The next four days felt like a fleeting dream for Lucas, a mixture of calm and chaos that was unlike anything he'd experienced before. Dimitri was all-consuming, his presence constant and enveloping. It was as though the rest of the world ceased to exist in those moments, and only the two of them remained, tangled in the intensity of their shared isolation.
To everyone else, Dimitri's intensity would have been overwhelming, a relentless torrent of need and attention. But for Lucas, it was a kind of fuel. Every glance, every word, every breath Dimitri took seemed to tighten the grip Lucas had on him. He thrived on it, almost as if he fed off Dimitri's obsession. He loved how Dimitri never left his side, how the young man would hang on his every word, his every gesture. But the moment Dimitri's attention wavered, the moment he turned elsewhere, even for a second—Lucas could feel the sudden emptiness that swept through him like a cold wave.
One particular afternoon, Lucas found himself in a dark mood, unsettled by a quiet period in the day when Dimitri had gone out to run an errand. The instant Dimitri was out of the door, Lucas's mind began to twist, his thoughts growing sharp and jagged. He paced around the house, restless, his mind circling around the growing sense of abandonment. When Dimitri returned a couple of hours later, casually mentioning he'd just taken a walk, Lucas couldn't hold it back any longer. His anger erupted in a violent burst, as though everything that had built up inside him during those brief hours of solitude came crashing down.
Without warning, Lucas grabbed Dimitri by the collar, slamming him against the wall. Dimitri gasped, his eyes wide in surprise. But Lucas didn't stop, his fury only intensifying as Dimitri, still dazed, attempted to speak. Lucas could feel his pulse pounding in his ears as he shoved Dimitri harder, throwing words at him that cut sharper than any physical strike.
"Do you think you can just leave me? You think I'm not enough?" Lucas hissed, his voice laced with venom.
Dimitri's voice was barely a whisper, confused and hurt. "I—Lucas, I—"
But Lucas didn't let him finish. His hand shot out, grabbing Dimitri's wrist and twisting it painfully. Dimitri cried out, his face contorting in shock, but that only fueled Lucas more. He shoved Dimitri to the ground, watching the confusion and fear play out in his eyes. And then, as if on instinct, Lucas struck—hitting him with all the raw frustration, all the need he couldn't understand. His fist landed against Dimitri's stomach, a harsh blow that made Dimitri cough, choking for breath.
When the haze of rage finally cleared, Lucas stood over him, chest heaving, his hands trembling. Dimitri lay on the floor, breathing heavily, bruised and dazed. For a long moment, Lucas just stared at him, not knowing what to feel. He wanted to say something, anything, to make it stop, but all he could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat, the rising guilt crushing him from within. Slowly, he backed away, his heart sinking with the knowledge of what he had done.
He turned, stumbling away from Dimitri's broken form, and locked himself in the bathroom. There, in the quiet solitude, the weight of his actions hit him with full force. He couldn't believe what he had just done, couldn't believe how far he had gone in his need for control, for Dimitri's attention. His anger, his jealousy—it all swirled together, a poisonous cocktail that had driven him to this point.
He hated himself. For losing control. For hurting Dimitri. For needing him so badly. But no matter how much he tried to tear himself apart, the truth remained—he needed Dimitri to be everything. And when he wasn't, when Dimitri pulled away, it was like a knife to his chest.
Lucas knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning. There would be more moments like this, more uncontrollable bursts of fury when Dimitri wasn't there to feed his obsession. And the thought of losing that power over him made his skin crawl.
———
The day passed with Lucas practically glued to Dimitri, his behavior suffocatingly affectionate yet unnervingly erratic. It was as if the brutal beating earlier never happened, or worse, as if it had only strengthened his twisted sense of possession. Every time Dimitri tried to pull away, Lucas grabbed him—by the wrist, by the shirt, by the back of the neck—and forced him closer, whispering empty apologies followed by intense, possessive kisses.
Dimitri's mind twisted under the weight of it all. He knew Lucas's affection wasn't genuine, knew it was more about control than care, but a dark, shameful part of him welcomed it. Maybe if he pushed Lucas hard enough—made him angry enough—he'd get beaten again, only to have Lucas this tender afterward. It was sick, but the thought clung to him, a poisonous echo he couldn't shake.
Lucas, for his part, tried to bury the memory of his own violence, but his gestures of kindness were tinged with cruelty, his apologies always conditional, his touches hovering on the edge of threat. The forced kisses were less about intimacy and more about staking a claim, as if to say, You're mine, no matter how much I hurt you.
