The Davenant penthouse, usually a sanctuary of muted golds and hushed marble, warped into something sinister. Isidore's breath hitched, the silk robe a mere whisper against his skin.
This was his room, yes, the familiar contours of his four-poster bed, the scent of lavender from the diffuser, but a gnawing unease clawed at his gut.
Then he saw him.
Tristan Ashford, crimson hair a wild halo in the dim light, crystalline blue eyes fixed on Isidore. A predatory stillness clung to him. He watched, a slow, deliberate smile unfurling across his lips.
"Isidore," Tristan's voice, a low rumble, wrapped around him. A hand reached out, pale fingers stretching across the expanse of the bed.
Isidore's eyes flew wide, beige irises stark against the sudden flush on his cheeks. "What the hell are you doing in my room?" His voice ripped through the quiet, raw and sharp.
Tristan's hand met Isidore's bare chest, a feather-light touch that still made Isidore flinch, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat.
"Take… take your hands away from me."
Isidore tried to pull back, but the bed seemed to hold him captive.
Tristan leaned closer, the warmth of his body a sudden invasion. "Why should I do that? Didn't you let me in yourself?" His thumb, surprisingly gentle, brushed over Isidore's nipple.
A jolt, electric and immediate, shot through Isidore. He gasped again, a choked sound, his own hand instinctively rising to push Tristan away, but it faltered, suspended in the air. Tristan's thumb pressed, a deliberate, insistent pressure. Isidore's back arched, a silent cry escaping him.
Tristan inhaled deeply, a soft sound, almost a sniffle. "Sweet," he murmured, his voice thick, "and honey." His cheek brushed against Isidore's neck, a shiver running down Isidore's spine. "I said, let go!"
Isidore's voice cracked, a desperate stutter.
"Why?" Tristan's breath ghosted over his ear, turning Isidore over, pulling him closer.
"Because I hate you!" Fury flared, hot and sudden, in Isidore's tone. "You have no right touching me!"
Tristan's smile vanished. His fingers tightened, pinching. Isidore gasped, a soft, involuntary moan escaping him. "Ngh."
"See?" Tristan's eyes gleamed, a dangerous light.
"You like my touch." His hand slid lower, a slow, deliberate journey, tracing the curve of Isidore's ribs, lingering at his abdomen.
Another gentle rub, another gasp from Isidore. He clamped a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle the sound that threatened to erupt.
"I… I am telling you to stop." The words were muffled, strained.
Tristan's smirk returned, a cruel twist of his lips. He moved, sliding down, until his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin between Isidore's thighs. "Try it, dear. I know you like me too."
"Don't… don't you dare." The warning died on Isidore's lips as Tristan's fingers parted him, a sudden, intrusive pressure.
Isidore's back arched again, a desperate, guttural sound tearing from his throat. "Stop it!"
"Why, Isidore?" Tristan's voice softened, laced with a sorrowful edge. "Didn't you love me too?"
"I… I hate you!" Isidore's voice trembled, raw with emotion. "I hate you for what you did."
Tristan leaned in, his eyes dark with a complex emotion. "If you really hate me that much…" He withdrew his fingers, slick and glistening, bringing them to Isidore's mouth. Isidore tried to bite, a primal instinct.
"Don't," Tristan warned, his voice a low growl. He pressed his fingers against the roof of Isidore's mouth, rubbing. Isidore's throat worked, saliva running down his chin. Tristan's teeth grazed his neck, a sharp, possessive nip. Isidore jerked, a muffled cry escaping him.
"See?" Tristan whispered, his voice dark with triumph. "You like my touch this much." He pulled back, his gaze intense. "If you really hate me that much, then you wouldn't carry my child for nine months in your womb."
Isidore's eyes glistened, sudden tears blurring his vision. "Take it away!"
Tristan's fingers returned, this time deeper, more insistent. Isidore gasped, his body already slick, responsive. "Ahh, see? You became this wet."
"You bastard!" Isidore spat, his voice harsh. "Get away from my sight!"
Tristan didn't flinch. He stretched Isidore's legs, pushing them apart. Isidore's beige eyes flew open, wide and tear-filled. "I… I said let go of me!"
Before he could finish, Tristan leaned in, a hot, unyielding pressure pushing inside him. Isidore gasped, a sharp, choked sound. "I hate you, you bastard!"
Tristan closed his eyes, a small exhale escaping him. He shifted, a slow, deliberate movement. "Don't twist yourself. You'll break your skin." The sharp pain, a searing agony, was there, but beneath it, a strange, undeniable pressure of pleasure began to bloom. Isidore moaned, a shuddering sound. "I will kill you."
Tristan began to thrust, slow and deep. He caught Isidore's hand, the one that had been pressed to his mouth, kissing the palm. "Then do it. You want to kill me? Do it. But don't make me wait, Isidore." He thrust harder, a sudden, powerful movement that knocked the breath from Isidore's lungs.
"You bastard!"
"Stay still, dear. I don't want to hurt you."
"You are hurting me!" Isidore cried, tears welling in his eyes as Tristan moved deeper. His silken beige hair spread across the pillows, a tangled mess. "I hate you," he sobbed, the words broken between his cries.
Tristan leaned in, his lips brushing Isidore's ear, thrusting with a relentless rhythm. "Hate me, dear, but don't make me wait. I can't live without you." Isidore cried, his body moving involuntarily with Tristan's. Tristan's lips found Isidore's shoulder, then his throat, a trail of kisses leading up to his mouth. "I can't live without you."
He kissed Isidore roughly, taking everything Isidore didn't want to give. He moved, a final, powerful thrust, and came into him.
Tristan kissed Isidore's shoulder, then rolled him onto his back.
