Vane enjoy the way the light dies and is replaced by a frantic, shimmering confusion in Mio's eyes. It's better than blood. He lean in until his breath brushes Mio's ear, his voice a low, gravelly promise.
"Five million in advance. Right here, tonight," he murmurs, his thumb stroking Mio's jawline with a possessive slow-burn. "I'm not just buying your time. I'm buying your soul, your body, and that sharp tongue of yours. I need someone who doesn't just bow—someone who dares to hate me to my face."
He releases Mio's chin and stands up in one fluid, imposing motion, straightening the cuffs of his black suit. The predatory amusement remains in his eyes as he glances down at his watch. The diamond face glints in the dim light. 11:58 PM.
"You have until midnight tomorrow," he says, looking down at Mio one last time, his silhouette towering over Mio's kneeling form. "Twenty-four hours to decide if you want to be a martyr in a dive bar or a king in my palace. Don't make me wait, little bird. I'm not a patient man."
Mio feels like he's been hollowed out, his skin still prickling where the cold muzzle of the gun rested and where Vane's ringed fingers gripped his chin.
Vane turn on his heel, his coat billowing behind him. "Dante, we're leaving. Leave a card on the bar."
Dante drops the thick, matte-black business card on the bar with a sharp snap before turning his back on the scene. He follows Vane out without a single word, his face returning to its stoic mask, though his movements are stiff with unspoken questions. The rest of the bodyguards file out behind them, a silent black tide receding from the room, leaving a vacuum of terrifying silence in their wake.
Mio remains on his knees long after the heavy tread of Vane's boots fades away. The scent of Vane's tobacco lingers in the air, a suffocating reminder of the "monster" who just offered him a throne built of blood and diamonds.
He slowly looks up, his blue eyes glassy and wide, staring at the empty space where the tall, tattooed man had stood. His hands are still trembling, but a strange, hysterical laugh bubbles up in his throat.
Ten million dollars to be a "legal shield." To be the bridegroom of a man who kills without mercy.
He looks at his reflection in the polished wood of the bar—just a short, tired boy in a stained apron—and then his gaze falls on the small, black card Dante left behind. His fingers reach out, hesitant and shaking, to touch the embossed gold lettering.
[The Next Night]
The grandfather clock in the corner of Vane's study ticks toward midnight, the sound echoing like a heartbeat in the silent room. He sits in his heavy leather chair, the only light coming from the dying embers in the fireplace and the moon bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He swirl the amber bourbon in his glass, watching the way the ice clinks against the sides—cold and sharp, just like the boy's eyes.
He already sent the five million yesterday. It was a drop in the ocean to him, a gamble to see if Mio's "pride" had a price tag. Most men would have taken the money and vanished into the night, but he has a feeling Mio Zenchi isn't "most men." Mio is either the smartest rat he've ever caught or the most beautiful fool he've ever broken.
He checks his watch. 11:45 PM.
The silence of the estate is heavy, pressurized by the anticipation of Vane's men standing guard outside. He takes a slow, burning sip of the bourbon, his eyes fixed on the heavy oak doors of the study. He don't move. He don't fidget. He simply wait for the sound of the footsteps.
"Come on, little bird," he whispers into the rim of his glass, a dark, expectant thrill thrumming in his chest. "Show me if you're brave enough to walk into the lion's den for real."
Dante stands by the towering wrought-iron gates, a black umbrella held steady against a light, biting drizzle. He checks his tactical watch, the glowing numbers reflecting in his cold, scanning eyes. The security cameras have already picked up a lone figure approaching the perimeter. Dante signals the snipers on the wall to stand down with a sharp, silent hand gesture.
As the figure comes into view, Dante doesn't move a muscle, but his grip on the umbrella tightens. He watches the boy walk through the rain—unprotected, looking impossibly small against the backdrop of the Vesperian fortress
Mio stands at the threshold of the massive estate, his breath hitching in his chest. He looks exhausted; the dark circles under his blue eyes suggest he hasn't slept a wink in the last twenty-four hours. His clothes are damp from the rain, clinging to his frame, and he looks like a ghost wandering into a graveyard.
