The days took on a new rhythm after that. Though Liam still had school during the day, he would return each afternoon and settle in beside Cailan, the scratch of pencil on paper a soothing background noise as he worked through his assignments. They ate most breakfasts together, and though Liam dined with his family in the evenings, he always returned afterwards to sit with Cailan, keeping him company as he ate his own meal.

Cailan spent much of his time reading during the day, and sometimes Liam would ask him to fetch one of his favourite books from the family library and read to him aloud. After a few months on this evening ritual, Liam began surprising Cailan with new books of his own. Any gift from his master would have delighted Cailan, but it warmed his heart all the more to find that Liam had paid attention to his tastes. That he knew Cailan loved pre-war novels full of adventure and romance and unrealistically happy endings.

Now that Liam understood Cailan's need for physical connection, touch became as natural as breathing between them. A gentle squeeze could convey pride or reassurance, while a firmer grip might signal caution or displeasure. Yet for all their increased physical closeness, an invisible line remained uncrossed.

Once, driven by a gnawing fear that he wasn't fulfilling his prescribed role, Cailan had dared to slip questing fingers beneath the hem of Liam's shirt. The sudden chill in Liam's eyes and iron grip on his wrist had frozen him in place more effectively than any harsh word. They'd lain in tense silence afterwards as Cailan's pulse thundered in his ears.

Through everything, Liam maintained a wary dance around his father, keeping both himself and Cailan away from the man’s critical gaze. He was an obedient son, though never out of loyalty. He feared his father. He'd occasionally let slip hints of past cruelties, but in the six months since Cailan had arrived, he'd never witnessed any outright aggression between father and son.

Cailan didn't hear the initial discussion, but as things became heated, the gist of it reached his room. Liam had announced that he would not be marrying the girl his father had arranged for him. He had told his father that he would not be marrying any girl, because he had no interest in girls. Cailan wanted to clamp his hands over his ears to block out the yelling, but he needed to know what was happening.

A loud thud, as if something had been thrown or knocked over, made Cailan flinch. Then Liam's voice rang out, higher and more frantic than Cailan had ever heard it: "Don't you dare touch me!" There was a scraping sound, like furniture being shoved aside. "I'm a man now. You don't get to hit me anymore."

"You think you're a man?" Liam's father roared. "You're still a stupid child! If you're going to live under my roof, you will follow my rules. If you don't like that, you can marry Louise and start your own household!"

"Or I can make my own way."

A harsh, mocking laugh cut through the air. "How do you propose to do that? Sell that slave of yours? He's the only thing in your name that’s of any real value."

Cailan's breath caught in his throat. Fear, cold and sharp, lanced through him at the mere suggestion of being sold. Logically, he knew better—Liam had promised countless times that they would be together forever. Yet hearing the suggestion spoken aloud sent icy tendrils of fear coursing through Cailan's veins.

Liam's voice dropped to a murmur, too low for Cailan to make out the words. But the sudden, eerie silence that followed was more chilling than any shout. Cailan held his breath, straining to hear.

His father's voice shattered the quiet, dripping with derision. "You're joining the military? Don't expect to use my name to get a good position. You'll be digging latrines and working in the mud."

"As if I want any association with your name!" Liam's shout was raw, primal, as if torn from deep within his chest. "I don't want anything from you!"

A moment of terrible stillness, then three words that fell like an executioner's axe: "Then get out."

The boom of the front door slamming shut reverberated through the house. Cailan felt it like a physical blow to his chest, knocking the air from his lungs.

Cailan's mind whirled, thoughts racing. Surely Liam would return for him? By morning, he reassured himself, this would all blow over. This was just anger—hot and fierce, but ultimately fleeting. By sunrise, cooler heads would prevail. They'd talk it out, father and son. Everything would be okay again.