But as much as Lucas tried to bury the thought, he knew he couldn't escape the looming reality of Friday—the deadline Mr.Morton had set, the one that was hanging over him like a shadow. Dimitri had said he would take care of it and Lucas didn't doubt his words. However ,he couldn't afford to forget what had been left behind, and he knew he had to face it sooner or later. The thought made his stomach twist with discomfort, but it was the truth. He had to return. He had to.
He couldn't tell Dimitri that, though. Not yet. Dimitri had already given so much, and Lucas could see the way he looked at him—like a trapped animal who had found someone to protect him. Lucas couldn't destroy that, not yet. Not when everything felt fragile and teetering on the edge.
Lucas noticed, with increasing curiosity, the absence of Dimitri's aunt and uncle. He didn't ask at first, letting the question simmer in the back of his mind, but it became harder to ignore as the days wore on. The house felt emptier without them, and the way Dimitri moved through the space with such ease only deepened the mystery. The air in the house had a sense of permanence now, as though Dimitri was the only one who mattered, and no one else could touch them.
On the fifth day, Lucas finally brought it up. He was sitting at the table, absently stirring a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold. Dimitri was standing by the window, staring out at the world outside with an unreadable expression. Lucas's eyes flicked over to him, then back to the empty space where his aunt and uncle used to be. He couldn't keep the question from slipping out.
"Where are your aunt and uncle?" he asked, his voice low, though there was an edge of curiosity there. "I haven't seen them since I got here."
Dimitri didn't turn around immediately, his fingers absently tracing the edge of the window pane. But Lucas could see the slight shift in his posture, the way his shoulders tensed just the slightest bit before he spoke.
"They were dismissed," Dimitri said softly, a sweet smile curling at the corners of his lips. His tone was casual, almost indifferent, but there was something sharp in his eyes. "They were just... temporary, I suppose. They were never supposed to stay this long."
Dimitri's words hung in the air for a moment, and Lucas felt a chill crawl down his spine. There was something too deliberate in his tone, something that made Lucas's curiosity spike further. He couldn't help but ask, his voice barely above a whisper, "Dismissed? By who?"
Dimitri's smile didn't falter, but there was an unsettling glint in his eyes now, something darker, more calculating. "By me," he said, his voice almost sweet. "They weren't exactly necessary. And... I didn't like having them here .I want you to only have me in your eyes."
Lucas didn't push the matter any further. There was something in Dimitri's tone that told him it wasn't worth digging any deeper. But the unease in the pit of his stomach only grew stronger. Dimitri's past, his family, the things he was capable of—it was all starting to make sense in ways Lucas didn't want to understand.
Instead, Lucas stood up from the table, walking across the room to stand next to Dimitri by the window. The view outside seemed so distant now, like an unreachable world that Lucas could never go back to. He glanced at Dimitri, who was still staring out the window, his expression unreadable.
Dimitri's voice was soft, almost thoughtful, as he spoke. "We don't need anyone else, Lucas. Just you and me. That's all we need."
Still, he didn't say anything. He just stood next to Dimitri, watching the world outside, the thoughts swirling in his head. He could feel the tension in the air, the unspoken understanding between them. Dimitri's eyes flicked toward him, and for the briefest moment, there was a softness there, a tenderness that Lucas wasn't sure how to handle.
The room was silent, save for the faint rustling of the wind outside. Lucas stood by the window, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the yard. The sun was setting, casting a muted glow over the landscape. His gaze froze as he saw him—Mr. Morton, standing on the porch of the house. The older man's eyes were trained on him, piercing through the distance with an unsettling intensity. The moment their eyes met, Lucas felt a jolt of something cold and heavy, like the weight of an old, forgotten memory stirring in his chest.
Mr. Morton was standing in the same position he always stood—tall, rigid, like he was waiting for something. Maybe Lucas to come back. Maybe Lucas to break. There was an almost predatory quality to the way Mr. Morton's eyes held him, like he was watching a fragile prey. The sight of him made Lucas' skin crawl, but he kept his expression neutral. Cold. Unfeeling.
Lucas stared back for a long moment, a silent war between them, until the older man finally turned and disappeared back into the house. Lucas didn't move for a while. The chill that crept over him was deep, unsettling, but he wouldn't let it show. Not to Dimitri, not to anyone. He turned away from the window, breathing out a soft, controlled exhale.
———
When Friday came, the air felt thick with tension, and Lucas could feel the weight of the decision pressing against his chest. It was time. Dimitri was downstairs, absorbed in his own world, probably unaware of the storm Lucas was about to walk into. For a moment, Lucas thought about telling him—about asking Dimitri to come with him. But the words wouldn't come,he could do this by himself . The situation was too complicated, too twisted. Dimitri's world was dangerous, a place Lucas wasn't sure he wanted to be trapped in forever.
