The first morning of Ren Laurent's new life didn't begin with the soft chime of a servant's bell or the smell of expensive Earl Grey. It began with the screech of a distant freight train and the persistent, rhythmic dripping of a leaky pipe in the corner of Jace's studio.
Ren stirred, his body feeling heavy and pleasantly exhausted. The air in the warehouse was cold, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the body pressed against his back. Jace was still asleep, his breathing deep and steady, his arm draped over Ren's waist like a physical anchor.
Ren opened his eyes and stared at the exposed brick wall just inches from his face. It wasn't marble. It wasn't perfect. It was gritty, stained with age, and absolutely beautiful.
He tried to shift, but Jace's grip tightened instinctively, a low, sleepy mumble vibrating against Ren's shoulder blade.
"Don't go," Jace rasped, his voice thick with sleep.
"I'm just... looking," Ren whispered, turning in the small circle of Jace's arms to face him.
In the harsh, gray light filtering through the industrial windows, Jace looked less like a predator and more like a boy. The shadows under his eyes were prominent, a testament to the three months he'd spent haunting the gates of the Laurent estate. Ren reached up, his fingers tracing the line of Jace's jaw, marveling at the fact that he was actually allowed to touch him without a timer running down.
"You're staring, Princess," Jace murmured, his eyes flickering open. The smirk that followed was slow and wicked, the "Sanctuary" vibe from the night before rushing back in an instant.
"I've had a lot of time to practice staring at walls," Ren countered. "This is an upgrade."
Jace hauled him closer, his hands sliding down to Ren's hips. "Get used to it. No more velvet curtains. No more tuxedos. Just me and this drafty-ass room."
But as the morning progressed, the "Sanctuary" began to show its cracks.
Ren realized quickly that "freedom" had a price he hadn't accounted for. When he went to wash his face, the water was ice-cold. When he looked for breakfast, the "kitchen" was a hot plate and a half-empty box of cereal. He stood in the middle of the room, wearing one of Jace's oversized black hoodies, feeling like a fish that had jumped out of a gold-plated bowl into a turbulent river.
"What's wrong?" Jace asked, leaning against his drum throne as he watched Ren.
"Nothing," Ren said quickly. "I just... I've never had to think about where the heat comes from."
Jace's expression softened, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. "I told you it wasn't a palace. If you want to go back—"
"No." Ren's voice was firm. He walked over to Jace, his bare feet hitting the cold floorboards. "I'd rather freeze here with you than breathe in that house for one more second."
Jace pulled him down onto his lap, his hands vanishing under the hem of the hoodie. "Good. Because the world is already looking for you."
He handed Ren his phone. The screen was a chaotic mess of notifications. #TheLosingProdigy was trending. The video of Ren walking off the Royal Albert Hall stage had three million views. News outlets were calling it the "Greatest Scandal in Classical History."
But it was the email at the top of the list that made Ren's heart stop.
FROM: Laurent Legal Group
SUBJECT: Formal Notice of Property Recovery
"He's not coming for me," Ren whispered, his eyes wide. "He's coming for the things I took."
"What did you take?" Jace asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Nothing," Ren said. "Except... myself. And he considers me his property."
The morning peace was officially dead. Jace stood up, his protective instincts flaring. "He can send every lawyer in London. They don't have the address. And even if they did, they're not taking you back."
But Arthur Laurent didn't play with lawyers alone. As Ren looked out the window, he saw a silver sedan idling at the end of the block. It didn't look like a police car. It looked like a cage on wheels.
The intensity of the previous night—the sweat, the moans, the absolute surrender—was suddenly replaced by the sharp, metallic taste of fear. Jace saw the car too. He walked over to the workbench and picked up a heavy drumstick, his knuckles white.
"Stay behind the drums," Jace commanded, his voice a low, dangerous frequency.
"Jace, don't," Ren begged. "If you get into a fight, they'll use your record against you. They'll send you back to jail."
"Let them try," Jace hissed. "I'm done losing to your father, Ren. It's time he loses to me."
The door to the studio didn't burst open. There was a single, rhythmic knock. Polite. Persistent.
Ren stood frozen, his heart hammering a rhythm that no drum could ever match. The "Sanctuary" was under siege, and the only weapon they had was each other.