-Treasure.
Two weeks of off-duty stretched into a kind of purgatory. I had food, sleep, the best mattress money could buy, a stocked fridge, even a PlayStation glowing in the corner like some shrine to distraction, but none of it mattered. I was restless down to the bone, my body twitching for something real—work, purpose, danger. Instead, I had been turned into furniture. A thing to keep indoors. Elias' idea of care was to feed me, sit me in front of games, and pat my head like a child too fragile for the world.
It felt familiar in a way that hollowed me out. It reminded me of the interviews back at the orphanage, when couples would sit across from me with their polite smiles, tilting their heads like they were already practicing ownership. They looked at me as though I could be placed in their living room, polished and silent, a boy to complete the picture. They spoke as if I was already theirs, as if they only needed to sign a line and I would fold neatly into their world. But it never happened. Not once. I was left behind every time, another child too restless, too sharp at the edges, not pliant enough to be chosen.
Now this—this mansion, this life of being kept indoors, fed on time, entertained with toys, handled when he wanted me close—it wasn't much different. I was housed, I was maintained, but never really seen. It was the same loop in a gilded cage: eating, sleeping, fucking, existing like an object polished for display.
Elias had his little obsession too—my hair. He liked to thread his fingers through it as though it was his claim, and when I'd let him do it once, thinking maybe it would silence him, it only emboldened him. Every touch since felt like a reminder: I was not a man, not his guard, not even myself. I was a toy. A pet with a leash braided from strands of my own hair.
The thought gnawed at me until one afternoon I couldn't stand it anymore. He was gone from the suite—some call, some meeting—and I found myself walking into his bedroom, my pulse steady as though I had rehearsed this. The space was too clean, too curated, as if even the air obeyed him. His bathroom mirror stared me down, bright lights buzzing above. I picked up a pair of scissors left in the drawer, the steel glint sharp as a dare.
I didn't hesitate. The first lock slid away with a crisp snap, a sound too small for how it thundered in my chest. Each snip was deliberate, the blades slicing clean, not reckless. I wasn't butchering myself; I was stripping something back, cutting down to something truer. The strands slid into the basin in soft waves, pooling dark against porcelain, as if I had shed a skin. Not tangled, not jagged—just shortened, disciplined, like I was trimming the leash he thought he held on me.
I watched my reflection with a steady hand. The face was mine, but altered in a way that made my stomach tighten. My jaw looked sharper, my eyes less hidden. The hair that had been his excuse to touch me no longer framed me in softness—it ended above my ears, clean, severe, the kind of cut that left no room for indulgence. I had taken away what he reached for, the thing he thought tethered me to his palm.
The sink filled with proof, a dark scatter of what used to define me, and I didn't sweep it away. I left it there like an offering, like a warning. Let him see what I'd done, let him feel the absence when his hand reached out and found nothing left to claim.
When I finally set the scissors down, the weight in my chest shifted. I ran a damp hand over the back of my neck, the skin strange and tender in its exposure, and felt an almost electric air rush over me. Lighter. Sharper. I had cut more than hair—I had cut through the quiet suffocation of being kept.
I walked out with my shoulders squared, not hiding, not guilty. The clipped scent of severed hair clung to my fingers, bitter and raw, and I carried it like smoke.
Minutes passed like hours. My heart beat slow, deliberate, as if saving itself for the sound of his steps. And then—footsteps. Elias' steps carried down the hall with the certainty of a man who owned the ground. I sat on his bed, arms stretched behind me, palms pressing into the silk cover, my body spelling out my defiance in the folds I left behind. The door opened, and I didn't move. He passed me without a word at first, headed toward the bathroom.
The silence that followed was longer than it should've been. Then came the sound of him stopping, sharp shoes pausing against marble. I could almost see him standing over the sink, looking down at what I had left for him. The soft hush of his breath carried back into the room, quiet but heavy, as if he had exhaled all at once.
When he reemerged, he carried no storm at first. His expression was calm, practiced, but his eyes—those were alert, searching. He looked at me like he was waiting for an explanation I'd never give freely.
