CYPRIAN
Our eyes locked the moment he lifted me off the bed. His face was contorted—brows raised, like he was seeing something too alluring for his own good. My breath caught, panic and confusion flooding through me, but my body was weak, too wracked with pain to fight back. I could only clutch at him uselessly as he carried me toward the bathroom.
The room was beautiful, though I barely registered more than flashes of marble and gold. Even in my dazed state, I couldn't help but notice the elegance, the meticulous architectural design of the place. A mansion meant for men like him, not for boys like me.
I was still wearing the same short gown—buttons running from top to bottom. When he set me down by the sink, I pressed my back against the wall, heart pounding, not daring to push him away. It would have been useless anyway. There was no chance I could overpower him.
For a brief moment, I prayed he wouldn't do what I feared he was about to do. But like every other hope I'd clung to that day, it was crushed before it could even take shape.
He tilted my chin, his thumb brushing over my cheek. Then he kissed me.
I froze. His lips grazed mine, moved to my chin, then returned to suck gently on my bottom lip. I felt dizzy—like I might faint. When my stomach fluttered involuntarily against his touch, fear sharpened through me. I needed to stop this. Even though I knew, deep down, that if he wanted to take what he wanted, nothing I did could stop him.
He moaned quietly against my lips, and I shivered, panic taking over. "Stop. Please," I whispered, weakly pushing at his chest.
He let go of my chin and stepped back slightly. I exhaled, my lungs aching from how hard I'd been holding my breath.
"Let me clean you up," he murmured, wiping my lips with his thumb. His fingers moved to the buttons on my gown.
He undid the first three buttons, revealing the thin undershirt beneath. His eyes darkened, hunger flashing in them, and terror twisted inside me. I grabbed his hands instinctively. "I can—I can freshen up by myself," I stuttered, my hands small and trembling in his.
He didn't respond. He just frowned, staring at me like he was debating something. When I tried to pull his hands away, something in him snapped.
He grabbed both my wrists with one hand and forced them behind my back. I shivered at the effortless strength in his grip.
"Don't bite off more than you can chew," he warned quietly, his voice low and edged with something dangerous. His eyes told me everything I needed to know: don't fight him. Don't test him. Or I would regret it.
"Let me," he repeated. My heart pounded as I nodded in reluctant submission.
He unfastened the remaining buttons, letting the gown fall open. I was left standing in my undershirt and boxers, my body trembling with humiliation. I had never been this exposed in front of anyone.
Then his eyes dropped to my stomach—to the angry red mark where Ortega had punched me earlier. His fingers brushed the bruise softly, almost tenderly.
"Soft boy," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
I swallowed hard, the sting of tears blurring my vision. His hands moved to my sides, then up my back. I flinched when he reached to remove the undershirt, and he paused, sensing my fear. For once, he didn't force it. He slid his own shirt off instead, the muscles of his chest flexing, but when his hands reached for his waistband, I shook my head sharply.
"Stop," I whispered. "Don't."
To my surprise, he listened. He left his boxers on, his dark eyes flicking back to my face.
"Look at me," he ordered softly, his hand moving to my chin again.
I squeezed my eyes shut, too ashamed to meet his gaze. I felt detached from my own body—like I was hovering outside myself, watching it all from far away.
"Please," I sobbed. "Let me go."
"Open your eyes. Now," he growled, and my heart slammed painfully against my ribs. My eyes snapped open instantly.
"Don't disobey me again, Cyprian," he said through clenched teeth. He tucked a stray lock of my hair behind my ear, his expression softening slightly. I instinctively tried to cover myself, but he slapped my hands away, his voice turning dangerously low.
"Why are you ashamed? You're perfect."
I choked back another sob as his hands roamed—rough, possessive. I shuddered uncontrollably. My body was betraying me. Heat twisted low in my belly, my breathing ragged and shallow. I hated myself for it. For the way my skin tingled beneath his touch.
He kissed my neck, lingering there. "You're beautiful," he whispered.
His hands skimmed my chest but stopped when I tensed, when my breath hitched in panic. This time, he didn't push further. He rested his forehead against my neck instead, his breathing as uneven as mine.
For long, silent minutes we stayed like that. Neither of us moved. The only sound was our breathing, harsh and shaky.
Finally, he pulled back and carried me over to the tub. He washed me without saying another word, the tension between us thick and suffocating. His touch was gentle this time, almost clinical.
When he was done, he carried me back to the bed. I saw then the dent in his pants, the proof of how much control he was barely hanging onto. My heart thudded painfully.
He threw me a large shirt—his, I guessed. "Put this on," he said quietly.
I pulled the oversized shirt over my head with shaking hands. It nearly reached my knees. At least now I wasn't fully exposed.
He stepped close again, took my hands in his. "Don't try to run," he murmured, voice soft but lethal.
Then he disappeared into the bathroom.
I waited until the door clicked shut before I moved. My mother. My brothers. They would be looking for me. My aunt must have called them. They'd be worried sick. I had to get out. I had to try.
Even though fear clawed at me, I couldn't let it swallow me whole.
I stood, carefully placing my feet on the floor without making a sound. I tiptoed to the window. It was open. We were only on the first floor. The house sprawled outward more than it stretched upward.
I was going to jump.