As the first light of dawn filtered through the cracked windows of the dilapidated house, the world outside seemed distant—untouched by the chaos that lived within the crumbling walls. Kane and Lucas moved quietly, their shadows stretching across the floor as they prepared to leave. The house, worn and broken, had been their refuge for the night, a place for their strange, unsettling connection to simmer in silence.
Lucas stood in the center of the room, already having discarded his ruined clothes. The air was thick with dust, but Lucas barely noticed it as he tugged on a pair of worn jeans from the pile Kane had left behind. His fingers slid over the fabric, the rough texture familiar, grounding. A simple shirt followed, its fabric soft but plain, the buttons clicking into place with mechanical precision.
As he dressed, Lucas caught a glimpse of Kane's gaze—steady, intense. The way Kane looked at him was no longer subtle; it was hungry, possessive. Lucas didn't mind. He didn't need to. Kane was a temporary source of amusement, a distraction that would satisfy him in the moment. Lucas wasn't above using people for his own reasons—selfish reasons, yes—but it wasn't anything new. They were both playing a game, weren't they? Kane wanted control, wanted to keep him close for reasons that Lucas didn't entirely care to understand. But that was fine. He liked the attention. Kane was an easy enough toy to entertain himself with.
Still, as Lucas finished dressing, he noticed something about Kane's stare that made his skin prickle. He didn't think Kane saw him as just a game. Kane wanted more, but Lucas would never let him have that. Not fully.
Picking a piece of fruit-flavored candy from a small stash, Lucas unwrapped it slowly, savoring the moment before popping it into his mouth. The sweet tang filled his senses, pushing away the bitterness left by their earlier encounter. He glanced at Kane, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Kane was still watching him, his expression unreadable, his body tensed with an energy that simmered just below the surface.
Lucas didn't have to look back to know that Kane was already walking toward the door, holding it open for him.
Outside, the world was waking up. Kane led the way to his car—a silver sedan that glimmered in the dim light. It wasn't impressive, but it was clean. It told Lucas exactly what he needed to know about Kane.
Lucas slid into the passenger seat without a second thought. It wasn't until the engine hummed to life that he realized how close Kane had been. The faint, lingering scent of him—cologne mixed with the faintest trace of musk—clung to the air, and Lucas felt an unexpected pull toward him. Kane's fingers brushed against his thigh as he shifted gears, and Lucas flinched—though not because he disliked the touch.
"Comfortable?" Kane's voice broke through his thoughts, low and questioning. He shrugged in response, his fingers slipping casually over the hem of his shirt.
"Yeah," he said with a smirk, eyes glinting as he turned to face Kane. "I'm good."
It wasn't even that Lucas wanted to flirt with him. It just… happened. He never had to try. The way his body moved, the way he looked at Kane—it was just instinct. Like now, when he shifted in his seat, brushing his leg against Kane's. He didn't mean to, but he couldn't help the spark of amusement when Kane's breath hitched slightly.
"You're not shy, huh?" Kane muttered, though there was a dark note in his voice—an edge of something dangerous.
Lucas's lips curled into a smile. "Shyness isn't really my thing." His voice was light, teasing—yet beneath it, a quiet certainty settled in. He wasn't shy. "But I don't need you to worry about me."
Kane's hand slid from the gear stick to rest on Lucas's thigh, fingers curling possessively, pressing down just enough to send a rush of heat through his veins.
"Careful," Kane said, his voice low, a warning beneath it. His fingers dug into Lucas's thigh just a little harder. "You might burn yourself."
Lucas looked at him from under his lashes, his fingers lazily tracing the edge of Kane's wrist. "I like fire," he said, voice smooth, almost bored. "It keeps things interesting."
Kane's gaze darkened, something in him shifting as he absorbed the words, but he said nothing. The air in the car crackled with unspoken tension.
It was only when the car rolled to a stop outside the Morton mansion that Lucas broke the silence. He withdrew his hand , his expression carefully neutral but his eyes still full of mischief. Kane looked at him, a flicker of frustration flashing across his face, but Lucas didn't care. He opened the door and slipped out of the car with smooth ease, his movements purposeful, deliberate.
"See you around," he said, voice light, but his smile was anything but.
The moment hung between them, charged with electricity, as Lucas closed the door behind him. Kane was left in the car, watching him go, his mind racing.
