Chapter 2: First Night
The car descended into a private underground garage, a cavern of polished concrete and soft, indirect lighting. The silence was absolute, broken only by the smooth purr of the engine and the thrum of Caspian’s own pulse in his ears. When the door opened, the air smelled different here—clean, recycled, scented faintly with lemon and cedar.
“Home,” Damon said, the word simple and loaded.
They didn’t rush him. Alex emerged first, offering a hand that Caspian, after a second’s hesitation, accepted. His legs held, just. Damon slid out behind him, a solid, warm presence at his back. The elevator doors were mirrored, and Caspian avoided looking at the reflection of the three of them—himself, small and pale in his simple auction linen, flanked by two wolves in tailored wool.
The ascent was silent and swift. When the doors slid open, they revealed not a hallway, but a direct entry into the penthouse itself.
Caspian’s breath left him in a soft rush.
It was a vast, open space, all clean lines and soaring height. The far wall was pure glass, a sheet of night sparking with the city’s neon gridwork. Polished mahogany floors gleamed under strategically placed lights. The furnishings were minimalist but opulent—a deep charcoal sofa that looked like a cloud, a single abstract sculpture in dark metal, bookshelves lining one wall, filled with volumes that looked both old and well-used. The air hummed with quiet, expensive efficiency, carrying the faint, warm scents of sandalwood and fine leather.
It was nothing like the cramped, damp apartment he’d shared with Victor. It felt like another planet.
“Come on,” Damon said gently, his fingers brushing the small of Caspian’s back, guiding him forward. “Let’s get you out of those clothes. They smell like that place.”
The mention of the auction house made Caspian shiver. He obeyed, his feet soundless on the wood, following Damon through the open space toward a wide doorway. Alex followed, a silent shadow.
The bathroom was an exercise in marble and muted gold. A sunken tub the size of a small pool dominated the room, already filling with steaming water. The scent that rose from it was floral and clean—rose, maybe, and something else crisp. Soft, thick towels were stacked on a heated rack.
“In you go,” Damon said, his tone leaving no room for debate but strangely lacking in cruelty.
Caspian stood frozen, his fingers fumbling at the simple buttons of his shirt. His mind went blank with a familiar, humiliating panic. Undressing. In front of them. This was the part he had braced for, the inevitable prelude to use.
Alex, who had been leaning against the doorframe watching, seemed to read the rigidity in his spine. He pushed off and walked over. Without a word, his large, capable hands came up and gently began undoing the buttons Caspian had been struggling with. His movements were methodical, precise. Not seductive. Practical.
“It’s just a bath, Caspian,” Alex murmured, his voice a low vibration in the steamy air. “To warm you up. To wash that place off your skin.”
The last button came free. Alex peeled the linen shirt from Caspian’s shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. Damon knelt then, his hands quick and sure as he untied the drawstring of the loose trousers and helped him step out of them.
Caspian stood naked in the center of the lavish room, trembling. He kept his eyes downcast, fixed on the veining in the marble tile. He felt their gazes on him—Damon’s appreciative, Alex’s assessing—but there was no grabby hunger, no lewd commentary. The silence was profound.
Then Damon’s hands were on him again, warm and steady on his hips. “The water’s perfect. Let’s get you in.”
They guided him, one on each side, down the wide steps into the tub. The heat was an immediate, shocking balm. It seeped into his bones, melting a tension he’d carried for so long he’d forgotten its weight. He sank down until the water lapped at his chin, the rose scent enveloping him.
Damon, still fully clothed, sat on the wide rim of the tub. He picked up a soft sponge and a bottle of soap. “Close your eyes,” he said, not unkindly.
Caspian did. He heard the quiet slosh of water, felt the gentle pressure as Damon began washing his back. The sponge moved in slow, circular strokes over his shoulders, down his spine. It was meticulous. Worshipful. A soft sound escaped him, something between a sigh and a sob, quickly bitten off.