"What happened?" he asked, his tone laced with sincerity, a softness he wore like a cloak. "Why would you do that?"
I let the question hang between us, unblinking. "It was mine to do."
Something in him shifted. The cloak slipped, and his voice hardened. "Do you think you get a say in anything that concerns you? You're ridiculous. To even act as though you should've done this without asking me first—"
I straightened on the bed, my voice cold, cutting the air. "Why should I ask you before cutting my own hair?"
His face twisted faintly, not in rage yet, but in disbelief at the audacity. "Because I loved your hair!"
My laugh was humorless, dry at the edges. "Loved it? And what exactly are we, Elias? Are we lovers? Am I a concubine you've tucked away? What am I to you?"
He didn't flinch. He spoke as though his words were solid law. "You're Treasure."
I scoffed, leaning forward with sharpness. "A Treasure? Your Treasure? What am I, Elias?"
For the first time, his composure cracked with something close to irritation disguised as reason. "I think you need a therapist, Treasure."
I tilted my head, my mouth twitching with a smile that wasn't a smile. "Oh, so we'll go as a couple?"
He didn't laugh. His brow dipped, and he studied me like I was speaking in riddles. "Why do you need to know what we are? Why does it matter? Aren't you happy? You eat well, you sleep in comfort, you play, you dress better than you ever have, and on top of all of that, you have me. And you know with certainty that I'm not with anyone else but you. What more do you want? Do you want me to flaunt you in public?"
I let a dry laugh escape me, hollow as stone. "How ridiculous do you think I am, to even ask for such a thing? I wouldn't want to be seen with you publicly either."
The air cracked with silence.
"Excuse me?" His voice sharpened, his eyes narrowing with the disbelief of a man who has always been obeyed.
I wiped every trace of expression from my face, leaving it blank as the wall behind me. I locked my gaze on his, steady and unyielding. "You heard me. And no, I didn't misspeak."
The moment tightened like a wire stretched too far. His jaw flexed once, twice. The shift in his posture was minute, but I felt it before it came. His hand shot forward, and the strike landed hard against my cheek, the sound cracking louder in the room than his voice ever had.
The force knocked me sideways, heat blooming under my skin, a metallic tang blooming across my tongue. For a second the world tilted, then steadied as I caught myself on the edge of the bed.
My jaw ached, my face burned, but I lifted my eyes to him again, refusing to drop them. His hand still hovered in the air, as if even he couldn't believe what he had just done.
"You do realize I can get up and hit back, right?" My voice came low, steady, the kind of steady that only comes from knowing I meant it. "Did you forget why I'm here in the first place? Self-defense is an easy claim, Elias. Easier than you think."
The second blow came fast, heavier than the first. My head snapped sideways, my teeth clashing against the inside of my cheek. The taste of iron spilled across my tongue before I even hit the ground. My shoulder struck the floor, the jolt rattling through bone, and my palms scraped against polished wood as I caught myself from sprawling fully.
I pushed to rise, fury burning up my spine, but he was already crouched close. His shadow folded over me, large and deliberate, pressing me down without a hand. He spoke in that maddeningly calm way of his, every word a measured stone.
"You're here to protect me from outsiders, not to be a threat." His breath was close enough to feel at my temple. "You're lucky I like you. Otherwise, I would've thrown you out long ago."
My chest heaved, heat climbing into my throat until I couldn't hold it anymore. The words tore out of me raw, stripped of restraint. "Then throw me out! Do it, Elias!"
"Why would you want to leave?" His tone carried a quiet bewilderment, as if the question itself were absurd, as if my rage were nothing but noise he didn't understand.
I spat, blood streaking the floor, my body trembling with a fury so sharp it felt almost clean. "I never said anything about wanting to leave. Stop fucking twisting my words."
His eyes narrowed, but not with anger—something else slid across them, a flicker of observation. He leaned closer, his gaze fixed not on my eyes but on the corner of my mouth. His voice shifted, softer, strange. "Oh my god… you're bleeding."
A laugh ripped out of me, short and manic, breaking the tension in my chest like glass shattering. It was half disbelief, half hysteria. "No fucking way. What gave it away? The blood?"