But as morning light crept through the curtains, painting the room in soft hues of gold and amber, the warmth didn't reach Cailan. The house was eerily quiet, devoid of the familiar sounds of Liam's morning routine. No creaking floorboards, no running water, no muffled conversation drifting up from downstairs. Liam was still gone, and even Aubree didn't bother to stick her head in to see if he wanted breakfast.

In everything that had happened, had everyone just forgotten Cailan existed? Maybe that was better for now. Liam had always protected Cailan from his father, and Cailan definitely didn't want to draw his attention when he was still angry about his son absconding. Without Liam’s protection, Cailan felt exposed, vulnerable. He carefully timed his trips to the bathroom for when nobody was around and kept to his room otherwise.

In his self-imposed isolation, the familiar surroundings offered little comfort. His eyes kept drifting to the chair where Liam usually sat, the memory of gentle fingers carding through his hair almost painfully vivid. Liam had never withheld affection, not even when Cailan had made mistakes. A stern word here and there had been enough to keep him in line.

Not being at all used to having touch withheld from him, Cailan was beginning to feel the effects by the end of the first day. Or perhaps it was simply his growing anxiety making him feel too tight inside, twisting his gut into knots.

On the second morning, the door creaked open, startling Cailan from his fitful sleep. Aubree stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the hall light. Her lips were pressed into a thin line as she set down a bowl of plain porridge on the nightstand. Without a word or a backward glance, she left, the door clicking shut behind her.

Cailan ate a mouthful of porridge, and then pushed the bowl away. He wasn't hungry. Eating just made him feel sick.

By the third day, a constant tremor had taken up residence in Cailan's hands. He stared at his quivering fingertips, mesmerised by their uncontrollable dance. 

Questions raced through his mind, each more terrifying than the last. Was Liam ever coming back? What if Liam never returned? Would he be sold, passed from hand to hand like an unwanted trinket? Or simply disposed of, tossed aside like refuse? The thought of serving Liam's father sent a cold shudder through him. The man's casual disregard and icy stares had always made Cailan shrink into himself. And Liam's father had no interest in men—where would that leave Cailan?

Cailan was curled up in his bed, hugging himself, the next time Aubree brought him food. She placed the tray on his bedside table and then turned to leave, but paused in the doorway. "He really has joined the military."

Cailan inhaled shakily. "Is he coming back for me?"

"That's all I know," she said, her tone clipped. Without another word, she turned on her heel and left.

A week crawled by, each hour stretching into an eternity. Cailan's world had shrunk to the confines of his room, the walls seeming to pulse and waver in his unfocused vision. A constant, gentle tremor ran through his limbs like an electric current and the mere thought of food sent his stomach into violent rebellion.

Thoughts that once raced to anticipate his master's wishes now circled endlessly around a singular, primal urge. It gnawed at him, an insatiable hunger that food could never satisfy. Deep in his bones, in the hollow ache of his chest, Cailan knew with terrifying certainty that he couldn't survive this deprivation forever. The lack of touch was slowly killing him.

In his more lucid moments, wild thoughts of escape flitted through his mind. He imagined himself stumbling through unfamiliar streets, desperately searching for Liam. The tracking chip in his wrist and the harsh, often fatal punishments for runaways barely registered as deterrents—what did it matter if he was dying anyway? But even these desperate plans were beyond him now. He could barely walk in a straight line, let alone attempt an escape.

Feverish plans formed and dissolved in Cailan's mind, each more desperate than the last. He briefly considered approaching Liam's father, offering himself up like a sacrificial lamb, but the memory of the man's cold, disinterested eyes quickly quashed that idea. Liam's mother offered no better prospect, her face always contorting with disgust at the sight of him or Elina, Liam's father's personal slave.

He found himself gnawing at his fingernails, once meticulously maintained, now ragged and bleeding. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, but he felt no pain. His nerves seemed deadened to everything but the desperate need for touch.

