The next day, he tried to act normal. He went to school, wore his usual calm face, moved through the hours like nothing had happened.
But at lunch, his phone lit up with a string of voice messages from Mikael.
He ducked into an empty classroom and pressed play.
"Lucien. I spoke with the lawyer. He's thorough. This is his message."
A new voice followed—smooth, professional, and utterly cold.
"Mr. Hale, I've reviewed the contract clause by clause. It's fully legal and airtight. There are no exit provisions, no hidden language you could use to void or delay payment. The signatures are binding, the collateral enforceable, and the deadlines immovable. Unless the lenders choose to release you voluntarily—and they have no obligation to do so—you are, legally speaking, entirely liable."
A pause. Then: "I'm sorry. But there is no way out through the courts."
Lucien's heart constricted as if someone had reached inside his chest and squeezed.
His phone rang immediately after. Mikael again.
"Don't lose hope," Mikael said, voice steady but tight. "We've still got six months. Something might come up. Just… don't do anything stupid. And don't contact that guy again. Please."
Lucien forced a small laugh, his tone even. "Yeah. Six months. Got it."
But inside, he knew. Trying to get his friends out alive, he'd only tightened the noose around his own neck.
Heat flushed through him. His shirt clung to his back. He pressed a hand to his forehead—and swore softly when the realization hit. He hadn't taken his medicine since yesterday.
Damn it.
When he got home, he tore through drawers, pockets, bags—nothing. His meds were gone. And then it struck him. The restaurant. He must've left them there.
For better or worse, that gave him a reason. A humiliating, desperate reason.
He sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand. Mikael's warnings echoed in his head: Don't contact him.
But his body was on fire, his head pounding, nausea and fever wrapping tight around him until his vision swam.
Four days. That's all it had taken.
He drew in a long breath, trying to steady himself, forcing down the resentment bubbling under his skin. This wasn't about pride anymore. This was survival.
He hit call.
The dial tone rang in his ear as he leaned against the wall, eyes closed, whispering to himself between each beat—
Don't get angry. Don't get angry.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A blur of movement hovered over a sleek keyboard—the clicking and clacking of buttons filling the dim office as the mouse glided with practiced ease. Reading glasses rested on the bridge of his nose while silver eyes scanned through reports, revenue sheets, and email threads.
When he wasn't prowling around like a charming devil, Nikolai was the definition of efficiency. He earned every moment of his leisure with discipline that outshone every peer and blood relative.
The issue? Boredom.
Every day was the same procession of personnel groveling at his feet, grateful just to receive an apathetic glance. No one dared to question him. His words were treated as law the moment he'd been chosen for this position.
The pedestal he sat on was built atop endless bodies and dirt-stained wealth—his hands scarred and calloused, bones once broken, muscles strained from the climb. He'd clawed his way to the top, leaving wreckage in his wake, until even his grandfather had no choice but to shine the spotlight on him.
And yet… he hated it.
He preferred the shadows—the chase, the thrill of the hunt, the kind of work that didn't require sitting in an overpriced leather chair for hours, staring at spreadsheets.
"Sitting idly looking at this damn screen just drains the life out of me…" he muttered, slouching back into the seat, massaging his temples against the oncoming headache.
Silence answered him. Not even his secretary outside dared to comment.
Deeming the day's administrative duties complete, Nikolai shut the laptop with a snap and leaned back, gaze wandering over the polished surface of his desk until it landed on a manila folder. Inside: the report on the bottle of pills he'd confiscated from Lucien.
He reached into the drawer and pulled out the small bottle, rolling it in his hand, the capsules inside rattling like soft percussion.
Every waking hour since that day, he'd found himself fighting the urge to dial the grouchy kitten—just to hear the sharp bite of his voice again. Just to hear him.
Lucien haunted him even at night. His dreams were a chokehold—raw, explicit, intoxicating. Every time he woke, the faint burn of his own pheromones lingered in the air, his body reacting like a creature starved.