He didn't answer. He rose slowly, every movement deliberate, like the performance of a priest preparing for liturgy. His face was unreadable, the calm of someone who believed himself untouchable. He walked to the cabinet, opened it with surgical precision, and pulled out a first-aid kit. The way he held it made it look less like medicine and more like ritual, as if tending to me was part of the same control he'd just carved into my skin.
I stayed on the floor, my back pressed against the side of his bed, blood dripping warm at the corner of my mouth. My hands curled into fists, knuckles buzzing from the fall. He turned back toward me, the kit in his hand, and for a moment his eyes softened, or at least pretended to.
"Come here," he said, voice low, coaxing.
I shook my head, wiped the blood from my lip with the back of my hand, and stared at the crimson smear against my skin. "You hit me. And now you want to play doctor?"
He set the kit on the nightstand with care, like setting down glass. "I don't want you infected. That's all."
"That's all?" My throat burned as the laugh came again, hollow this time. "That's all you've got to say after splitting my lip open? That you don't want me infected?"
His jaw worked once, restrained, and he crouched again, closer now, his hands open in the air between us. "I don't want to hurt you. I lose my temper, yes, but I don't want to hurt you."
"You already did," I said. My voice was flat, stripped down to bone.
His hand hovered like he might reach for my face, then stopped. His eyes pinned me, hard and unblinking. "You provoke me."
I leaned back until the bedframe pressed against my shoulders. My voice came cold, deliberate, each word spat like blood. "I'm not provoking you. I'm reminding you I'm not something you own."
His mouth curled into the faintest of smiles, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You don't realize it yet. You're already mine."
The words hung heavy, like a chain settling around my neck. My pulse thundered, and still I met his gaze without blinking.
"If I am," I whispered, the taste of iron thick on my tongue, "then God help both of us."
He came back toward me, the kit in his hands, moving like he was handling something precious. I pushed myself upright against the bed, one knee bent, ready to shove him away if he tried. His eyes swept over me, and then without asking, he crouched, his fingers catching my chin with a firm grip that wasn't violent this time, but insistent, unyielding.
"Sit still." His tone was not a request.
I jerked my head back, but his hand tightened, guiding me forward again, steady as a clamp. He didn't shove, not now. He pressed me into place gently, like a craftsman holding fragile glass, force hidden under the care. The smell of alcohol filled the air as he cracked open a small vial, the sting already imagined on my skin.
"You think I don't notice everything," he murmured, his voice too calm. The cotton swab pressed to my split lip and fire burned across the cut. I hissed and tried to turn away, but his thumb anchored under my jaw, keeping me there.
I was only doing my job.
"You forget," he continued, wiping the blood away in slow strokes, "who stood in front of me that night. Do you remember? The man with the gun? The way you stepped between me and him without a thought?" His eyes stayed on my mouth, not my eyes. "You didn't even flinch."
I was only doing my job.
The sting spread deeper as he dabbed again, his hand steady while mine twitched in my lap. He smiled faintly, a quiet marvel painted over his lips. "That image hasn't left me. The moment you moved in front of me, I knew. You weren't like the others. They follow orders because they're told to, because they fear the contract. But you—" his voice dropped lower, intimate, "you were willing to take the bullet. For me."
I was only doing my job.
He let the words hang as if savoring them. His fingers brushed too close to my hairline, tilting my face to the light, studying his work like he was proud. "Do you understand what that means, Treasure? You bound yourself to me that night. You might think it was work, that you were acting on training, but no one does what you did without feeling it here." He tapped lightly against my chest, just above the heart. "That was devotion."
I was only doing my job.
His hand trailed down, pressing the gauze against the corner of my lip. My throat ached with the words I hadn't said, the words I kept repeating inside until they scraped raw. I felt my teeth grind, my nails cutting into my palms. My head tilted forward, and I let them out, sharp and bare.
"I was only doing my job."