The thought of seeking comfort from another slave flickered through his mind, but it was a futile hope. Elina was as unreachable as the moon, sequestered in Liam's father's rooms. The risk of punishment if they were caught together was too great to contemplate.

In the end, his addled mind fixated on Aubree. She was the only one who had shown him any kindness, however grudging. In his desperation, that tenuous connection became a lifeline.

When she next entered his room, Cailan lunged for her, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. Words failed him, his parched throat unable to form coherent sounds. If he could have explained, if he could have made her understand the depth of his need, perhaps things would have gone differently.

But all Aubree saw was a wild-eyed, dishevelled creature lurching towards her. Her scream pierced the air as she struggled against him, her nails raking across his skin as she shoved him away. The door slammed behind her with finality, leaving Cailan sprawled on the floor, more alone than ever.

Time stretched and compressed like a warped rubber band, leaving Cailan disoriented. The creak of the opening door barely registered until heavy footsteps thundered across the floor. Cailan uncurled his aching body, his joints protesting after hours of stillness. He blinked up through a haze of matted hair to see eyes the same stormy blue as Liam's, but set in a harder, more angular face.

Recognition flickered in Cailan's addled mind. This wasn't Liam, his beloved master. This was Liam's father—dangerous, unpredictable. Yet Cailan's desperate need overrode all caution. His trembling hands reached out, grasping at empty air.

Liam's father batted Cailan's seeking fingers away as if swatting a bothersome insect. His large hands clamped around Cailan's arms, hauling him upright with bruising force. The sudden movement sent the room spinning, and Cailan's stomach lurched.

"You will not be accosting any member of my household again," Liam's father growled, his breath hot against Cailan's face. The older man's grip tightened as Cailan squirmed, desperate for more contact. There was no gentleness in the touch, but it sent sparks of relief coursing through Cailan's deprived body.

Cailan thrashed and twisted with a desperate, feral energy. Even a stinging slap across the cheek did nothing to quell Cailan's frenzy. The moment one arm broke free, instead of cowering, Cailan lunged forward, clawing and grasping at any part of Liam's father he could reach. Sweat beaded on the older man's brow as he struggled to contain this wild, touch-starved creature, his usual icy composure fracturing in the face of Cailan's overwhelming need.

They reached Liam's room and before Cailan could react, he was flung inside. The door slammed shut with a resounding thud, followed by the ominous click of the lock.

Cailan scrambled to his feet, ignoring the protest of his weakened muscles. He rattled the doorknob frantically, pressing his entire body against the unyielding wood. Whimpers escaped his throat, high-pitched and desperate.

Eventually, his strength gave out. Cailan slid down the door, his forehead resting against the cool surface. Only then did Liam's father speak, his voice muffled through the barrier.

"In three weeks, if Liam has not come to reclaim you, you're considered abandoned and legally become my property," he stated. "I've stocked the room with enough biscuits and dried fruit to last you until then, and Liam has an attached bathroom for water and toileting."

"I'll die," Cailan groaned, though he wasn't sure whether or not that was true. He certainly felt like he would.

A heavy pause hung in the air before Liam's father responded, his voice devoid of emotion. "That's not my problem."

As retreating footsteps echoed down the hall, something snapped inside Cailan. A howl of pure anguish erupted from his throat, primal and raw. All his careful training, his ingrained obedience, crumbled away. He was nothing more than a creature of need, stripped down to his most basic instincts.

With the last of his strength, Cailan dragged himself across the carpet. He hauled his trembling body onto Liam's bed, burrowing beneath the covers like a wounded animal seeking shelter. His face pressed into Liam's pillow, inhaling deeply. The familiar scent of soap and something uniquely Liam enveloped him.

The ache in his chest intensified, a gaping void that threatened to consume him. Yet Cailan couldn't stop himself from gulping in lungfuls of Liam's scent, each breath a bittersweet reminder of what he'd lost. Tears soaked into the pillow as Cailan clung to this last, tenuous connection to his master.