“That’s it,” Damon whispered. “Just feel it.”
From his other side, he felt Alex enter the water. Still dressed in his slacks and a white shirt, now soaked and clinging to the powerful planes of his chest. Alex’s hands joined Damon’s, not with the sponge, but with bare, slick fingers. They trailed over Caspian’s collarbones, smoothed the soap over his chest, his arms. Their touches were everywhere, cleaning, claiming, calming. It was overwhelming in a way brutality never could have been. This tender possession dismantled his defenses brick by brick.
He was boneless, pliant under their hands, floating in a haze of heat and sensation. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, but it was being slowly surrounded by this terrifying, addictive warmth.
Damon’s fingers lingered on the scar just below Caspian’s ribcage—a thin, white line from a broken bottle, a gift from Victor. His touch was feather-light. “He’ll never touch you again,” Damon said, and his voice held no playful charm now. It was a cold, hard promise.
Alex’s hand cupped the back of Caspian’s neck, a firm, supporting hold. “Never,” he echoed, the word final.
They rinsed him with warm water from a porcelain pitcher. Then, together, they helped him stand, water streaming from his pale skin in rivulets. Damon reached for a towel, but it was Alex who took it, wrapping Caspian in its immense, fluffy warmth and pulling him close, rubbing the heat back into his limbs right through the fabric.
Caspian’s head spun. He was dry, swaddled, but more exposed than ever. The two alphas were close, their scents—spice, ozone, alpha—filling his senses. Damon’s eyes were dark with an intensity that made Caspian’s breath catch. Alex’s jaw was set, his gaze fixed on Caspian’s face as if memorizing every detail.
“Better?” Damon asked, his charming smile returning, but it was sharper now, edged with something hungry.
Caspian could only nod, his voice lost.
“Good,” Damon murmured. Then his hands were on Caspian’s shoulders, turning him, walking him backwards until his damp back met the cool, polished marble of the wall beside the tub. The shock of the temperature made him gasp.
Damon leaned in, caging him with his arms, his body a warm, solid barrier. “You’re so pretty like this,” he said, his breath ghosting over Caspian’s lips. “All clean and flushed and ours.” He didn’t kiss him. He just held him there, watching the reactions play across his face—the fear, the confusion, the unavoidable, betraying flutter of attraction.
Then Caspian felt a new touch. Lower.
He looked down, a strangled sound catching in his throat.
Alex had knelt on the bath mat, water from his own soaked clothes pooling around him. His large hands rested on Caspian’s hips, over the towel. He looked up, his gaze unwavering, serious. Then, slowly, he hooked his fingers into the terry cloth and drew it down, just enough.
His eyes never left Caspian’s as he leaned forward.
The first touch of Alex’s mouth against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh was like a jolt of electricity. It was hot, unbearably soft. A kiss. Then another, slightly higher. Alex’s stubble brushed against his skin, a rough contrast to the gentle pressure of his lips.
Caspian’s legs trembled. A low, helpless whimper escaped him. He braced his hands against the marble wall behind him, his head falling back with a soft thud.
Damon watched from inches away, his eyes glowing with dark pleasure. He traced a fingertip along Caspian’s jawline. “Look at you,” he breathed, a laugh in his voice. “You’re shaking. Is it fear, little one? Or is it something else?”
Alex didn’t speak. He just continued his slow, devastating path, his mouth leaving a trail of fire up Caspian’s thigh. His hands held Caspian’s hips firmly, anchoring him, preventing escape even as Caspian’s body arched slightly, pushing unconsciously into the contact.
It was terror. It was need. It was a dizzying, impossible vortex of both, and Caspian was falling into it, his carefully constructed walls dissolving under the combined force of Damon’s piercing gaze and Alex’s worshipping mouth. The last coherent thought that flashed through his mind was of sun-dappled apples, and the hope that had felt so dangerous in the car now ignited into a desperate, all-consuming flame.