He stares up at the looming stone walls of the mansion, feeling the sheer, crushing weight of Vane's world pressing down on him.
Dante triggers the heavy hydraulic mechanism. The iron groans as it swings open, a sound like a monster waking up. "You're on time," Dante says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He doesn't offer a greeting or a smile; he simply turns and gestures toward the main manor house. "The Boss is in the study. Don't touch anything, and keep your hands visible."
Mio clenches his fists at his sides, his knuckles pale. He thinks of the five million sitting in a bank account—a life-changing sum that feels more like a heavy chain around his neck.
As he walks past Dante and into the grand foyer, his boots click hollowly on the marble floors. He follows the guard toward the study, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
He stops in front of the heavy oak doors, taking one last, shuddering breath to steady his voice. He pushes the door open, the light from the fireplace catching the defiant, yet desperate, ocean blue of his eyes as he finds Vane sitting in the shadows.
Vane don't turn his head toward the sound of the door. The heavy creak of oak and the scent of rain following Mio into the room are enough to tell him the hunt is over. He simply watches the amber liquid swirl in his glass, a cruel, satisfied smirk deepening on his face.
"I'm here," Mio says, his voice steady despite the slight tremor in his hands. "The contract... I'll do it."
Vane lift the glass slowly, peering at Mio through the distorted, golden lens of the bourbon. Mio's blue eyes are as sharp as the ice against Vane's knuckles, burning with a cold fire that cuts right through the shadows of the room. Vane's pulse quickens—not with fear, but with the thrill of owning something that still wants to fight him.
With a fluid flick of his ringed wrist, he dismiss Dante. He don't need a guard for a bird already caught in the cage.
Dante nods once, a short, sharp movement. He casts one final, unreadable look at the boy—perhaps a flicker of grim pity, or perhaps just curiosity to see if Mio will survive the night—before stepping out. The heavy oak door thuds shut with a finality that echoes through the room, the latch clicking like a lock.
Vane gesture with a slow, possessive elegance toward the heavy velvet chair across from his desk.
Mio doesn't sit immediately. He stands frozen for a beat, his damp hair sticking to his forehead, staring at Vane as if seeing him for the first time without the shield of a bar counter between them. The firelight dances in his blue eyes, making them look like cold, churning water.
"Of course you are," Vane drawl, his voice a dark, velvet rumble that fills the silence. "Nobody ignores that much blood money, Mio. Not even a saint like you." He enjoy the way Mio's jaw tighten until it aches.
He leans forward into the light of the fireplace, his tattooed skin glowing in the embers as he set the glass down. "Sit. Let's discuss exactly how much of yourself you've just sold to the monster."
Mio finally moves, crossing the rug with stiff, cautious steps. He sinks into the velvet chair, but he doesn't lean back. He sits on the very edge, his spine a straight, rigid line of defiance.
He looks at the tattoos on Vane's skin, then forces his gaze up to meet those starless eyes. "I'm not a saint," Mio says, his voice low and brittle, "and I'm not under any illusions about what this is. You bought a wife to spite your enemies. I'm just the ink on the paper."
He leans forward slightly, his hands gripping the armrests. "So give me the pen, Vesperian. If I'm going to be a monster's property, I'd rather get the signature over with before I lose my nerve."
Vane let out a laugh—a low, harsh sound that scrapes against the quiet of the room like a blade. It carries no warmth, only the dark humor of a man who has finally found a toy that doesn't break at the first touch.
"Always in such a hurry to sign your life away," he murmurs, leaning back into the shadows of his chair. He don't reach for a pen. I don't offer a paper. "You aren't just 'ink on a paper,' Mio. You are a weapon. Sloane thinks she can cage me with an arranged marriage; you are the fire I'm going to use to burn that cage down."
