Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Power lived in the walls of Acrux Manor.

The estate rose from the Solarian countryside like a jagged crown, its black-stone spires clawing at the sky. Magic clung to the air, sharp with the scent of dragonfire. Every hallway hummed with the echo of old victories, every polished surface a reminder of wealth and dominance. To step inside its doors was to be confronted with power—undeniable, inherited, absolute.

And yet, in the great chamber where firelight spilled across crimson banners, Lionel Acrux found himself staring at something he considered weakness.

His wife sat in a high-backed chair near the rain-streaked glass, a swaddled infant nestled against her chest. Thunder shook the windowpanes, lightning throwing jagged light across the marble floor. The child stirred, soft whimpers almost lost to the storm. Catalina's fingers shifted protectively on the bundle, though her face remained composed.

Smoke thickened as Lionel's temper flared, his piercing green eyes sharp with rage. For a heartbeat his pupils thinned to reptilian slits before widening again—emerald depths reflecting the firelight, a flash of the dragon barely caged beneath his skin.

He paced, each step clipped and precise. "We are dragons," he snarled. "Our heirs are forged in fire, not hidden away like cowards. And yet you would make my son a changeling? Cast him into the human realm in place of some human brat? You would shame our name in its own halls?"

The infant startled, fists balling tight. Catalina adjusted her hold, her voice level, deliberate. "It is not shame. It is survival. If your plans succeed, he will return as heir, stronger for what he has endured. But if even one piece fails… if the Savage King learns the truth, he will strike our son first. You know it."

Lionel's mouth curled. "You think I fear him? The Savage King does not scare me."

"No," Catalina replied, her dark eyes reflecting the storm outside. For the first time, her breath caught as the baby whimpered. She pressed her lips to his crown before schooling her tone back to ice. "But he will not strike you. He will strike your heir—to make an example of you. One human life is a small price if it ensures your son's chance to inherit."

"We stand almost alone in this," Catalina continued, her tone sharpening as her fingers flexed once more against the child's blanket. "House Rigel alone offers us support. Even then, Nero's motives are uncertain. The others will not risk themselves. The Orions choose silence, and the Altairs' silence is never neutral."

Lionel's snarl deepened. "Let them wait. When I take what is mine, they'll remember their cowardice."

The baby's thin cry cut through the storm. Clara soothed him this time, her hand brushing his cheek before her gaze returned to Lionel, cool again. "And it will be your undoing if you underestimate them."

Lionel exhaled bitter smoke. "Very well. Send him. Hide him among mortals, bind his power. But if he is lost to me—if this precaution robs me of my heir—you will share that loss, Clara."

Her grip tightened; the faintest crack appeared in her composure. Then her lips brushed the child's head, her whisper sharp as a blade. "You will thank me for this, Lionel. If your plans fail, the Savage King will take everything from you. But if our son is hidden, you will still have an heir—even if only in the mortal realm. Better a living heir in exile than no heir at all."

As if summoned by her words, the chamber doors groaned open. A tall figure stepped inside, rainwater dripping from the shoulders of his black jacket. In his arms he carried another infant, bundled tight against the storm. His eyes, sharp and watchful, flicked first to the Acrux child, then to Lionel.

Lionel's eyes narrowed. "Nero. I wasn't expecting you—not in this storm."

Nero shifted the bundle, jaw taut. "My wife discovered my… indiscretions. This boy is the result. I named him heir before she could move against him. She would see him dead rather than let him inherit."

Lionel studied the infant with calculating eyes. "You named him heir? Bold enough to damn your House. But tell me—if his Order manifests as his mother's, will you still claim him? Or will he become her weapon, not yours?"

Nero's gaze flicked to the baby, hesitation tightening his throat. Fear shadowed his eyes before he drew in a slow breath, voice low but steady. "He will be a Siren. My blood runs stronger. It must."

Lionel chuckled darkly. "Confidence is cheap. Solaria never forgets weak heirs."

Catalina's fingers tightened around her son's blanket, her gaze fixed on the storm beyond the glass.

Nero lingered, his grip tightening on his own son. At last he said, reluctant, almost bitter, "…If you mean to send your heir into exile, perhaps mine should not stand alone here either."