---
Lucas took a deep breath, the adrenaline of his recent encounters still pumping through his veins. The day ahead didn't seem so daunting now, not with the thrill of his interaction with Kane still lingering in his mind. He couldn't deny the excitement that came with the power struggle between them, but he knew he couldn't let his guard down.
Lucas walked in the Morton's house, his new clothes—worn jeans and a loose t-shirt—felt oddly foreign and uncomfortable against his skin.
The door clicked shut behind him, and he squared his shoulders, preparing himself for what was to come.
Inside, Mr. and Mrs. Morton stood in the foyer, their expressions a mix of anger and concern. Mr. Morton's face was flushed, his fists clenched at his sides as he tried to contain his frustration. Mrs. Morton, on the other hand, wore the familiar look of controlled fury, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her posture stiff with indignation.
"Lucas!" Mrs. Morton's voice boomed. "Where have you been, and what on earth are you wearing? Do you have any idea how worried we were?"
Lucas met their gaze without flinching, his expression a practiced mask of indifference. He didn't feel the need to explain himself, not to them. "I was out," he said casually. "No reason to check in. And these clothes? They got ruined last night. My friend lent me these." He shrugged, his tone dismissive.
Mrs. Morton's face reddened with fury. "You come home in strange clothes, from a place we don't even know, and you expect us to just accept this? You're grounded, Lucas. No electronics, no privileges. You'll stay in your room and think about your actions."
Lucas felt a flicker of irritation, but he quickly masked it with a roll of his eyes. "Really? That's your big punishment? Taking away my stuff? Stuff I barely have anyway?"
Mrs. Morton's voice wavered with rising anger. "You need to understand that there are consequences for your actions. You can't keep doing whatever you want without consequences."
Before Lucas could respond, Mr. Morton stepped forward, his voice steady but firm. "Violet, calm down," he said, his gaze shifting to his wife. "All teens do this, don't they? I mean, look at him—he's still figuring things out. We don't need to punish him too much."
Lucas blinked, taken aback by the man's defense. He hadn't expected it. Mr. Morton wasn't exactly known for sticking up for him, so this was... unexpected. But something about it left him uneasy, like there was more to the situation than he'd anticipated. For a moment, he almost didn't know how to feel. Relief? Confusion?
Mrs. Morton's face tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line as she glared at her husband. "Figuring things out?" she repeated, incredulous. "What are we supposed to do, just let him get away with this behavior?"
Mr. Morton didn't back down, his voice unwavering. "Violet, he's a teenager. We were all like this. Let's not make a mountain out of a molehill."
Lucas watched as the tension between his adopted parents simmered. Mrs. Morton was furious, her temper on the edge of boiling over. But Mr. Morton's calm demeanor and surprising support for him defused the situation in a way that left her speechless. For a moment, there was an uncomfortable silence. Mrs. Morton's gaze shifted from her husband to Lucas, and the anger in her eyes was palpable.
"You're lucky," she muttered under her breath, though it was clear she was fighting to hold onto some semblance of control. "But this isn't over, Lucas."
Lucas smirked inwardly. It wasn't the kind of victory he'd hoped for, but it was something. Still, he couldn't shake the strange feeling that lingered in his chest, that flicker of something... complicated. Was this what he wanted? To have them at odds like this? Or did it mean something else entirely?
"Whatever," he said, his tone flat. "I'll go to my room." Without another word, he turned and made his way up the stairs.
______
A few hours may have passed before Lucas sat comfortably on the bed kanes clothes discarded now.Lucas slouched on his bed, one leg draped over the side, the other bent lazily as he toyed with the edge of the blanket. The snug black vest he now wore clung to his chest, emphasizing his slender frame, while his shorts revealed pale, smooth legs that rested casually on the mattress. His mind was elsewhere, replaying the thrill of last night and ignoring the faint bruise on his neck like it wasn't there.
The door creaked open without a knock. Lucas didn't bother to look up; he already knew who it was.
"Lucas," Mr. Morton's calm but heavy voice filled the room. "Your phone."
Mr. Morton stepped closer, his posture stiff, his hand extended. "You broke the rules. Stay out all night, and this is what happens. Actions have consequences."
Lucas rolled his eyes, leaning back on his elbows. "I don't need a lecture."
Mr. Morton ignored the quip, his gaze sweeping over Lucas as he waited. But Lucas caught it—the flicker of hesitation in his eyes as they lingered on his bare arms, his legs, and finally the way the fabric of his vest clung just enough to hint at what was beneath. Lucas stiffened, annoyance flickering across his face.