Perhaps it was time for suppressant pills again. Or maybe Lucien's scent—warm, addictive, like something forbidden—had cracked open something buried deep inside him.
Even if he blamed the scent, Nikolai knew the truth.
He missed him.
Maybe some higher deity was listening, because the phone on his desk buzzed just then, the screen flashing the name that made his pulse stutter:
'Kitten.'
For a moment, Nikolai forgot how to breathe.
He lurched forward so fast the chair squeaked, nearly dropping the phone as his fingers fumbled. His thumb slipped past the accept button, almost hitting "end." A bead of sweat slid down his temple.
"Fuck…" he hissed under his breath, scrambling to steady the device. The idea of missing this call—of losing this one chance—sent an unfamiliar spike of panic through him.
He wiped his palms on his trousers, took a deep breath, and forced his tone smooth before answering.
Lucien rubbed at his forehead, fingers pressing hard against the pounding behind his eyes. The throbbing only worsened, each pulse syncing with his heartbeat until it felt like his skull might split. His black V-neck clung to him, the fabric too tight, too warm, as though even his clothes wanted to suffocate him.
The phone had rung and rung—too long. Each chime made his stomach sink a little further. Was the bastard ignoring him? Or was this just another one of Nikolai's games?
When the call finally connected, the sound of that voice hit him like a gut punch. God help him—he actually felt relieved.
That relief didn't last.
"...Unless this is to reschedule another date," he drawled, voice cool but strained beneath the surface, "you're better off deleting my number, Mr. Hale."
The words came out sharper than he intended—so far from the apology he'd rehearsed in his head. Just the fact that Lucien had reached out first was enough to short-circuit every ounce of his usual composure.
"So, use your choice of words wisely, princess."
Nikolai's first words oozed through the speaker, smooth and cutting, every syllable meant to provoke. Lucien shut his eyes, forcing down the spike of irritation. He couldn't afford to snap, not this time. He didn't have the energy, nor the luxury of pride.
He needed his help.
Still, when that damn pet name rolled off Nikolai's tongue—princess—something inside him twitched. His jaw locked, a low hiss escaping before he could stop it.
"Didn't I tell you not to call me that?"
The words came out rough, voice scraped thin by fever and exhaustion. He swallowed hard, steadying the tremor in his breath.
"…I want to meet you."
The admission hung in the air, heavy, reluctant. He bit the inside of his cheek, fingers digging into his hair as if to anchor himself. Anger flickered—bright, hot—and then dulled again under the weight pressing behind his ribs.
Expecting some sort of extravagant outburst—shouting, hissing, maybe a string of curses—Nikolai wasn't prepared for that.The quiet, meek response on the other end froze him mid-breath. Not a single syllable followed. The silence thickened with every second, creeping through the phone until it felt like a hand around his throat.
Lucien wanted to see him? In person?
Was the world already ending?
And Lucien, he hated this. Hated that his voice shook. Hated that he needed the man on the other end of the line.
But right now, need won.
"I think you have something of mine. I really need it." He swallowed hard, breath ragged. He didn't say he was barely fit to stand. He didn't tell Nikolai his body was buzzing like a live wire. He just kept the edge in his tone — cold, practical — because this was a business now: medicine and information. Pride could wait.
But for Nikolai it wasn't the same. Even if it was just to return what had been taken, the fact that Lucien sought him out, that he'd chosen to depend on Nikolai, ignited something deep within—a heady, dangerous sense of elation.
Still, he wasn't about to let that show. Nikolai was the type to savor the moment, to stretch the thread until it threatened to snap, until desperation replaced reason.
And it worked...
Lucien bit his lip at the silence that followed. The line was still open, but there was nothing—no sigh, no breath, not even the faintest sound of movement. Irritation prickled down his spine.
"Can you say something, or are you suddenly mute?" Fuck. He was getting pissed again.
But of course, it was Nikolai. Expecting civilized communication was a fool's dream.