Lionel barked a harsh laugh. "You would hide your blood like a coward? Do you plan to send him back with milk still on his lips and expect the Houses to kneel?"

Nero's eyes hardened. "I plan to keep him alive. My wife would see him dead before she let him inherit. If exile spares him, then exile is better than a grave."

Lionel sneered, but Catalina finally looked up. Her voice was even, detached. "Then let them be hidden together. It would help for Darius to have someone who understands—someone to support him when we cannot."

Nero inclined his head. "So be it."

Lionel's expression twisted in disgust, but at last he growled, "Prepare the binding. Tonight. If they survive it, perhaps they are worthy of the names we gave them."

Thunder rolled as a dragon heir and a siren heir prepared to lose everything they were born to inherit. Perhaps, in that loss, they might find something their fathers never could—the freedom to decide who they would become.

Chapter Text

Chapter One – Max

The bass from the yacht party pounded through the water like a heartbeat, and I could feel it in my bones even from here. Fifty yards out, treading water in the dark, river water stinging my eyes—this was either the stupidest thing I'd ever done, or the most brilliant. Jury was still out.

I adjusted the waterproof bag strapped to my chest, making sure the camera inside was secure. It had taken me months to save for it—well, a used model that glitched if you so much as breathed on it wrong, but beggars couldn't be choosers. One photo. That's all I needed. One shot of Senator Blackwood's "charity meeting" that was really a drug-money laundering session, and I'd have six months of rent squared away. Rumor said he was meeting a mafia boss tonight.

The yacht's lights shimmered on the black surface. Music, laughter, the clink of champagne glasses. The rich celebrating while wrecking lives for fun. And me, about to make money off their corruption. Irony was practically drowning me.

How long had I been out here? An hour? Two? Didn't matter. Darius always said it was weird how long I could stay in the water, even when it was freezing. He'd last five minutes before turning blue, teeth rattling like castanets, while I was perfectly fine.

A splash snapped my head around. Patrol boat? Security? I froze, held my breath, sank until only my eyes broke the surface. Just a pelican. Christ, Max, get a grip.

I'd been doing this since I was twelve—slipping onto boats, docks, private marinas. Started small, hunting for dropped wallets or forgotten jewelry. Now I was an underwater photographer for hire, specializing in things people didn't want photographed. The water made me faster, sharper, stronger than I had any right to be. Our foster parents had called it "natural talent."

If only they knew how natural.

Foster homes were all the same—temporary, suffocating, never yours. That was where I met Darius, when we both got dumped into the same house at ten years old. We weren't brothers by blood, but something pulled us together anyway, like the universe had messed up and only just realized we were supposed to be family.

On our first day, I tried to calm him down—something that usually worked with other kids. But Darius wasn't like other kids. He just hauled off and punched me, snarling, "Don't think you're better than me."

After I got over the shock, I hit back, of course. We both ended up bloody, glaring across the yard like we hated each other. But by the end of the week, we were covering for each other like we'd been doing it forever. Somewhere between the punches and the punishment, we stopped being strangers and started being brothers.

The first time the foster system tried to split us up, Darius told the social worker if we weren't placed together, he'd walk out on his own. I thought they'd call his bluff, but instead they just sighed and said, "Very well." From then on, me and Darius were a package deal.

That was years ago, but it still defined us. Through every crappy foster home, every close call, every time the world tried to grind us down—we stuck together. Darius fought for me as much as I fought for him. Sometimes that meant he fought with me too. Even now, he still called me out for the things I did. "There are easier ways to make money," he'd lecture, big-brother mode activated. But we both knew that wasn't really the point. When you'd grown up with nothing, you held tight to anything that gave you an edge. Darius got that—hell, he lived it too. But he still worried, and that worry came out as lectures.

I kicked toward the yacht's stern, staying in the shadows. The service ladder was right where the blueprints said it would be. I'd spent three days studying this yacht's design, memorizing every deck, every entrance. Preparation was everything in this business.

I hauled myself up just enough to grab the bottom rung, water streaming from my wetsuit. The deck above was empty—all the action was happening on the upper levels where corrupt politicians made deals with organized crime. The kind of corruption that spanned every level of society, because greed was universal.