He watches the way Mio grips the chair, his blue eyes shimmering with a beautiful, desperate defiance. Vane take a slow breath, the scent of Mio's damp skin reaching him.
"You don't just sign and leave. Starting tonight, you live here. You sleep under my roof, you eat at my table, and you play the part of a man hopelessly in love with a devil. I need Sloane to see you—to smell you on me—before we ever reach the altar." he leans forward, his shadow stretching over Mio until it swallows his frame.
Mio's breath hitches as Vane's shadow completely engulfs him, the temperature of the room seeming to rise with the man's proximity. The mention of "sleeping under his roof" and "smelling him" on Mio's skin sends a sharp, electric jolt of panic through his chest. It's no longer just a business transaction; it's an invasion. He realizes with a sinking heart that the five million wasn't a gift—it was a down payment on his very identity.
"The money is in your account," Vane continues. "but your freedom is gone. You're the 'fiancé' of the most dangerous man in the country now. Tell me, little bird... do you think you can handle the weight of my name on your shoulders, or are you already regretting the price of your pride?"
Mio stares at Vane, his blue eyes wide but refusing to break away from that dark, suffocating gaze. He slowly uncurls his fingers from the armrests, his palms damp with sweat.
"I can handle it," he whispers, though his voice cracks slightly under the weight of the lie. "I've handled worse than you. I've survived on nothing in a city that wanted to swallow me whole. Your name is just another heavy thing I have to carry."
He swallows hard, his eyes dropping to Vane's mouth for a split second before snapping back up. "But don't expect me to be good at the 'loving' part, Vesperian. I can play the part for your wife, but when the doors are closed..." He leans in, his face inches from Vane's, his defiance flickering like a dying candle. "Don't forget that you're the one who had to buy me because no one would ever stay with a monster for free."
Vane don't flinch. He don't snarl. Instead, he lets out a soft, dangerous huff of breath that ghosts over Mio's trembling lips. Mio is inches away, spitting fire into the face of death, and for a fleeting moment, he is tempted to see if he can taste the salt of Mio's tears or the heat of his rage.
"Careful, little bird," Vane murmur, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register. "I didn't buy you for your love. I bought you for that bite. But remember—monsters don't just buy things to keep them on a shelf. They buy them to use them."
He don't touch him, though the air between them is thick enough to choke on. He slowly reaches into the mahogany desk drawer and pull out a thick, cream-colored document. He slide it across the leather surface, the gold-embossed Vesperian seal catching the firelight.
Mio's hand reaches out, his fingers trembling as they close around the cold, heavy barrel of the fountain pen sitting in its holder. He pulls it free, the weight of the gold nib feeling like a weapon he doesn't know how to wield. He pulls the document closer, the cream-colored paper rustling under his touch, the words blurring together as his heart continues to hammer against his ribs.
"Sign it," Vane command, leaning back just enough to give Mio room to breathe, though his gaze never wavers. "In return, the second five million hits your account on our wedding day."
Vane watch him, a dark thrill of anticipation in his gut. "Do it, Mio. Become the ink on the paper you're so eager to be, and let's begin this nightmare together."
Mio leans over the desk, the pen clutched in a white-knuckled grip. He finds the signature line—a long, empty row of dots that feels like a cliff edge.
He lowers the pen, the sharp tip hovering just a hair's breadth above the paper, a single bead of black ink threatening to drop. He stares at the Vesperian seal, then back at Vane, his blue eyes searching for a crack in the man's armor.
"A nightmare," he repeats softly, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire. "At least you're honest about what this is."
He holds his breath, the tip of the pen vibrating slightly as he prepares to tether his soul to the man sitting in the shadows.
Vane reach out, his index finger and thumb closing around the top of the pen, stilling Mio's hand before the nib can touch the paper. The metal is cold, but the heat radiating from Mio's skin is a sharp contrast.
Mio's hand goes rigid as his fingers clamp onto the pen. The heat from Vane's touch feels like a brand, and for a second, he forgets how to breathe.
