The morning sun fought to penetrate the heavy velvet curtains of Vane's chambers.
Ren lay draped across Vane's chest, his fingers tracing the jagged ritual scars on the man's torso. The house felt different now—cleaner, yet more suffocating. The "Scarred Men" were a memory, their threat buried in the shallow graves Vane had dug during his week away.
"Vane?" Ren whispered, his voice small in the vastness of the room.
"Speak, Little Bird," Vane murmured, his hand sliding possessively down Ren's spine.
"The debt... You have taken care of it, right? And also Julian is... dealt with." Ren hesitated, his heart thudding against Vane's ribs. "My father. You said he was safe. You said he was being cared for. I need to see him. Just once. Just to know that the air he breathes is real."
Vane went still. The air in the room seemed to drop several degrees. He caught Ren's chin, forcing him to look up into those stormy, obsidian eyes.
"You are asking to look back at the world you abandoned," Vane said, his voice a low, warning rumble. "You are asking for a glimpse of the 'before.' Everything has a price in this house, Ren. Especially a request that pulls your gaze away from me."
"I'll pay it," Ren breathed, desperation coloring his tone. "Anything."
Vane leaned in, his lips brushing against Ren's ear, his voice dropping to a predatory silk. "A glimpse for a sacrifice. I will take you to see him. You will not speak. You will not touch the glass. You will watch him for ten minutes, and then you will return here."
Vane's grip tightened on Ren's waist, pulling him flush against his heat.
"And for that ten minutes of his life, you will give me three days of yours. You will not leave this bed. You will not wear clothes. You will be my feast, my plaything, my absolute prisoner. I will have you until you forget your own father's name, until the only thing your body remembers is the shape of mine. Do you accept the toll?"
Ren felt a shiver of terror and electric anticipation. Three days of total surrender. Three days of being dismantled by the man who owned him.
"I accept," Ren whispered.
The trip was a blur of tinted windows and high-security gates. Vane took him to a private medical estate on the coast—a place of white marble and silent nurses.
Ren stood behind a one-way mirror, his breath fogging the glass. On the other side, his father sat in a garden chair, a blanket over his legs, reading a book. He looked older, thinner, but his face was peaceful. He looked like a man who believed his son was happily married and safe.
Ren pressed his palm against the glass, a sob catching in his throat. Ten minutes felt like ten seconds.
"Time is up," Vane's voice came from the shadows behind him. A heavy hand settled on Ren's shoulder, turning him away from the window. "You have seen your father. You have seen that he is whole. Now..."
Vane's eyes flared with a dark, hungry promise.
"...it is time for my reward."
The return to the estate was silent. The moment the doors to the Master's wing closed and the heavy iron bolt slid home, the world ceased to exist.
Vane didn't waste time with gentleness. He stripped the emerald silk from Ren's body, leaving him exposed in the center of the massive, charcoal-sheeted bed. The fireplace roared, casting orange light over Vane's powerful form as he shed his own clothes, looking like a god of old demanding his due.
"Three days, Ren," Vane growled, climbing onto the bed and hovering over him, his presence a physical weight. "Seventy-two hours where you belong to no one but the man who bought you twice over."
The first day was a blur of heat and dominance. Vane was relentless, exploring every inch of Ren's skin as if he were re-mapping a conquered territory. He claimed Ren's mouth, his throat, the hollow of his hips, leaving marks that would last long after the three days were over. Ren was a mess of gasps and arched backs, his fingers digging into Vane's shoulders, his mind spinning into a void where only Vane's touch was real.
By the second day, Ren lost track of time.
The room was a sanctuary of sweat, musk, and the low, guttural sounds of Vane's satisfaction. Vane fed him fruit and wine by hand, only to pin him down again, demanding more, taking everything Ren had to give and then pushing for more. Ren was no longer a person; he was a sensation, a living instrument played by a master who knew every string.
On the third night, as the storm outside matched the intensity within the room, Ren lay exhausted, his body humming with a deep, aching fulfillment. Vane was behind him, his arm draped heavily over Ren's waist, his breath hot against the nape of Ren's neck.
"Do you still think of the window, Little Bird?" Vane whispered, his voice thick with the afterglow of their union.
Ren turned in the circle of Vane's arms, his eyes dazed and devoted. The image of his father was a fading photograph, a ghost from a life he no longer recognized.
"No," Ren breathed, pulling Vane's hand to his lips. "There is no window. There is only this."
Vane smiled—a slow, triumphant look. He had won. He had cleared the board. Julian was in the deep, the enemy was in the dirt, and the masterpiece was finally, irrevocably, content in his cage.