"Where Power Sleeps"

The bedroom was darker than it had been earlier. Someone had drawn the velvet curtains while they were gone. Candlelight flickered from ornate sconces on the wall, casting shadows across the black silk sheets.

Elián stood just inside the door, still in the tuxedo, the ring on his finger feeling heavier with every second.

Behind him, the door shut with a click.

Luca stepped forward, removing his cufflinks one by one. The silence between them was not awkward. It was suffocating. The kind of silence that hung between enemies who knew they’d eventually taste blood.

Elián didn’t turn around.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You expect me to get on the bed and play the good little trophy?”

Luca loosened his collar. “I expect you to breathe. That’s all for tonight.”

That made Elián turn. His face was unreadable, but his shoulders tightened with confusion. “What’s the game, then? You want everyone to see me like a possession, parade me in front of your people, and then you back off?”

Luca’s eyes gleamed like sharpened steel. “I don’t need to touch you to own you.”

Elián scoffed. “You really enjoy hearing yourself talk, don’t you?”

Luca stepped closer, slow and deliberate. His fingers reached out—not to grab—but to brush a stray strand of hair from Elián’s face. The gesture was oddly gentle.

But his voice was anything but.

“You think this is about sex, Elián?” Luca said quietly. “Sex is easy. Control is not.”

Elián held his ground. “You’re mistaking control for fear.”

“No,” Luca murmured. “I know exactly what fear looks like. You’re not afraid.”

He took a step closer, his breath ghosting against Elián’s cheek. “You’re angry. And I like that better.”

Elián’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Don’t test me.”

“I already have,” Luca whispered, stepping away. “You said yes.”

He turned his back and began unbuttoning his shirt. The tattoos on his back became visible—black ink winding down his spine like serpents and thorns.

Elián didn’t look away. His heart was still racing, but it wasn’t just rage anymore. It was something stranger. Something hotter.

Luca dropped the shirt over a chair, then unbuckled his belt and toed off his shoes, moving like a man who didn’t fear anything—not consequences, not rejection, not even the stranger sharing his bed.

“You can take the right side,” he said, pulling back the covers. “I prefer the left.”

Elián blinked. “We’re actually sharing the bed?”

“You’d rather sleep on the floor?”

“I’d rather sleep in traffic.”

Luca climbed into bed without another word, resting one arm behind his head. The muscles in his torso moved with every breath, and the candlelight made his scars and tattoos flicker like art.

Elián hesitated.

Then, without removing the tuxedo jacket, he walked to the bed and sat down—rigid, tense, poised like a man sitting on a trap.

He didn’t lie down.

Neither did he take his eyes off Luca.

Minutes passed.

Then, Luca’s voice broke the silence.

“You don’t have to trust me.”

Elián didn’t respond.

“But eventually, you’ll start to understand me.”

Elián finally turned his head. “And what happens when I do?”

Luca smiled faintly. “Then you’ll know exactly how to ruin me.”

Elián laid back slowly, eyes still wide open, staring at the ceiling like it might fall on him.