"Fine." He sat up abruptly, grabbing the phone from the nightstand and holding it out, just short of Mr. Morton's reach. "Take it, then. Like I care."
As Mr. Morton stood there, holding Lucas's phone in his hand, his eyes seemed to roam over the boy's body in an almost deliberate way.
Lucas felt his skin prickle under the weight of the man's stare, and though he tried to maintain his composure, he couldn't stop himself from fidgeting. His unease grew with every passing second, but just as he opened his mouth to say something, Mr. Morton's gaze froze, locking onto something specific.
The hickey.
It sat stark against Lucas's pale skin, dark and unmistakable on the curve of his neck. For a moment, Mr. Morton didn't speak, his expression hardening as his eyes narrowed on the mark. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and the atmosphere in the room shifted from unsettling to something far heavier.
But Mr. Morton's silence didn't last long. His voice, when it finally came, was low and tightly controlled, though it quivered with barely contained anger. "What… is that?".
Lucas, noticing the change, instinctively brought a hand up to his neck, trying to hide the mark. "It's nothing," he muttered, his voice low, though the slight tremor in his tone betrayed him.
"Nothing?" Mr. Morton's tone sharpened as his eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, his towering presence now uncomfortably close. "You come into my house marked like that, and you expect me to believe it's nothing?"
Lucas's jaw tightened, his grip on the phone tightening too. "What's it to you?" he snapped, his voice colder now.
Mr. Morton's face darkened. His eyes locked onto the bruise, his lips curling in a sneer that made Lucas's skin crawl. "You let someone put their hands on you," he said slowly, his words laced with disgust and something else Lucas didn't want to name. "Do you even realize what that says about you?"
Lucas's laugh was short and sharp, cutting through the tension. "Oh, please," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "What, are you jealous?"
The words hit their mark, and Lucas could see the flash of something dangerous in Mr. Morton's eyes. It sent a thrill through him, though he didn't let it show. He tilted his head, the hickey fully visible now, daring the man to say something else.
Mr. Morton's hand clenched into a fist at his side. His gaze flicked back to the mark, then to Lucas's face. "You think this is funny?"
"Kind of," Lucas said with a shrug. "I mean, what are you gonna do about it? Ground me?"
The mocking tone in his voice made Mr. Morton's face twitch. He stepped closer again, so close that Lucas could feel the heat of his anger radiating off him.
"You don't understand what kind of trouble you're inviting," Mr. Morton said darkly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Lucas's smirk widened, his defiance flashing in his eyes. "Maybe I like trouble," he said. "Ever think of that?"
Without warning, Mr. Morton's fury exploded like a dam breaking. He lunged forward, his hands seizing Lucas by the shoulders and shoving him violently onto the bed. The force sent a jolt through Lucas's body, the springs of the mattress creaking under the impact. The room seemed to pulse with the overwhelming tension between them, and Mr. Morton's face twisted with raw, unfiltered rage.
"Why would you flaunt something so disgusting?!" Mr. Morton's voice was a low growl, barely controlled. His hands trembled with barely-contained violence as he yanked at Lucas's shirt, desperate to expose the marks on his pale skin. "You can't have these marks on you! Not after everything I've done for you!"
Lucas's blood boiled. His chest tightened with the suddenness of the assault, and his instincts flared. "Get off me!" he shouted, his voice laced with a sharp, venomous edge. His body jerked and twisted, trying to shove Mr. Morton away, but the older man's grip was iron, his strength overwhelming. He could feel the rage emanating from Mr. Morton's hands as they tore at his clothes.
"Let go!" Lucas hissed, his voice dropping low, cutting through the air like a blade. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into the mattress as he braced himself. But Mr. Morton didn't let up. With a single, brutal pull, the fabric of Lucas's shirt was torn free, exposing his chest and the ugly bruises from the previous night.
Mr. Morton's eyes locked onto the marks, and his breath hitched with a sick mix of disgust and fury. "Who did this to you to ?" His voice cracked, something dark and venomous simmering in his words.
Lucas's chest tightened, and his stomach churned, but the fury he felt boiled over. How dare this man think he had the right to touch him, to impose himself on him? How dare he act like some savior?
Before Lucas could spit out another insult, Mr. Morton's hand shot forward, his palm connecting sharply with Lucas's cheek. The slap was violent, a deafening crack that left Lucas's face stinging, his vision momentarily blurred with pain. His head snapped to the side from the force of the blow, and for a split second, the room seemed to tilt.
