Content Warning

This chapter contains erotic and sexual content, rough but consensual physical contact, unequal power dynamics, emotional manipulation, and a toxic relationship. Reader discretion is advised.

Sebastian’s apartment was silent when Damien Sinclair rose from the couch to pour himself another drink. The sound of glass settling against the table echoed far too loudly in the contained air.

He didn’t get to drink when he felt his presence before seeing him.

Sebastian was already behind him.

His hands planted themselves firmly on the table, on either side of Damien’s body, trapping him without touching him yet. The gesture was deliberate. Tense shoulders. Uneven breathing. He wasn’t looking for comfort —only a body.

“He’s not going to leave you,” Damien said calmly, setting the glass aside. “Not unless you act with the intelligence this requires.”

Sebastian leaned forward a little more, as if the space between them were unbearable.

“No,” he spat. “He can’t.”

Damien turned slowly, unhurried. There was no fear in his gaze —only understanding, and something darker, more lustful.

“For now,” he replied. “Let him feel safe. Let him believe he escaped. Give him… time.”

And that was enough for both of them.

Sebastian grabbed Damien by the arm and slammed him against the wall. The impact was sharp, calculated. There was no improvisation. Damien absorbed the blow to his head and left shoulder without a sound, then turned his body to face the wall and braced his hands against the cold surface.

He smiled as he unbuckled his belt and tossed it to the floor.

“Is that all?” he murmured. “I thought you’d be worse.”

Sebastian’s eyes burned. There was rage there, desire, and a desperate need for control that he couldn’t direct toward Noah.

“Shut up!”

Damien tilted his head slightly, unbuttoning his shirt, glancing at him sideways.

“Make me.”

The silence that followed was thick, almost tangible. There was no resistance, no surprise. Both of them knew exactly what they were agreeing to.

Sebastian was the first to truly touch him. He wasn’t careful —he didn’t care. His hands claimed possession, yanking down his lawyer’s pants and underwear roughly. He guided Damien’s body back against the wall, forcing him to stay there, to hold the contact.

Damien didn’t ask for anything. He let it happen, spread his legs quickly, waiting for Sebastian to make him his.

His consent wasn’t delicate —that wasn’t in either of them— and the man pushed into him hard. No lubrication. A conscious surrender to Sebastian’s contained violence, because he knew that was what kept him functional.

The contact was rough. Dominant. Sebastian set the rhythm, the distance, the position. Every movement made clear who was taking and who was yielding. Damien breathed deeply, resting his forehead against the wall at times, letting Sebastian unload everything he couldn’t name.

“Fuck… I need more,” he gasped, his movements growing wilder, more frantic.

“Does it hurt… that I won’t… look at you?” Damien whispered between thrusts, his voice low, provoking, moving just as roughly. “That… I don’t need you?”

The answer was a tighter grip, a pressure that didn’t ask permission. He moved deeper, so much so that Damien felt on the verge of blacking out, his eyes going wide at how *open* he felt inside.

“Don’t say his name.”

“I didn’t,” Damien replied hoarsely —and smiled.

That was what finally broke something.

There were no kisses, no caresses. Only bodies colliding in urgency, even in rage. Sebastian used him as fleeting pleasure, one that was always available. Damien offered himself as a substitute body. They had carried the same dynamic for years.

The act was intense, without tenderness, marked by Sebastian’s absolute control and Damien’s silent acceptance. It was a twisted form of balance.

Minutes later, Sebastian finished, spilling his pleasure into the lawyer, and was the first to pull away. He stepped back, breathing heavily, not looking at him. The emptiness was still there, untouched.

Damien took his time. He adjusted his shirt, smoothed his sleeves, and unsteadily gathered the rest of his clothes from the floor.

He recomposed his expression as if nothing had gone out of control. Once he caught his breath, he was the first to speak.

“I’m not going to… give back anything you’re… losing,” he said at last. “But in the meantime… I can stay.”

Sebastian didn’t respond. He only adjusted his clothes and, moments later, picked up a glass of wine.

Damien didn’t stay, as he claimed, out of desire or to ease his master’s need. He stayed because he enjoyed watching him break.