a lighter. Then, the smell of expensive tobacco began to seep through the gap at the bottom of the door—thick, sweet, and masculine.
Vane wasn't coming in. He was just... standing there. Guarding the cage? Or watching the prey?
Why is he here?
What does he want now?
Ren slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, his head resting against the wood. On the other side, he could hear the faint, rhythmic breathing of the man who owned him.
They sat there for an hour, separated by two inches of oak. Ren didn't move. Vane didn't leave. It was an intimate, silent communion between the captor and the captive.
In the darkness of the room, Ren reached up and touched the silver thorn in his ear. He realized that Vane didn't need to lock the door. He didn't need to tie Ren down.
The obsession was the lock. And Ren was already holding the key, too terrified to turn it.
Too terrified.
Finally, the scent of tobacco faded. The footsteps receded down the hall, disappearing into the Master's wing.
Ren climbed back into bed, his body finally heavy with sleep. But as he closed his eyes, his last thought wasn't of freedom. It was a question that terrified him to his core:
Why did I want him to open the door?
What Is wrong with me?
Why do I feel this way?
No, No, I can't feel this way.