Silence descended, thick and oppressive. Lucas's body trembled—not from fear, but from the sharp, gnawing rage that bubbled to the surface. His hand flew to his face, fingers brushing over the warm sting of his cheek. It was burning, but the searing heat from Mr. Morton's slap had only intensified the fire inside him.
"How dare you!" Lucas snarled, his voice low but brimming with deadly venom. His eyes burned with hatred as he pushed himself up, his body already fueled with rage. "Do you believe you could do whatever you want? Because I'm your problem now? Well, guess what? You don't own me, and you sure as hell don't touch me again."
Lucas's chest rose and fell with rapid, sharp breaths. His body ached from the force of the slap, but it was the insult, the disrespect, that burned deeper. His eyes locked onto Mr. Morton's, the defiance in them unmistakable. He could feel his fists clenching at his sides, his fingers itching to lash out. It was a strange, almost intoxicating feeling—the need to fight, to destroy.
Mr. Morton's anger was still a simmering beast, but it wavered, exhausted, his shoulders heaving. The slap had momentarily silenced Lucas, but now there was only cold fury in its wake. He stepped back, his breath coming in ragged bursts, but his eyes never left Lucas. The room was charged with an air so thick it felt suffocating.
For a moment, it seemed like Mr. Morton was about to say something, but Lucas's glare was unwavering, daring him to even try.
"You'll regret that," Lucas muttered under his breath, his voice calm but dangerous. He ran a hand through his messy hair, his posture still tense, but ready for whatever came next.
The tension in the room swirled like a storm, but it wasn't over yet.
With a final, seething glance, Lucas shoved past Mr. Morton, his anger rising like a tidal wave that crashed into everything around him. He didn't care if he knocked Mr. Morton off balance, the old man deserved it. His body reacted on instinct—violent, sharp movements that screamed for release. Mr. Morton stumbled, a low grunt escaping his lips as he tried to steady himself. But the look in Lucas's eyes made it clear that this moment—this humiliation—wasn't going to be forgotten.
The door creaked open as Mr. Morton turned to leave, a final attempt at retreat, but Lucas wasn't finished. He slammed the door shut with a force that rattled the walls, his body thrumming with the raw need to hurt. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from a feral, bubbling rage that he couldn't push down. His breath came in uneven, ragged gasps, as though the mere act of keeping his anger contained was a struggle he was losing.
He stalked across the room, his movements jerky and sharp, his mind spinning with murderous thoughts. The sharp edge of his fury gnawed at him, tearing at his sanity with each passing second. The urge to lash out, to hurt something—anything—was unbearable. He needed to do something. Anything.
His eyes darted to the corner of the room, to the closet where the jar waited, untouched for too long. The faint, reassuring clink of bones echoed in his mind, and without a second thought, Lucas moved toward it. His hands, shaking with frustration, unscrewed the lid with a practiced, almost reverent motion. He raised the jar to his chest, the weight grounding him, the collection of bones offering him a brief moment of solace.
The cold, smooth surface of the jar was comforting, familiar. He felt the weight of it against his ribcage, the solidness of it anchoring him to the present. His fingers tightened around the glass, feeling the jagged edges of the bones inside shift and rattle in response. It was a small, sick pleasure—the feel of them. The simple, mechanical act of holding something dead, something permanent, gave him a semblance of control in a world where he had none. It calmed him, the eerie sound of the bones like a lullaby to his rage.
Lucas took in a slow, shuddering breath, closing his eyes and focusing on the sound of the bones shifting within the jar. He could almost feel the rhythm of his heartbeat sync with their clattering. It was his ritual, his release. The sensation of the bones, so delicate yet so undeniably real, brought him back to himself. The murderous urge simmered down, the need to lash out turning into a dark, cold satisfaction.
For a fleeting moment, Lucas could breathe again. The fury still smoldered beneath his skin, just waiting to ignite, but for now, it was contained. He was no longer that chaotic whirlwind of violence, just a boy holding a jar of bones—something to remind him that even in the darkest corners of his mind, he still had a twisted sense of order.
The anger didn't vanish. It never did. But as he stood there, clutching the jar like a lifeline, Lucas allowed himself a moment to savor the small victory of control. He was a ticking bomb, no doubt.
