One would think that Elian would be swooning over the Duke by morning.
No.
He hated him more than ever.
"Bastard," Elian muttered, rolling out of his bed with reddened eyes.
"Ah," he paused, bending over the bed for a few seconds to let the ache between his legs settle.
Lucien hadn't gone easy on him last night, and after that, he had sent Elian away.
Elian had cried himself to sleep last night after the Duke so coldly withdrew from him and ordered him to get out of his chamber.
No explanation.
No sympathy.
No second to rest or recover.
Elian had to leave the chamber with barely his trousers on, and Lucien had turned his back on him as if his mere sight cursed him.
He gently walked into the washroom, discarding his clothes as he entered the bath. No one told him that it felt this way afterward. The ache, the soreness, the tiredness—he felt like he had been run over by an elephant.