He moved quietly, slipping out of the house unnoticed. He didn't want to disturb Dimitri or cause a scene. No, this had to be done in silence. The door creaked as he left, but he quickly stepped out and closed it behind him, careful not to make a sound. He walked down the path, his steps slow but purposeful. The morning air felt colder than usual, the wind carrying a sharp bite that matched the gnawing feeling in his gut.
As Lucas neared the front gate, he saw Mr. Morton's car parked outside, just as he expected. The car was sleek and dark, its windows reflecting the early morning light. The sight of it made Lucas' stomach turn. He had spent so much time avoiding this moment, pretending it wasn't real. But now, here it was.
The front door was slightly ajar, as if waiting for him. He hesitated for a split second, the weight of the decision crashing down on him. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, the only sound in the otherwise still morning. But it was too late to turn back now. He was already too deep into this.
He reached for the door ,pushing it open. The door creaked softly, but there was no sign of Mr.Morton. The house was eerily quiet, almost empty. He walked inside without hesitation, his eyes scanning the hallway as if he expected something to jump out at him. But it was just the silence. The oppressive silence that he had grown used to. He could almost hear his own heartbeat pounding in the back of his mind.
Lucas stepped deeper into the house, moving towards the stairs that led up to his old room. He was tense, every muscle in his body coiled and ready for whatever might come. The door was open now. The familiar scent of dust and old wood filled the air as he ascended, his footsteps loud in the otherwise silent house.
He moved through the room, gathering his things, stuffing them into a large bag. In his hand, he gripped the heavy glass jar and the suitcase he grew fond of.
As Lucas finished packing, a voice suddenly called his name from downstairs, sharp and insistent. He froze, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. It was Mr. Morton.
With a quiet exhale, Lucas everything on the floor of his room, the weight of them lingering in the air. He closed the door softly behind him, the silence in the hallway almost suffocating.
Descending the stairs,Lucas made his way towards the living room. There, standing with his usual immaculate composure, was Mr. Morton. Dressed in his dark suit, he looked almost out of place in the house's dim, worn atmosphere. His gaze was fixed on Lucas, sharp and unwavering, as if he'd been waiting for this very moment.
Mr. Morton's lips curled into a thin smile as Lucas stepped into the living room. His eyes filled with approval .
With a slow clap of his hands, he said, his tone dripping with patronizing sweetness, "I knew you were a smart boy, Lucas." His voice was smooth, almost too smooth, as though he was speaking to a child who had finally figured out the simplest of puzzles.
The sound of his claps echoed in the quiet room, an oddly triumphant noise that filled the space between them. Mr. Morton didn't break eye contact, his smile widening just slightly, as if pleased with himself for having finally found the right moment.
"Did you miss me?" Mr. Morton asked with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Lucas didn't answer. Instead, he let his eyes drift over to the stairs, then back to the living room, feeling the weight of Mr. Morton's gaze on him. But before he could take a step toward the stairs, Mr. Morton's voice stopped him cold.
"Were you planning to run away?" Mr. Morton asked, his tone darkening, more commanding. "You belong here. Don't forget that. You're not running away from me especially when you have my last name boy .You are a Morton."
The words were like a slap to the face, and Lucas's breath hitched, anger bubbling up in his chest. He wanted to scream, to fight, to break free. But instead, he just stood there, fists clenched, staring at the man who had always held the power over him.
"The only reason we adopted a boy like you," Mr. Morton said with a slow, deliberate smirk, "was because of how beautiful you were. "Exotic black hair, those piercing blue eyes... You weren't like any other child I'd ever seen before. I wanted that." He paused, his gaze lingering in a way that made the air feel heavier. "My wife didn't, not as much. But she made it work—for me."
He stepped closer, his polished shoes barely making a sound on the floor. His eyes roamed over Lucas in a way that left no room for misinterpretation, sharp and calculating. "Do you think any other family as rich as ours would have adopted you?" His voice dropped lower, silkier, yet dripping with contempt. "A troubled, prideful teen, ungrateful as you are? No one wants a boy like that in their home."
Lucas stiffened as Mr. Morton took another step forward, the space between them dwindling. "But I gave you the option to come back. And you did." His smile deepened, as if savoring some private victory. "Because deep down, you knew you were always a Morton."
Lucas's jaw tightened as he stepped back, his piercing blue eyes narrowing with disgust. "You're a sick bastard," he spat, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Don't flatter yourself into thinking I came back because I wanted to see you. I came for my stuff—things that actually matter to me. You? You're nothing."