______
Later that day, when the house had finally fallen silent, Lucas lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The confrontation with Mr. Morton still echoed in his mind, but the initial shock and rage had dulled into a simmering determination. He knew what he needed to do.
Lucas slid out of bed and moved silently to his closet, retrieving his backpack and the tools he had hidden there. He slipped on a dark hoodie and jeans, ensuring the fabric covered most of his skin. With a last glance at the closed door, he crept out of his room and down the stairs, avoiding the creaky spots on the floor.
The front door clicked softly behind him as he stepped outside. The day was bright and clear, the sun casting a warm golden light over the landscape. Lucas took a deep breath, savoring the fresh air as he walked quickly across the lawn and into the woods that bordered the Morton estate.
The forest was alive with the sounds of the afternoon—leaves rustling in the breeze, birds calling from the treetops, and the distant hum of insects. Lucas moved with purpose, the path to his destination familiar from countless previous excursions. He had discovered the treehouse a long time ago, a hidden relic of the forest that few people knew about. He'd come back to it time and again, finding solace in its solitude, away from the suffocating presence of the Morton house. Today, it was the perfect place to think, to plan, to escape.
After a while, he reached a small clearing, where the treehouse stood, half-hidden by the dense foliage. The rickety structure seemed untouched by time, its wooden exterior faded and weathered, yet sturdy. Lucas climbed the ladder quickly, his hands steady, his movements practiced. The wood creaked beneath him, but it held firm.
Inside the treehouse, Lucas set down his backpack and pulled out the tools he had brought. He fished a small flashlight from his pocket, flicked it on, and shone the beam around. The treehouse was cluttered with old toys, broken furniture, and forgotten things, but Lucas paid them no mind. His focus was on the loose floorboard in the corner. This had been his hidden place for a while now, where he kept the things that couldn't be stored anywhere else.
With a swift motion, he pried up the floorboard, revealing a small hidden compartment. Inside, wrapped in an old cloth, was a collection of items he had been gathering—knives, ropes, and other tools of his trade. He added the new tools to the stash, then carefully replaced the floorboard and scattered debris over it to keep it hidden.
The satisfaction of having everything in place, of being in control of this small corner of the world, washed over him. The woods had always been his refuge, a place where he could think and plan in peace, far from the prying eyes of the Morton house. Here, he was free—if only for a little while.
As Lucas sat back, a shift in the air caught his attention. Something was moving outside the treehouse, just beyond the beam of his flashlight. His senses sharpened, and he instinctively reached for the small knife he always kept close. He moved cautiously, scanning the ground through the window. And then he saw it.
A snake, sleek and sinuous, slithered through the underbrush below. Lucas's pulse quickened with excitement. He had always been fascinated by snakes—by their cold, calculating movements, and the way they could strike without warning. This was just the kind of creature he had been waiting for.
With swift, deliberate movements, Lucas descended the ladder and moved toward the snake. His feet barely made a sound on the soft forest floor as he approached. The snake, sensing something, hissed and flicked its tongue, its sleek body weaving through the grass. Lucas crouched low, watching it intently, feeling his heartbeat in his throat. He could almost sense its every move.
When he was close enough, he jabbed a stick in front of its head, pinning it to the ground. The snake twisted and hissed, but Lucas held it firm, carefully scooping it into a glass jar he had brought with him. The snake writhed, furious, but Lucas's grip was unyielding, and soon enough, the creature was contained. It coiled tightly in the jar, its scales catching the light as it tried to escape, but Lucas wasn't going to let it go.
A wave of satisfaction surged through him. The thrill of capturing the snake, of controlling something so wild and dangerous, was intoxicating. The snake would be another piece of his collection, a reminder of the power he was beginning to reclaim.
With the snake secured, Lucas returned to the treehouse. He placed the jar in his backpack and sat for a moment, the weight of the creature inside pulling him into deeper thought. The events of the day—the confrontation with Mr. Morton, the simmering tension with Kane, and the growing desire for retribution—played out in his mind. He had learned to use the chaos around him to his advantage, and he would do so again.
As the day began to wind down, the sun slipping lower in the sky, Lucas packed up his things and made his way back to the house. The forest seemed to exhale with him, the sounds of the world around him shifting as evening began to settle in. He slipped inside through the back door, the cool breeze of the woods still lingering on his skin.
He stashed the jar with the snake in his closet, next to his backpack, and climbed into bed, exhaustion creeping in. But as he lay there, a small, grim smile curled at the corners of his lips.