This was the moment. The rush. When everything narrowed down to heartbeat and adrenaline and the absolute certainty that I could pull this off. I was Max, and I didn't back down from anything.

Voices drifted down from the deck above. Senator Blackwood's distinctive laugh, then a rougher voice I didn't recognize. "—transfer tomorrow night. Dock seven, same as always. Keep the cops out of it and we'll keep the heat off your campaign—"

Bingo. Political corruption at its finest.

I pulled myself up another rung, just enough to get the camera over the deck edge. Through the lens, I could see them: Blackwood in his thousand-dollar suit, shaking hands with a man who definitely didn't look like charity work. Briefcase between them, both looking around like they knew this wasn't the kind of meeting that belonged in campaign ads.

I held my breath and pressed the shutter.

I cursed as my camera decided at that moment to glitch. The flash popped.

Shit. The damn thing was acting up at the worst possible moment.

"What the hell was that?" Blackwood's voice, sharp with panic.

Footsteps pounded across the deck above. Shouts. I was already dropping back into the water, lungs burning as I kicked away from the yacht as hard as I could. The camera was waterproof in its casing but my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest.

Searchlights blazed, sweeping the waves.

I dove deeper, ears ringing from the pressure. For one terrifying heartbeat, something inside whispered deeper, you'll be safe down there, and I had to shove it away. The deep had taken enough from me already. Not now. Not ever.

Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight— I burst up gasping beneath a rusted navigation buoy, clinging to the slick metal. Searchlights swung the other way.

Relief spilled into manic laughter. I bit my fist to muffle it.

I did it. Glitch and all, I had the shot.

Halfway back to shore, I spotted a champagne bottle bobbing in the waves, probably dropped in the panic. I grabbed it without thinking. Rent money and free booze? Who said I couldn't multitask?

By the time I dragged myself onto the pier, dripping and grinning, I was already deciding it was vintage. Probably. The camera felt solid in my hands, card tucked inside. If I made it home with it, tomorrow Blackwood's face would be on every front page, and I'd be the one who nailed him.

My phone buzzed. Darius: You better not be doing anything stupid.

I smirked, typing with wet fingers: Define stupid.

Three dots. Gone. Back again: Max. I'm serious.

Relax. I'm fine. Tell you about it when I get home.

That's what I'm afraid of.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket, hair still slick with river water, adrenaline buzzing in my veins. Behind me the yacht lights blazed, the party pounding on like nothing had happened. They thought they were untouchable, insulated by money and power. But one foster kid with a glitchy camera had just put them on blast.

I should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

I was three blocks away when I realized how wrong I was.

Three rough looking men stepped in front of me, blocking my path. The biggest one, built like a brick wall with scarred knuckles, spoke first.

"Kid, if you don't stop and do what's good for you—just hand us the camera. We can write this off as a misunderstanding and you keep your pitiful life."

Yeah, not happening.

I bolted.

The narrow street stretched ahead of me, lined with fire escapes and shadowed doorways—perfect for someone who knew how to disappear. Rain started to fall, fat drops that quickly turned into a downpour, drenching me within seconds.

Not now. Not with everything else going wrong.

"Shit! After him!" The brick wall's voice exploded behind me, followed by a string of curses as heavy footsteps pounded the wet pavement.

I tore through alleys, sneakers slapping pavement, scrambled over fences. My lungs burned but I kept going. These guys were fast, but I knew these streets. Every shortcut, every dead end, every—

I slammed straight into someone as I vaulted a wire gate. The collision knocked the wind out of me—and worse, the camera flew from my hands.

Fear spiked.

"Watch where the fuck you're standing!" I snapped, panic cracking my voice. The footsteps behind me were closing in, shouts echoing down the alley.

Then a forbidding voice filled the air, cutting through me like a knife. You will stop chasing him.

The pursuing footsteps stuttered to a halt. Confused murmurs replaced the urgent shouts.

My eyes darted to the ground. The camera. Lying there, broken, the back panel cracked open. The memory card had popped out on impact and slid somewhere into the shadows.

