Elian’s heart hammered. He stood rigid beside the massive animal, fists clenched at his sides.
So, the black horse that kept him company in the times he slept in the stable belonged to Lucien—of course.
The thought of being pressed against Lucien for the entire ride—trapped in that closeness, surrounded by his scent, his heat, his unrelenting control—made his stomach twist with a confusing mix of dread and something far more treacherous.
Lucien moved first, mounting the stallion with effortless grace, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he settled into the saddle. From above, he extended one gloved hand down to Elian, palm up, expression unreadable but his green eyes burning with quiet intensity.
"Take my hand."
Elian hesitated, staring at the offered hand like it might burn him. His pulse thundered in his ears. He could feel the others watching—Rowan’s concerned frown, Soren’s careful silence. Shame and resentment coiled tight in his chest, but so did something else: the slow, unwelcome pull that always seemed to draw him back into Lucien’s orbit no matter how hard he fought.
After a long, charged beat, Elian reached up. Their hands met—Lucien’s grip strong, sure, pulling him up with surprising gentleness. Elian swung his leg over the horse’s back, but as he tried to settle behind Lucien, the Duke shifted slightly, making space yet ensuring Elian had no choice but to press close.
Lucien’s arm came around him, one hand steady on the reins, the other resting lightly at Elian’s waist to balance him as the horse began to move. The contact was searing. Elian’s back molded against Lucien’s broad chest, the hard planes of muscle unyielding behind him. Every breath Lucien took brushed warm air against the nape of Elian’s neck. The slow, rhythmic sway of the horse forced their bodies to move together, thigh pressed to thigh, heat building where they touched.
Elian kept his spine rigid, fighting the instinct to lean back into that solid strength. His hands gripped the saddle edge tightly, knuckles white.
"This isn’t necessary," he whispered harshly, his voice barely audible over the horse’s hooves.
Lucien smirked slowly; he was finally getting something out of Elian. His only response was a low hum, his fingers pressing a fraction firmer against Elian’s waist—not restraining, but anchoring. The touch lingered, deliberate and slow, sending sparks of unwanted awareness through Elian’s body.
The chemistry between them crackled in the silence: the reluctant yield of Elian’s frame, the quiet possession in Lucien’s hold, the way neither could fully ignore the other even amid the pain and hatred.
The village path stretched ahead under the sun, but for Elian, the only thing that existed was the man behind him—inescapable, overwhelming, and far too close.
They passed through the thick woods, trees shading them from the sun as they traveled. Rowan and Chester were speaking about something; Soren was quietly riding while glancing every now and then toward Lucien and Elian.
Elian felt suffocated by Lucien’s presence behind him; he couldn’t escape it, and not once did Lucien’s hand on his waist move. At some point, he believed that Lucien deliberately pressed him closer to his front, but the lack of expression on Lucien’s face made it hard for anyone to tell what he was up to.
"I have a cabin, up north," Lucien whispered so only Elian could hear.
But Elian did not reply. He straightened his back further and turned his face to Rowan and Chester, who were conversing.
’What’s my concern with your cabin?’ Elian mentally rolled his eyes.
Lucien gritted his teeth, veins rippling along his arms as his grip tightened on the reins. He was losing his goddamned mind, and if anyone told him he’d be seeking attention from Elian at the start, he would have stabbed them, but here he was, trying everything possible to have Elian speak to him... even if it were a curse word, he would mind.
He realized he was fading away; before Elian, he was simply a duke, giving orders, hosting political meetings, commanding respect. But the moment Elian showed up, it felt like he slowly started to step out of his gripping dark shadow, becoming more human, learning how those emotions work all over again.
Suddenly, he shut it down—Elian. Elian shut down the only thing that was giving real purpose to Lucien—his emotions. He left Lucien grappling, drowning, and Lucien did not think he could crawl back to that darkness, for he knew he could no longer be at peace with it as he used to.
After what seemed like forever of listening to the steady hooves of horses tapping the ground, Elian finally saw the twin broad paths that led straight to the village market and the village, while the other one led to the townhalls and more sustainable accommodations for the upper class.
"Where do we go, Elian?" Chester asked beside them, gently pulling the reins of his horse.
Elian didn’t think twice and pointed toward the townhall path. He did not think these noble men would want anything to do with the villages or markets.
