The apartment was too quiet again.
Elian stood in front of the mirrored closet, buttoning up the white dress shirt Leonhart had left out for him. It wasn't a request. The moment Leonhart started picking out his clothes, Elian stopped pretending he had privacy.
The shirt was too crisp, the fabric expensive in a way that made Elian itch. It smelled faintly of Leonhart's cologne—amber, spice, cold metal.
He stepped into the living room like an offering.
Leonhart glanced up from the couch. A glass of dark liquor in hand. Shirt half unbuttoned. Tie loose. He looked like something careless and cruel.
"You cleaned up nicely," he said, voice low. "Almost like you belong here."
Elian lowered his eyes. "You told me to wear it."
Leonhart took a slow sip. "You don't talk back well. But you do talk."
"I answer when I'm spoken to."
Leonhart stood. He didn't approach at first—just studied Elian like he was reading a line of numbers on a stock report.
Then, without warning, he closed the distance.
Elian didn't flinch. Not this time. He'd practiced stillness like armor.
Leonhart's fingers reached for the collar and adjusted it slightly, brushing against Elian's throat. His thumb lingered. "You're obedient. But not afraid."
"I'm not here to be afraid," Elian said softly.
Leonhart's eyes gleamed. "Then why are you here?"
A beat of silence.
"To serve you."
It wasn't a lie. Not exactly. But it wasn't the truth either.
Leonhart stepped back with a smirk. "Make me a drink."
---
Later that night, Elian was drying glasses in the kitchen when he heard it—a soft, uneven footstep behind him.
He turned. Leonhart was there, backlit by the hallway lights, slightly unsteady.
Drunk.
More than usual.
"Elian."
His name in Leonhart's voice always sounded like an order.
"Yes, sir?"
Leonhart leaned against the counter. He looked dangerous, but not in the way Elian expected. His eyes were a little too open. His voice, too quiet.
"Why haven't you left yet?"
Elian blinked. "You haven't told me to."
"That's not what I meant." A pause. "You could leave. Most of them do."
Elian dried the last glass, set it down, and met his gaze.
"I haven't finished earning what I came for."
Leonhart stared at him.
Then, without warning, he stepped forward and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't slow. It was harsh, claiming—like everything Leonhart did.
Elian didn't stop him. He let himself be pushed back into the counter, mouth opened, breath stolen. But his mind stayed cold.
This wasn't about romance.
It was a role. A game.
And Elian played it well.
When Leonhart finally pulled back, his breath was ragged.
"You're not what I expected," he muttered.
Elian's voice was calm. "Neither are you."
---
Chapter 5 Preview:
Leonhart begins testing Elian more physically—wanting to see where the line is.
Elian starts subtly taking emotional control, giving just enough to keep Leonhart hooked.
A private dinner ends with an intense encounter