He stopped, gauze pressed against my mouth, his eyes lifting slowly to mine. The silence stretched long enough for me to think he might finally hear me, finally let it stand. But then his mouth curved, not with warmth but with certainty, as if I had just said something naive.
"No," he said softly, shaking his head like a father correcting a child. "That wasn't just a job. Don't cheapen it. Don't cheapen yourself. You didn't protect me because you had to. You did it because you couldn't do otherwise. Because you're mine."
The gauze pressed harder, just enough to sting again, and I shut my eyes.
I was only doing my job.
But he had already stolen the truth from me, reshaped it into something that chained me tighter.
His hands pressed the gauze into my skin a little too firmly, then eased back as if he remembered he was supposed to be gentle. I kept my eyes on him, silent, my jaw aching with every word I swallowed down.
"Does this make you feel something in particular?" I asked finally, my voice low, steady enough to surprise even me. "Keeping me here, saying I'm yours, repeating it again and again. Does that make you feel anything at all?"
His eyes flickered, a faint crease tightening his brow. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It's a question."
He tilted his head slightly, like he was deciding how to frame his own answer. "It makes me feel content. That I have someone to come back to. Someone I can tend to, take care of. Someone who wants to be here." He paused, the gaze sharpening. "What? You don't want to be here? Am I that bad of a person?"
I met his stare directly, refusing to let it slide past me. "Are you keeping me here because you're a good person? Is that what all this is? You're just keeping me, attending to me, fucking me when you feel like it, feeding me, dressing me up—because you're a good person? Is that what you're trying to convince yourself of?"
His laugh came under his breath, amused but defensive. "I mean, it's a given. People know I'm a good person. My staff here, I haven't changed a single one in ten years. Do you think they would stay if I wasn't? And not just because you provoked me once and I acted out of impulse, that doesn't erase everything else. Why are you overlooking all the good things I've done for you?"
"What good things?" My voice broke sharp, the taste of iron still on my tongue. "What good things did you do for me, Elias? Just keeping me here? You think this is the good thing? You think this mansion is where I aspired to end up?"
His eyes flared briefly, but he kept his tone measured. "I'm not stupid, Treasure. I know when you first agreed to be with me you hoped for big things. I saw the admiration in your eyes. I saw you happy that I chose you. Don't act like this has only been me prying. I gave you an option that first night—if you wanted to go, I would've let you go. And I promised I wouldn't treat you differently. I was ready to keep that promise. But you? You had your own intentions." He leaned in closer, his breath brushing across my face. "I only liked you as a person. You had nothing else to give me. Your body? Please. Anyone can give me their body. Anyone would die to. I'm Elias Maxwell, for fuck's sake. But I chose you."
The words hit like ice water. I swallowed, my voice coming quieter. "Why did you choose me?"
He closed the distance until his face was only inches from mine. His voice dropped into a certainty that chilled me. "Because I like you. Because you need me."
The question tore out before I could stop it. "What if I don't need you?"
His smile barely touched his lips, a shadow of amusement. "Then it isn't a one-way road. I have to decide if I don't need you anymore."
"So you need me?"
"I like having you around," he said simply. "I do really like you. And it's not just about sex. We talk. I teach you things. You listen when I go on about books and ideas. You sit with me, do things with me. I like you. It isn't your body. I don't give a fuck about that."
I stared at him, heat rising behind my ribs. "But you've never even asked me if I'm into men at all."
He smirked faintly, shaking his head. "You had every chance to say you weren't, if you weren't. But come on, Treasure. Don't pin everything on me. You can't live your whole life thinking you're a victim. You're not anyone's victim but your own."
I nodded, slow, because I had no answer left.
"Look," he said, the edges of his tone softening, "I'm sorry for disciplining you too harshly. I like your hair, alright? And even now, it looks good. If you want me to call in a hairdresser to fix it, I will. Just say the word."
I blinked at him, my throat closing around words I hadn't planned to say. "You promised me an NFT when I first came here."
"That's all you want right now?" His tone was sharp, curious. "Is there anything else you want?"
"No." The word snagged in my throat. My eyes burned as I forced the rest. "I don't even want that."
