Cyprian's Pov
"Tell me your name," Black Tiger commanded.
I swallowed hard. There was something about the way he spoke—slow, careful, the deep smoothness of his voice, the cleanness of his words—that sent a shiver racing down my spine. And I knew it wasn't just admiration for it.
I hated the way it made me feel. My chest was tight. My palms were cold. I couldn't tell if I was terrified or if it was something else entirely, something far worse.
I looked away from him, my face burning with shame. Disgust churned in my gut—disgust at myself. Why the hell was I reacting like this? I was supposed to hate this. I had to hate this. I was supposed to fight, to resist, no matter how hopeless it was.
Even if I was chained down, even if I had no way out, I wasn't supposed to just sit there and take it.
My wrists ached where the restraints dug into my skin. The room smelled of leather, expensive cologne, and something heavier, darker—him. Somewhere beyond these walls, I knew the house was crawling with his men, any one of them ready to shoot me without blinking. I had no chance. No real escape.
But still… still I burned to move, to pull away, to be something more than this. To be a man.
"You don't have to tell me your name," he murmured, like he could read my silence, my confusion. His voice dipped lower, almost teasing. "I'll call you Fine boy instead. Do you like that?"
"No," I spat through clenched teeth, the word ripping out of me like he'd slapped me.
He chuckled, clearly amused by how much it rattled me. "So then, boy—what's your name?"
I said nothing. My teeth ground together as I stared past him, locking my eyes on the wall behind his head.
Then, without warning, he reached for the rope binding me to the bed. My heart slammed so hard against my ribs it physically hurt. Panic tore through me, sharp and blinding, my breath catching in my throat. But instead of pulling it tighter, he untied me.
The second the knot came loose, the pain in my stomach returned—violent, unforgiving—and I doubled over, gagging.
I threw up right there over the white duvet, my body convulsing as I retched helplessly, tears burning down my cheeks. The sharp, twisting agony in my stomach made it impossible to breathe, impossible to think, impossible to be.
Black Tiger stood back at first, unmoving, just watching as I shook and heaved. But when I didn't stop—when the spasms kept tearing through me—he finally stepped forward. Without a word, he began to pat my back, steady and impersonal, his hand oddly careful until the shaking subsided and my body finally went still.
As the nausea eased, I wiped my mouth with a trembling hand, heat rising in my cheeks, shame flooding me like poison.
"Sorry," I whispered hoarsely, the word barely more than breath.
"It's fine," he said, his tone flat, unreadable.
Then, without warning, he leaned in and slid his arms under me. I flinched, weakly trying to move away, but his hand clamped around my wrist, pressing it down with quiet strength.
"You're going to make a mess," he murmured, his voice low, clinical, detached.
I froze as he lifted me again—effortless, unbothered. Just like before. And just like before, the shame crashed over me, hot and suffocating, filling every hollow space inside me. I hated the weightlessness. Hated how easily he could touch me, move me, how small it made me feel. Fragile. Exposed.
Like…
"W-what are you doing?" I stammered, panic surging sharp and cold, my heart pounding as he carried me without pause.
"Taking you to the bathroom, as you can see," he murmured, his voice disturbingly calm, almost conversational, as he carried me toward a large door at the far end of the room. "You've made a mess everywhere. If I hadn't already killed Ortega, I would've done it now. He should have known you were a soft boy."
"I'm not a soft boy," I said at once, the words snapping out raw, shaky, defensive—too fast, too desperate.
But he said nothing. He just kept walking, holding me like I weighed nothing at all.
"That's not what your body is telling me right now," he mocked.
I wanted to say something—anything—as he pushed the bathroom door open, but my heart was slamming so violently against my ribs it felt like it might burst through. The pain in my stomach knotted tight, making it impossible to fight, to speak, to be anything but still.
I wanted to push him away. I wanted to tell him to let me go. I wanted to move, to do something.
But my body just… froze.
"Cyprian," I whispered suddenly. The name broke from my lips rough and dry, my voice cracking like gravel scraped across stone, just as we crossed into the bathroom. It barely sounded like my own voice at all.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to clear it, but the word still came out weak. Somehow—deep down—I knew it was better to tell him my name than let him keep calling me Fine boy.
His brows lifted slightly in quiet surprise.
"Cyprian," he repeated softly, rolling the name over his tongue like he was tasting it. Then, faintly—barely—he smiled.
"A church boy," he murmured, amusement curling through his words, threaded with something darker, something that made my skin prickle and my blood run cold.