Leonhart didn't speak the next morning.
He sat at the table, coffee in hand, suit sharp, gaze distant. Elian served breakfast like nothing had changed—even though everything had.
The night before had been intense. Not just physically. Leonhart had touched him like a man starved, like he didn't know whether to devour Elian or fall to his knees in front of him.
But today, he was silent. Controlled. Or pretending to be.
Elian sat across from him, picking at a slice of dry toast.
Then Leonhart finally spoke. "You're not what I expected."
"I get that a lot."
He didn't look up. "Do you want to know why I chose you?"
"No."
That made Leonhart's mouth twitch—half smile, half warning.
"You were the only applicant who didn't try to flatter me," he said. "No bowing. No thank you. Just that one sentence on your form."
Elian remembered it.
> I'm not here to please you. I'm here to finish a job.
"I liked that," Leonhart murmured. "I like knowing someone can serve without worship."
Elian let a small smile play on his lips. "Then you'll love the ending."
Leonhart's gaze sharpened.
---
Later that day, Elian found an unlocked drawer in the office.
It wasn't deliberate. Not really. He was tidying the shelves when he saw it—slightly open, like an invitation.
Inside: a folded letter. A legal document. Some kind of shareholder agreement with a name he didn't recognize but would memorize.
Next to it: a photo. A younger Leonhart, barely twenty, standing next to an older man with cold eyes. A man with the same jawline. Same cruelty.
Father.
There was handwriting on the back of the photo:
> You'll never be enough unless you take it all.
Elian closed the drawer.
Not because he was afraid.
But because he had leverage now.
---
That night, Leonhart returned later than usual. He smelled of smoke and money and bitterness.
"Elian," he called.
Elian appeared quietly, wearing only the white shirt again—bare thighs, pale skin, soft eyes. He walked toward Leonhart with deliberate grace.
"You're late."
Leonhart froze.
It wasn't the words. It was the tone.
Soft. Chiding. Like he was the servant.
"I had a meeting."
"You didn't text."
Leonhart's brow twitched. "Do I need permission to leave my own penthouse?"
"No," Elian said. "But I thought we were being honest now."
Leonhart laughed once. Bitter. "You think this is honesty?"
Elian stepped closer. No fear in his eyes. Just that dangerous calm.
He slid a hand up Leonhart's chest, slow and featherlight. "You're the one who keeps touching me like you want something real."
Then he rose onto his toes—and kissed him first.
A soft, slow kiss. No struggle. No moaning. Just pressure. Control.
Leonhart didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
When Elian pulled away, he smiled faintly. "Still think I'm not in charge?"
And then he walked away, leaving Leonhart standing there like a statue that had just cracked down the center.
---
Chapter 7 Preview:
Leonhart becomes addicted to Elian's affection—but starts realizing something's wrong.
A second 18+ encounter happens, more intense and emotionally twisted.
Elian finds out how close the end is—and how dangerous it will be to leave.