He caught the shimmer of tears before I could turn away. His voice dipped into mock-gentleness. "I don't like it when you cry, Treasure. I gave you a break from work so you'd feel better, but you're getting worse. Do you want to go back on duty?"
I shook my head faintly. "I don't know what I want anymore. I don't. I really don't."
"Then think about it. Let me know what you want, and I'll do it. Anything. But you're not leaving."
My head snapped up. "I never said anything about leaving. Stop bringing this up."
"Fine." He leaned back, hands open in a gesture of peace. "You can sleep here tonight if you want. I'll sleep somewhere else."
"No. You don't have to do that. I'll just go back to my room."
He shook his head, firm. "No. You stay here. Rest. I'll check on you in the morning."
"No." The word came faster, sharper than I expected. "Stay here."
He paused, his brows lifting slightly. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." My voice cracked faintly. "Just stay here."
"Alright." He began undoing the buttons of his shirt, folding it with neat hands, then moved to the closet for something softer to sleep in. His back turned, his silhouette steady in the lamplight, the room filling with the quiet rustle of fabric.
I sat rigid on the edge of the bed, pulse thick in my throat. My own thoughts tangled into knots I couldn't unpick.
What the hell is this? Why do I crave his presence after everything? Why does the sound of him undressing in the same room anchor me instead of driving me away? I don't understand why I want him to stay beside me. I don't understand why his nearness feels like air I shouldn't breathe but can't live without.
I should leave, I should move, I should demand distance. Instead, I sit here waiting for the weight of the mattress to dip beside me.
Why am I still here? Why am I still staying?
My mind flicked, unbidden, to Devon. The memory of him was not sharp but weighted, blurred around the edges yet heavy where it mattered. The way his presence had always steadied me, wordless but constant. Devon was never soft in his manner, but the safety he carried wasn't spoken or explained—it was lived. I remembered the brush of scissors against my scalp years ago when my hair grew too wild, his hands steady, careful, never making me feel smaller for needing the help. There was no claim in that touch, no need to mark me as his. It was simply what it was—an act of care.
I swallowed hard, the back of my throat aching. Elias touched me and it felt like a chain disguised as a hand. Devon touched me and it felt like I was allowed to exist without question.
Yet here I was. In Elias' bed, waiting for him to lie beside me. Wanting it. Wanting the weight of someone next to me even if it wasn't safe. Wanting the sound of another breath in the dark.
It sickened me, how much I longed for nearness, even from the wrong man. It confused me, how the craving could outweigh the hurt.
The mattress dipped as Elias finally slid under the covers, his movements careful not to jolt me. He didn't reach for me, not yet. He simply lay there, his breath steady, the faint smell of soap clinging to him. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, and all I could think of was how my body leaned into the gravity of someone else, even when it should recoil.
I thought of Devon again, the way silence beside him had felt like ground beneath my feet, and the ache inside me twisted into something unbearable.
Why am I still here? Why do I stay when I know what it costs me?
And why, even now, am I wishing that this bed belonged to someone else's shadow?
Morning crept in through the blinds in pale stripes. Elias was still asleep, his breath steady, his body angled toward me though he hadn't reached out in the night. I slipped carefully from the bed, my ribs sore where the floor had caught me yesterday, my lip still tender. The sheets slid away without protest, and I stood there for a moment, staring at him in the half-light. For all his power, he looked ordinary in sleep, younger even, the sharpness dulled. I didn't let that image soften me.
I left quietly. Down the hall, into my own room. I changed quickly, pulling on clothes that felt less like a uniform and more like armor—plain jeans, a loose hoodie, shoes scuffed at the edges. The mirror caught me for a second: hair cropped short, mouth swollen faintly at one side. I didn't linger.
I called for one of the drivers. He appeared at the front steps with the car already idling, eyes lowered the way they all were trained to be, as if even looking too long was a trespass. I slid into the back seat, the leather cold against my palms.
"I need to get out," I told him. My voice sounded foreign, like it belonged to someone else. "Just drive me into the city."