For a moment, Mr. Morton froze, his smug smile faltering. Then, without a word, he turned and walked to the corner of the room, opening a tall, ornate cupboard. The sound of objects shifting echoed in the silence as he rummaged through the shelves.
"I suppose you think you're better than me," he said finally, his voice quieter now but laced with an eerie calm. "Do you know what my father used to do to me when I got disrespectful?" He paused, his hand stilling on something inside the cupboard before continuing. "He'd beat me. Hard enough to leave marks for days. Then, when he'd had enough, he'd throw me out into the snow. Barefoot. No coat. Just me and the cold night air."
Lucas didn't reply, his hands curling into fists as he watched the man's back.
Mr. Morton pulled something from the cupboard—a glass decanter of amber liquid—and set it on the counter with a heavy clink. "Do you know what happens to a boy out there in the cold? He crawls back," he said, turning to face Lucas, a dark gleam in his eyes. "He crawls back for warmth, for food, for the safety of the monster he just tried to defy. My father taught me that. And I've never forgotten it."
Mr. Morton took a slow sip of the amber liquid, the glass catching the dim light as he swirled it lazily. "Children need to be taught manners, Lucas," he said, his voice calm but carrying a sinister edge. "It's the only way they learn their place. My father understood that. And I suppose, in time, you'll come to understand it too."
Finishing the drink in one last swallow, he set the glass down on the counter with a deliberate clink. He turned back to the cupboard, the hinges creaking as he opened it wider. Lucas's gaze followed his every move, his unease building as Mr. Morton rummaged deeper inside.
Finally, he straightened up, pulling out a long, solid stick—smooth wood, worn from use. He tested its weight in his hand, gripping it tightly as he turned to face Lucas with an unnerving smile.
"You see," he said, tapping the stick lightly against his palm, "a boy like you—so proud, so defiant—needs guidance. Discipline. It's for your own good, really." His eyes gleamed with something dark, something that made Lucas's stomach churn.
Mr. Morton took a step forward, the stick still resting in his hand. "And if no one else will teach you, Lucas," he said softly, his voice almost tender, "then I suppose it falls to me."
The room fell into a heavy silence, the air thick with tension as Mr. Morton's twisted sense of authority filled the space. Lucas's muscles tensed, his jaw tight, but he didn't move, waiting for the next sickening word or action.
Mr. Morton gripped the stick tightly, his gaze locked on Lucas like a predator sizing up its prey. He took another step forward, the sinister smile still plastered across his face. "Here's the deal, Lucas," he said, his voice low but dripping with cruel amusement. "If you can take fifteen of these—no screaming, no crying—I'll let you go to that boy across the street anytime you want."
Lucas's heart pounded, his breathing steady despite the sickening tension in the room. He refused to give Mr. Morton the satisfaction of a reaction, his piercing blue eyes narrowing as he stared back at the man.
Mr. Morton tilted his head, his smile widening. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or are you already realizing how hard that's going to be for a spoiled, ungrateful boy like you?"
He raised the stick slightly, the motion slow and deliberate as if savoring the anticipation. "But if you so much as whimper," he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "the deal's off. And trust me, I'll make sure you learn proper respect before this night is over."
The room was suffocatingly quiet, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Lucas didn't flinch, his silence louder than any protest he could have made. His mind raced, calculating his next move as Mr. Morton's dark chuckle echoed in the space between them.
Lucas stared at Mr. Morton, his blue eyes unblinking, as if dissecting the man down to his very core. The silence dragged, heavy and thick, but Lucas didn't move. His mind churned with conflicting emotions—disgust, anger.
After what felt like an eternity, Lucas's expression shifted, his lips curling into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Slowly, he came forward in front of the man before lowering himself to his knees on the cold hardwood floor.
He extended his arms, palms facing upward, his head tilting slightly as he gazed up at Mr. Morton.
"I'm waiting," Lucas said, his voice eerily calm, almost mocking.
Mr. Morton's smirk deepened, his satisfaction evident as he took a step back. "That's more like it," he murmured, his tone dripping with condescension. Slowly, he shrugged off his suit jacket, the smooth fabric sliding from his shoulders before he tossed it onto a nearby chair. He loosened the cuffs of his pristine white dress shirt, rolling them up with the meticulous precision of a man preparing for a task he intended to savor.
"You're learning already," he said with a chuckle, gripping the stick tightly in one hand. "Maybe there's hope for you after all."
The stick hovered in the air, a shadow stretching long across the room as Mr. Morton raised it higher. Lucas's heartbeat remained steady, his gaze never wavering, even as his psychotic calm blanketed the room like a suffocating fog.
"Let's see how much you can take," Mr. Morton said, his voice dark with satisfaction as he prepared for the first strike.