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"Idris..."
Zigrien felt an immense sense of relief seeing Idris awake. He looked more like himself now; the haze in his eyes had cleared, the drugs purged from his system. Zigrien had ensured that. His friends had suggested hiring a courtesan to tend to Idris, but Zig wouldn't have it. He had taken care of Idris himself. Even with his own wound still fresh, straining himself was a terrible idea, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Not when it came to him.
Now, with the sunlight filtering through the window, illuminating Idris’s features, Zigrien felt his efforts had been worth it.
"Why is a noble Marquess keeping a criminal here? Are you that bored?"
Zigrien blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He supposed Idris was right. He was sheltering a man who had come into his home under the influence of the prince’s drugs, who had killed his guards, who had very nearly killed him. And yet, here he was, resting in the very house he had almost torn apart, being cared for by the same man he had tried to kill.
"What are you thinking?"
Idris' voice was steady but laced with something unreadable.
"I killed your men. I attacked you. Why didn’t you kill me?"
Zigrien exhaled slowly, then simply asked, "How are you feeling?"
Idris scoffed internally. This man was mad. Was that all he wanted to know?
Idris had learned from Zigrien that he had been in his care for a week.
How are things on the side of the evil prince? Idris wondered, guilt gnawing at him.
Was it safe for him to be here with Zigrien? Would he endanger the man and his household?
Pushing aside the uncertainty curling in his chest, he stood. He needed to leave. But before he could take a step toward the door, Zigrien’s voice cut through the space between them.
"You are not leaving."
Idris turned, and Zig’s expression was unwavering.
"You’re staying here. You’re not setting foot outside this house."
“You are locked up here.”
Locked up. The words echoed in Idris’s mind.
It didn’t make sense. Locked up meant something very different in his world. In the prince’s chambers, he had been truly caged, his body a possession, his will stripped away. The prince had used him however he pleased, had drugged him, had shared him. He had whispered twisted words of love while treating him as no more than a plaything.
But Zig… Zig was different.
Idris glanced down. That’s when he noticed it, a piece of cloth, tied to his ankle and the bed. It was long enough to let him move around freely but too fragile to truly restrain a man of his strength so that even the slightest force could tear it apart.
“It’s truly just a piece of cloth,” he muttered to himself, grappling with the contrast.
The prince had kept him shackled in chains, iron shackles that cut into his skin, restraints meant to remind him of who owned him. Zig, however, had placed nothing but a strip of fabric between him and freedom. A flimsy thing that meant nothing… and yet everything.
Idris felt a sense of freedom he had never known. Zig had offered him a choice to live a life the prince had never allowed him to envision.
Idris could leave whenever he wanted. So why wasn’t he leaving?
Because this wasn’t a prison.
The prince had demanded his love and expected devotion even while stripping him of all dignity. But this man, Zig, was different. Zig hadn’t chained him, hadn’t laid a single demand upon him. Zig was giving him something Idris had never had before: the choice to love Zigrien willingly.
Idris swallowed hard. He wanted to give himself to this man. To give him everything. But guilt weighed heavily on Idris’s heart. He felt unworthy of such affection, especially after what he had done. After all the blood on his hands, he didn’t feel like he had anything left to give. And yet, Zig had not once held him accountable for his sins.
Idris could sense the desire in Zigrien’s gaze, a longing that mirrored his own. Yet, Zigrien never let his desires overshadow the tenderness he showed Idris. During their intimate moments, his touch was gentle, as if he feared inflicting any more pain than what Idris had already endured.
Idris had seen it, the way Zig restrained himself, the way he fought against his desires, unwilling to become yet another person who took what they wanted from him. Unlike the others, Zig never let his hunger overshadow his gentleness.
He was nothing like them.
Idris’s mind took him to that memory, when his thoughts were still hazy from the drugs the prince had forced into his system. In that moment, he had failed to recognize Zig. Mistaking him for the prince, he had been confused.
Why had the prince’s hands felt hesitant?
Why had the usual cruelty been replaced with something gentler?
Why had the man taken his time, loosening him up instead of using him as he always did?
The thrusts had not been forceful, not driven by selfish desire, but rather by restraint, as if afraid of hurting him more than he already had been. Only later, when the haze lifted and his gaze fell upon the deep wound on Zig’s torso, did he realize the truth. It wasn’t the prince. It had never been the prince. It was Zig.
His chest tightened painfully at the sight of the wound, fresh and angry, worsening with every movement Zig made. Idris had done that to him. He had been the one to drive the blade into Zig’s flesh, the one who had nearly taken his life.
“That must have hurt,” Idris murmured, his voice low, almost hesitant. Slowly, he reached out, his fingers ghosting over the mark on Zig’s torso, tracing the edges of the scar with an almost reverent touch.
Zig inhaled sharply at the contact but didn’t pull away. Instead, his lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “It was worth it to get you back.”
Idris stilled, his fingers lingering on the warm skin beneath them. His heart ached at those words, at the sheer madness of them. Worth it? How could nearly losing his life ever be worth it?
“And,” Zig continued, his voice softer now, tinged with something deeper, “I like that you left a mark on me.”
Idris's breath caught. There was no resentment in Zig’s tone, no anger—only a quiet, unwavering devotion. The realization unsettled him, made something deep inside him crack. Zig should have hated him for what he had done. Instead, he was wearing his wound like a promise.
Idris’s fingers twitched against Zig’s skin, tracing just a little lower before curling against the fabric of his shirt. He could feel the warmth beneath it, the steady rise and fall of Zig’s breath.
“You’re insane,” Idris whispered, his voice barely audible.
Zig only smiled. “Then stay and drive me mad.”
Before Idris could think, before he could retreat into the familiar walls of guilt and self-loathing, Zig closed the distance between them. His lips brushed against Idris’—not demanding, not forceful, just a quiet, lingering press that spoke of everything he was willing to give, everything he already had.
Idris should have pulled away. He should have rejected the tenderness that he didn’t believe he deserved. But he didn’t. Instead, he found himself leaning in, his hands gripping Zig’s shirt as if anchoring himself to the only thing that had ever felt real.
And for that moment, just that moment, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could leave a different kind of mark on Zig, one that had nothing to do with pain.
In that moment, Idris understood that love was not just a distant dream but a tangible reality waiting to be embraced.