Isidore gasped, his tear-streaked face, red cheeks, and parted lips a testament to the invasion. Tristan's fingers, still slick, found Isidore's mouth, then transferred the wetness to Isidore's entrance.
Isidore gasped again, looking back to see Tristan behind him, a shadowy presence. He clutched the sheets, the warmth spreading through him.
Tristan pushed, and Isidore moaned, clutching the sheets tighter. He gritted his teeth, a strange mix of desire and defiance warring within him.
Tristan leaned in from behind, his voice a low murmur. "You like that, didn't you?" He pushed, thrusting again. Isidore gasped, a long, drawn-out moan.
"Don't talk to me."
Tristan kissed Isidore's spine, then his bottom, nipping at his cheek. Isidore moaned. "You bastard."
Tristan laughed, a soft, rich sound. "I didn't know this place would be this sensitive." He pushed, thrusting, and Isidore couldn't hold back any longer.
Tristan came into him again — a molten rush, heavy and warm, flooding Isidore's belly with new seed.
Then silence.
Only breath. Only skin.
Tristan's hand found his cheek, tender in a way that hurt more than cruelty.
"You'll give me more babies," he murmured.
The words lingered — an echo, soft and venomous.
Isidore's lashes fluttered. The room around him began to pale, the dream bleeding into morning light.
He stirred. Once. Twice.
Then woke.
A sharp gasp ripped through his chest. He sat up too fast, the sheets a snare around his legs. His robe had slipped from one shoulder, baring the tremor of his collarbone.
His pulse roared. His breath came uneven — wild, panicked, alive.
He blinked hard, as if to erase the last of that phantom heat, but the scent of it still clung to his skin — that faint ghost of warmth, that shameful after.
Slowly, he looked down.
The sheet was creased, damp — the faintest evidence of what his body had done without his consent.
A shudder escaped him. He covered his mouth with a trembling hand, eyes wide, unmoored.
"What the hell…"
The words barely left his lips, cracked and breathless.
He swallowed, voice breaking on the edge of disbelief. "What the hell is wrong with me?"
The shame hit next — sudden and suffocating. He pressed his palms to his eyes, as if darkness could hide him from himself.
A wet dream.
With him.
After three years of silence — of distance, restraint, and denial — now this.
His body had remembered what his mind swore to forget.
And that betrayal burned hotter than any dream.
Isidore clutched the edge of the bedside table, knuckles pale against the wood. His breath came sharp, ragged, uneven.
"You—" he muttered, the words scraping out like gravel. "You bastard. You're everywhere."
His reflection glimmered faintly in the mirror across the room — hair disheveled, lips still parted as if from some phantom touch. He turned away quickly, shaking his head, trying to scatter the images that clung to the edges of his mind.
He pushed himself to his feet, crossing the room in a daze. The floor was cool beneath his soles, reality biting back against the heat that still lingered under his skin.
The bathroom light was soft, bluish. He stepped in, dropped the robe from his shoulders, and let it pool soundlessly on the marble.
Then — the water.
He sank his feet into it first. Warm, rising up his ankles, pulling a quiet sigh from him before he realized it. He sat down slowly, the ripples breaking the surface like faint silver rings.
For a moment, he simply breathed.
Then the shame returned.
His hands moved across his chest — rubbing, pressing, as though he could erase the ghost of those dream-born touches. His fingers trembled. The skin still remembered, and that terrified him.
"I'll kill you," he whispered, almost in furry, as if the threat was straight forward for Tristan. "I swear I'll kill you for this."
But the heat beneath his skin betrayed him. His cheeks flushed red, and his breath quickened again — not from anger, but from the memory.
He dropped his gaze, unable to meet himself in the reflection on the water's surface.
No, he thought, biting the inside of his lip until he tasted iron. I couldn't have liked it.
And yet — that moment. The way Tristan's hand had moved, the heat against his abdomen, the weight, the closeness—
His pulse stuttered.
He leaned forward suddenly, submerging his face into the water — as if he could drown the thought, the feeling, the ache. Bubbles rose, breaking the quiet.
"It's been three and a half years," he whispered, voice hoarse, barely audible against the hush of the bath.
The words hung there, fragile, like mist above water.
He lowered his hands slowly, staring at the wavering reflection beneath him — a ghost he almost didn't recognize. The curve of his mouth, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the hollow at his throat.
"It isn't memory," he murmured. "It's… absence."
The sound of his voice echoed off the tiled walls, soft but sharp enough to hurt.
He trailed a hand through the water, watching it ripple outward. The warmth crept up his skin like a whisper, and for one dizzying moment, he could almost feel it again — that phantom heat, that forbidden closeness.
A bitter laugh escaped him. "Of all people," he said under his breath. "Why him?"
The thought made his stomach twist. There had been no dreams like this in years — not since he'd locked that door inside himself and thrown away the key. But loneliness was a patient thing. It waited. It gnawed quietly.
And now, when silence became too heavy, it crawled back in — wearing Tristan's face.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers dragging through his wet hair. "no one, haven't touched me after those years," he muttered, voice shaking. "Not once in years."
His eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling. "Maybe that's all it is. Just—touch."
But the ache in his chest said otherwise.
He sank lower, until the water kissed his shoulders, until the noise of the world dimmed. The warmth surrounded him, soft and traitorous.
When he opened his eyes again, the reflection wavered — blue eyes, red hair, half a smile that wasn't there.
He shut his eyes hard. "Get out of my head," he whispered. "Just get out."
The words dissolved into the water.
And yet, when he breathed in, he could still taste that ghost of warmth — the shape of a man who should have been nothing more than a dream.