"That’s the townhalls and selective accommodations. Do you want to host a meeting with a village chef?" Lucien asked slowly behind Elian.
Chester knitted his brows, "What? No. Your manor is already boring enough, I need to see people with color." He turned to Elian, "Then, that path?" He smiled, pointing toward the village market path.
Elian sighed, wishing he could shove Lucien down from the horse. He took a deep breath and nodded, refusing to speak anymore.
As their horses trudged toward the village, Elian didn’t know how to feel. He was both excited and sad, going back to a place he called home, but the people who made it ’home’ were no longer there. It felt like he was stepping into a strange land, one he wasn’t familiar with. Nevertheless, it was home—an unfamiliar home.
The village market was a cacophony of sound and color as they arrived. The setting sun hung low, a bleeding orange orb that cast long, distorted shadows across the cobblestones, bathing the boisterous crowd in a harsh, twilight glow. It was the hour where the village usually wound down, but the arrival of the Duke’s party brought a fresh, frantic energy.
People scrambled to clear the path, bowing low with exaggerated displays of deference. But as the Duke passed, the air grew thick with a different kind of tension.
"Look at him," a woman whispered, her voice barely a thread, yet it cut through the din like a blade. "Daring to show his face in the village square. After what his father did."
"And he sits so comfortably with the Duke," a man muttered, his eyes narrowing with venom. "A traitor’s son. It’s the Duke’s mercy that keeps him breathing at all, let alone riding a royal stallion."
"The Duke is a saint to let a dog like that walk among us," another agreed, loud enough to be heard. "He should be in the dungeon with the rest of the rebels."
Each word landed on Elian like a physical blow. He felt the heat rise from his neck to his cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from a blistering, jagged hatred. He stared ahead, his knuckles white against the horse’s mane, his jaw aching from how hard he was clenching it. He risked a glance at Lucien, who sat unnervingly still.
’This is it,’ Elian thought, a bitter bile rising in his throat. ’He chose this route on purpose. He wants me to hear them. He wants to remind me that I have no one, that I am nothing but a dog on his leash, and that the only thing protecting me from them is the hand of the man who ruined me.’
Lucien heard the taunts, and with every word, a cold, suffocating weight settled in his chest. He was the one who had nurtured this hatred; he had painted Elian as a villain to secure his own authority. Now, he wanted to reach out, to silence the crowd, to draw his sword against any man who dared call Elian a dog—but he couldn’t. To defend Elian would be to dismantle the very foundation of his rule. He was trapped in the cage of his own making, and the irony tasted like ash. He felt an intense, possessive urge to shield Elian from the world, yet he knew he was the one who had cast the first stone.
"We stop here," Lucien said, his voice unusually strained.
They dismounted in front of a rustic inn that smelled of roasted meat and stale ale. The transition from the open road to the crowded interior of the tavern was jarring. The moment they entered, the ambient chatter died down, replaced by a wall of cold, suspicious stares.
Lucien led them to a corner table. He didn’t let go of Elian’s arm until they were seated, his fingers lingering on the fabric of Elian’s sleeve for a heartbeat too long. He sat opposite him, his green eyes fixated on Elian’s face, searching for a tremor, a sign of weakness, or perhaps, for the first time, a plea for him to make it stop.
Elian sat with his hands folded in his lap, his gaze fixed on the rough-hewn wood of the table. He could feel the eyes of the villagers burning into his back, and he could feel Lucien’s heavy, unrelenting stare pinning him to his chair.
"Order what you like," Lucien said, his voice dropping into a low, private register meant only for Elian.
"I’m not hungry," Elian replied, his voice devoid of life.
Lucien’s hand twitched, a sudden, sharp desire to reach across the table and demand a reaction—anything to break this terrifying wall of indifference. He looked around the room, seeing the villagers whispering behind their hands, watching them like they were watching a predator play with its food. He realized then that he couldn’t stand the way they looked at Elian—not because of the hatred, but because he realized, with a shock of guilt, that he was the reason they saw Elian as something less than human.
He leaned forward, his voice a dangerous murmur. "Elian. Eat."
Elian didn’t look up. He simply stared at the candle flickering between them, the flame dancing in his hollow blue eyes, and for a fleeting moment, he looked so much like a ghost that Lucien felt his own heart skip, realizing he might have finally succeeded in hollowing out the only man he had ever truly wanted to possess.
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