The ride back from the gala was not silent; it was deafening. The only sound was the rhythmic tapping of Soren's fingers against the leather armrest, a sound like a ticking time bomb. Viktor was curled into the corner of the opposite seat, a damp handkerchief pressed to his "injured" ankle, his jasmine scent amplified by his fake tears.
Mika sat frozen, staring at the floor. He could feel Soren's amber eyes burning into the side of his head—not with the heat of desire he had felt that morning, but with a cold, sharp edge of betrayal.
When the limousine pulled into the mansion's gates, Soren didn't wait for the driver. He stepped out and reached back in, but he didn't reach for Mika. He scooped Viktor up in his arms.
"Take yourself to the room, Mika," Soren said, his voice dropping into a register so low it made the hair on Mika's neck stand up. "Do not leave. Do not speak. Wait for me."
The Waiting Torture
Mika sat in the center of the massive, black-silk bed, his midnight-blue suit jacket discarded on the floor. The mansion was too quiet. Every minute felt like an hour. He kept thinking about what Viktor had whispered—that Soren had taken a bullet for his childhood sweetheart. The guilt was a physical weight in his stomach, clashing with the rage he felt at being framed.
Finally, the door clicked open.
Soren stepped in, stripping off his own blazer and tossing it aside. He didn't look like a CEO or a King anymore; he looked like a primal Alpha. The air in the room instantly shifted, becoming thick with the scent of Dark Bourbon and Ash.
"Viktor has a sprain," Soren said, walking toward the bed with slow, predatory steps. "The doctor says he'll be fine, but he's terrified. He says you told him you'd kill him if he touched my hand again."
The Defiant Spark
Mika stood up, his silver hair messy, his violet eyes flashing with a dangerous light. He didn't care that he was still weak. He was tired of being the victim.
"And you believe him?" Mika challenged, stepping into Soren's space. "You've known me for weeks, Soren. You marked me in blood. You saw how I was in the bath this morning—I could barely stand! How could I have the strength to throw a grown man down a flight of stairs?"
Soren grabbed Mika's waist, pulling him so close their chests collided. "He's family, Mika. He's been by my side since we were children. He has no reason to lie."
"He has every reason!" Mika shouted, his hands slamming against Soren's broad chest. "He wants you! He wants this life! He told me I was a mistake. He told me I was just a price tag to you."
The Spicy Confrontation
Soren's grip tightened, his fingers bruising the silk of Mika's shirt. He backed Mika up until the boy's calves hit the edge of the bed, forcing him down. Soren loomed over him, his knees pinning Mika's legs, his face inches away.
"You're right about one thing, Little Jasmine," Soren hissed, his thumb dragging roughly over the bite mark on Mika's neck, making Mika gasp. "You are a price tag. I bought you. I own every tear you cry and every breath you take. So why are you making me choose between my blood and my property?"
"Because your 'blood' is a snake!" Mika spat, his breath hitching as Soren's hand moved from his neck to the buttons of his shirt.
Soren didn't argue. Instead, he leaned down and bit—hard—on the collarbone opposite the original mark. It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a re-claiming. Mika cried out, his back arching, his fingers digging into the tattoos on Soren's shoulders.
"You think you're so stubborn," Soren groaned against his skin, his voice thick with a dark, twisted lust. "You think you can challenge me because I saved your life? Because I took a bullet for that boy you used to love?"
Mika froze. "You... you knew about him?"
"I know everything," Soren rasped, his hands moving with a frantic, possessive energy, stripping the silk away until Mika was exposed to the cool air and Soren's burning gaze. "I didn't save him for you. I saved him so you wouldn't have an excuse to ever leave me. I bought your debt, I bought your past, and tonight... I'm going to make sure you remember who bought your future."
The Mark of Submission
The "talk" Soren promised wasn't a conversation. It was an interrogation of the senses. Soren used his body to drown out Mika's protests, his kisses tasting of salt and fury. Every time Mika tried to speak, Soren silenced him with a kiss that felt more like a conquest.
He forced Mika to look into the mirror across from the bed—to see the dark violet marks, the messy silver hair, and the way Soren's large, scarred hands completely covered his own.
"Look at yourself," Soren commanded, his voice a dark rumble in Mika's ear. "Tell me whose name is written on your skin."
Mika's eyes were hazy, his body betrayed by the very Alpha he claimed to hate. He felt the heat of Soren's skin, the vibration of his voice, and the terrifying safety of being completely, utterly possessed.
"Soren..." Mika whimpered, his head falling back against Soren's shoulder.
"Say it," Soren demanded, his teeth grazing Mika's earlobe.
"Yours," Mika sobbed, his eyes closing as he finally surrendered to the dark tide. "I'm yours."
Soren smirked—the same dark, satisfied smirk from the morning. He turned Mika around, pinning his wrists above his head against the headboard. "Good. Because tomorrow, Viktor is staying in this mansion to recover. And if I see you glare at him even once... I'll make sure you can't leave this bed for a week."