"Damn it," I hissed. With that shot, I could've bought a new camera. Could've had six months of breathing room. Now the camera was destroyed and the card was lost in the dark alley.

I forced myself to turn and run, leaving the wreckage behind. The voices faded, cursing, as I slipped into the dark.

My chance, my money, my proof—gone.

But at least I was still breathing. That had to count for something.

Right?

I slowed when I reached the warehouse we called home, lungs still burning as I shoved through the front door. Five flights of stairs stood between me and the top floor—same as always, since the elevator hadn't worked since the day we moved in. By the time I pushed into our apartment, sweat and rain had soaked through my shirt, river water still clinging to me.

My chest was on fire, but what really gutted me was knowing I'd blown it. One photo—that's all I needed. The camera glitched, the flash went off, and then in my panic to escape, I'd slammed into someone who knocked it from my hands. The proof, the money, six months of breathing room—all gone because of one stupid mistake.

I needed a beer. And maybe to punch something. Or someone.

Darius was exactly where I knew he'd be—on the couch, beer dangling from his hand, chains glinting in the weak lamplight. Black shirt, gold rings, tattoos inked up his arms, and that red Libra mark standing out like it always did. He looked at me once, slow, like he was already measuring how much trouble I'd dragged back with me.

"What happened?" His voice was steady, but it carried weight.

"Nothing," I snapped, slamming the door shut.

His eyes tracked the mud, the scrape along my side, the soaked-through clothes. He didn't buy it, not for a second.

"It's fine," I said again, quieter, and stripped my shirt off, tossing it toward the hamper. My hands clenched before I could stop them. "Fuck."

I headed straight for the bathroom, peeling off the rest of my clothes as I went. The shower coughed to life, pipes rattling like they might burst, but the hot water was good enough to burn off the stink of river water and failure. By the time I stepped out, steam followed me into the apartment, my hair dripping as I rubbed a towel over it.

I padded out in just my boxers, shaking water from my shoulders. Darius didn't even look up, just cracked open another beer. I crossed the room to the busted dresser we'd dragged off the curb last year. The drawers stuck, but with a hard yank I got one open and pulled out a clean T-shirt and jeans.

Fresh clothes helped a little. Not much.

I yanked the fridge door open and grabbed a beer of my own. The cold bottle stung against my palm as I flopped down on the couch beside Darius.

He glanced sideways at me, still lounging like the world couldn't touch him, tattoos catching the light, that damn red Libra mark visible even under the ink.

I took a long gulp, trying to wash away the taste of failure. The adrenaline was still coursing through me, making my hands shake. I winced as I shifted, the scrape along my ribs from climbing that fence starting to sting now that the rush was wearing off.

"Camera's busted," I said finally. "Lost the shot. Lost everything."

Darius sat up straighter. "Shit. What happened?"

"Jules had a tip about Senator Blackwood. Drug money thing. Meeting with some mafia asshole."

"Jesus, Max." Darius scrubbed a hand over his face. "Tell me you didn't—"

"Camera glitched at the worst fucking moment. Flash went off, they saw me, I ran. Smashed the camera getting away."

"But you're okay?"

"Yeah. I think. Maybe." I took another long drink. "They might know what I look like."

Darius was quiet for a minute, just staring at his beer. Then: "We need to lay low for a while."

"We?"

"You think I'm letting you deal with this alone?" He gave me a look. "We're a package deal, remember?"

I felt something loosen in my chest. "Yeah. I remember."

"Besides," he said, cracking a grin, "someone's got to keep your dumb ass alive."

"Fuck you too."

We sat there drinking in comfortable silence for a while. Darius's phone buzzed and he glanced at it, his expression shifting slightly as he scrolled through something. Then he set it aside and looked back at the stack of letters on the table.

"You know those aren't going away, right?"

I didn't look at them. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything. Just saying—full ride to art school? That's not nothing, Max."

"I know what it is."

"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're scared."

"I'm not scared." But the words came out too fast.

"Bullshit." He leaned forward. "You've been running from those letters for weeks. What's the real reason you won't take them?"