Vane lean forward, the firelight carving deep shadows into his face, making him look like the devil Mio's so convinced he is.
"Wait," Vane murmur, his voice dropping to a lethal, mocking edge. "There is one final condition not written in that ink—one that is for your benefit as much as mine."
He looks into those churning blue eyes, his own dark and unreadable. "I am buying a bride, not a heart. You are a tool for a specific job. Do not mistake my 'public' touch or the proximity of this house for something it isn't. You won't fall for me, Mio. We are both straight men, and I have no room for the complications of a boy's feelings."
Mio listens to the warning—the cold, clinical dismissal of his feelings—and a sharp, bitter laugh suddenly escapes his throat, unbidden and dry. The idea that Vane thinks Mio could ever "fall" for a man who held a gun to his throat twenty-four hours ago is the most arrogant thing he's ever heard.
Vane tighten his grip on the pen slightly, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "If you break that rule—if you let yourself feel even a spark for the monster—you will owe me ten times the ten million I am paying you. I don't want your devotion; I want your survival. Do we have an understanding?"
He release the pen, staring at Mio with a predatory curiosity, waiting to see if he can swallow this final, biting insult before he signs.
"Don't flatter yourself, Vesperian," Mio spits out, his blue eyes flashing with a sudden, icy clarity that matches Vane's own. "I don't fall for monsters. I survive them."
Vane doesn't flinch at Mio's biting words. Instead, his starless eyes darken, the pupils expanding until the blackness swallows any trace of light left in them.
Mio stares at Vane's dark gaze, then looks back at the signature line. His fear has been burned away by a cold, white-hot fury at the man's ego.
Without another word, he presses the nib to the paper with a jagged, forceful motion. The ink bleeds into the cream-colored fibers as he scrawls Mio Zenchi in a sharp, defiant script.
He drops the pen onto the desk with a heavy clack, sliding the paper back toward Vane. "There. The deal is done," he says, his voice flat and hard. He stands up, his legs slightly shaky but his head held high, looking down at the seated mafia boss.
"I'm your weapon now. Tell me where I'm supposed to rot for the night, or do you have more 'rules' for me to follow?"
A slow, dangerous smirk curls Vane's lips—not of anger, but of a predator who has finally found a prey worth the chase.
"I survive them," Vane repeats Mio's words in a low, vibrating hum. He stands up slowly, his towering frame casting a shadow that seems to pin Mio to the chair. "We'll see how long that 'survival' instinct lasts under my roof, Mio."
He raises his voice just enough to cut through the heavy silence. "Dante!"
The door swings open instantly. Dante stands there, face a stoic mask.
"Take him to the guest suite in the West Wing," Vane commands, his eyes still locked on Mio. "And Dante... tell the staff not to bother with a key. In this house, no door is locked to me. Especially not his."
Mio's heart skips a beat. He stands up, his spine stiffening. "What? I expect at least some privacy, Vesperian. A deal is a deal, but I am not—"
"You are mine," Vane cuts him off, stepping closer until Mio has to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. The scent of expensive bourbon and cold rain clings to Vane.
"For the next year, every inch of this estate belongs to me, and that includes the room you sleep in. I come and go as I please. You sleep alone only until the world sees that ring on your finger. After that..." He lets the sentence trail off, his gaze dropping to Mio's lips for a fraction of a second.
Mio's face goes pale, then flushes with a mix of suppressed rage and a sudden, inexplicable spark of fear. His knuckles turn white as he clenches his fists. "You bought a shield, Vesperian. Not a toy."
Vane's smirk only deepens, cruel and beautiful. "In my world, Mio, there isn't much difference. Now go. Try to get some sleep. The nightmare officially starts at dawn."
Mio glares at him one last time—a look of pure, icy defiance—before turning on his heel. He follows Dante out, his boots clicking sharply on the marble, leaving Vane alone in the flickering firelight, watching the door with a look of dark, insatiable hunger.