I had no intention of leaving this way, sneaking off with a driver and a weak excuse. Elias wasn't a man you outmaneuvered. If he wanted me found, he'd find me. If he wanted me back, he'd pull me back. I knew that. I wasn't naive enough to imagine escape was this simple.
But I needed air. I needed the sky without the weight of chandeliers hanging under it, air that didn't smell like polish and disinfectant and lavender oils. I needed breakfast that wasn't plated in silence by Daniela, food that didn't arrive out of obligation. Something trashy. Greasy. A sandwich wrapped in paper that leaked through onto my fingers. Coffee bitter enough to scrape the back of my throat, poured by someone who didn't know my name. I needed to feel the mess of the world again, its noise, its indifference. Anything that wasn't the stale, recycled air of that mansion.
The car rolled out through the gates. The city rose in the distance, grey blocks and signs flashing, the streets already alive with people who weren't waiting for anyone's permission to move. My chest loosened with each mile, though the knot inside never truly left.
I pressed my forehead to the glass, the chill steadying me. I wasn't running. I told myself that again and again. I wasn't running. I just wanted to remember what it felt like to live in a place where the walls didn't breathe down my neck.
The driver glanced at me once in the mirror, quick, nervous, then back to the road. I didn't bother explaining. There was nothing to explain.
I only wanted a meal greasy enough to remind me I still had teeth, still had a stomach that wasn't built to digest curated perfection. I wanted to walk streets where no one looked twice at me, where my name meant nothing, where the only thing asked of me was a few bills slapped down at a counter.
For now, that was freedom enough.
The driver pulled the car to a stop along Crescent Street, its narrow stretch alive with neon signs and cluttered awnings. The kind of place where the air was heavy with fried oil and exhaust, where people leaned into each other talking fast, carrying grocery bags that rustled like wings. The sight of it alone made my shoulders loosen.
"Do you want something to eat?" I asked the driver before getting out, my hand resting on the door handle.
He looked startled for a second, then gave me a quick shake of his head. "Thank you, sir. I'll wait."
I nodded and stepped into the bite of the morning air, the sound of a busker's guitar carrying faintly down the block. The bell above the bodega door jingled when I pushed it open, the smell of toasted bread, onions, and cold soda spilling out to greet me.
I went straight to the counter and ordered without hesitation. "Bacon, egg, and cheese on a roll. Extra hot sauce." The man behind the counter nodded, hands already moving with practiced speed, the hiss of the grill answering me.
While the sandwich came together, I wandered into the aisle of crisps. The bags crackled under my fingers as I pulled one free—a salt and vinegar, sharp enough to cut through grease. I liked the burn of it on my tongue, the way it fought back instead of settling easy.
That was when the voice from the television caught me. Tinny at first, just background noise, until I heard a name that made my stomach clench.
"…Bryce Villa's upcoming play is already stirring conversation. But some of the spotlight has landed on his new bodyguard—Devon Calloway…"
My hand stilled against the shelf. I turned, slow, my head lifting toward the corner of the store where the TV sat on its high metal bracket. The screen flickered, showing a blurred photograph of Bryce on stage, followed by a clearer shot of Devon, dark suit fitted to his frame, his expression the same careful seriousness I'd seen a thousand times.
I found myself tilting my chin up, the way the angle demanded, staring at him. And in that tilt, in that reach of my neck, memory pressed down. I was ten again, standing in a karate hall with sweat on my brow, looking up at him when he had somehow grown taller overnight. My world had narrowed then, too, into the span of his shadow. How small I had felt next to him, how much I had wanted to hold my ground even as my chest swelled with the certainty that he was outpacing me.
The screen flickered again, commentators laughing lightly, talking about how rare it was for someone in Bryce's orbit to draw that kind of attention. But their words blurred. All I could see was his face above me, unreachable in both distance and memory. My throat tightened as though the air had grown too thin.
I stood there, bag of crisps in hand, looking up at him the same way I always had. Devon, taller than me, steadier than me, even now that the years had made men of us both.
And for a moment, in the hum of the bodega and the chatter of strangers, I felt small again. Small, and seen only by the ghost of someone who wasn't looking back.