I stared at the ceiling, trying to find words. "Every time I try to picture myself in those lecture halls, it's like I'm suffocating. Like I'd be wasting time on something that doesn't matter when there's something else I'm supposed to be doing. I can't explain what, but it feels urgent." I touched the scrape on my ribs absently. "I know that sounds crazy—"

"Everything about us sounds crazy." His voice was softer now. "Doesn't make it wrong."

"You ever feel that? Like you're supposed to be somewhere you've never been?"

Something flickered across his face before he looked away. "Sometimes."

"Where?"

"Don't know. Just… away from here." He shrugged. "But that's probably just because this place is a shithole."

I laughed despite everything. "Fair point."

"Look," Darius said, "I'm not saying take the scholarships. I'm just saying don't throw them away because you're scared of leaving me behind."

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are. And I get it. But I'm not your responsibility, Max. I never was."

"Yeah, well, you're stuck with me thinking you are."

He smiled at that—a real smile, not one of his sarcastic ones. "Same goes, asshole."

We sat there for a while, drinking and not talking. The silence felt good for once—not heavy with things we couldn't say, just… comfortable. Like we were exactly where we were supposed to be, even if it was a shitty warehouse apartment with busted pipes and no elevator.

"Anyway," Darius said suddenly, pulling out his phone. "You remember the Johnsons?"

I looked at him. "Yeah, the ones you almost ended up in juvie for."

"Well," Darius said with a shrug, "they should never have taken my shit."

He opened his phone to a Facebook page that showed a picture of them and their daughter. With a shiny red Ferrari in the background.

"Seems they got a shiny new toy for Stacy." He started reading the post aloud: "'Can't be thankful enough for my parents—they got me my dream car!'"

Darius laughed. "Like she knows how to drive a car like that. She'll drive it like it's some normal Honda."

I looked at Darius, recognizing that tone. "You're not thinking of…"

He smirked. "I am."

"Fuck, Darius. I know you steal bikes, but a car? And a Ferrari at that? You won't be able to sell it easily."

Darius just smirked wider. "I don't care about selling it."

"Ahh," I said, understanding dawning. "You want payback."

"Damn right I do." Darius's eyes had that dangerous glint I knew meant trouble. "They threw us out like garbage the second we turned eighteen. Kept all my stuff, even the shit my real parents left me. Said it was 'payment for damages.'"

I took another swig of beer. "When?"

"Tomorrow night. She posted about going to some party at the country club. Parents will be there too. House'll be empty."

"And you want me to—"

"Nah." He waved me off. "This one's mine. You've got enough heat on you already with whatever went down tonight."

"Bullshit," I said, sitting forward. "We're a package deal, remember? You just spent ten minutes telling me you weren't letting me deal with my shit alone."

"This is different—"

"How is it different? Because it's your revenge instead of my stupidity?" I stared at him. "You think I'm letting you boost a fucking Ferrari by yourself?"

Darius looked at me for a long moment, then cracked that familiar smirk. "Thought you might say that."

"Damn right. So what's the plan?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you. This isn't some quick bike grab—this is grand theft auto on a car worth more than we'll see in ten years."

"I know what a Ferrari costs, Darius."

"Do you? Because if we get caught with that thing, it's not juvie anymore. It's real prison. Federal charges, maybe, depending on how far we drive it."

I met his stare. "Then we don't get caught."

Another long look, then he shook his head. "You're as crazy as I am."

"That's why we work."

He laughed despite himself. "Yeah, alright. Tomorrow night then. But we do this my way—no improvising, no heroics, no Max deciding to take pictures while we're committing felonies."

"Deal."

We finished our beers, the comfortable silence back but different now—charged with the kind of anticipation that comes before you do something really stupid. The adrenaline from planning with Darius was wearing off, and the reality of tonight was sinking in. Somewhere out there, people who wanted me dead probably had my face memorized.

I got up to check the door lock, turning the deadbolt twice before I felt secure.

"You okay?" Darius asked.

"Yeah." I settled back onto the couch. "Just thinking."

Just another night planning trouble with my brother. Some things never changed. Tomorrow we'd be smarter than the city. Or we'd be caught. Either way, we were doing it together.