Lucien holds him for a while, not speaking. He can't.
His hands are soaked with blood that isn't his.
He drags Caelan to a hidden room in the west wing—one only he knows.
And for three days, he watches over him.
What a man you're Lucien... The man you roughly raped is the man you're caring of. Do you regret it allrady?
Lucien's hand shaking as he soaked his own shirt with cold water, wiping the blood from Caelan's skin. Bandages his wounds. Changes his soaked clothes in silence.
He doesn't speak.
Not a word.
Not even when Caelan stirs in fever and mutters names that don't make sense.
Not even when he hears his own name—whispered like a plea.
"""
When Caelan finally opens his eyes, Lucien is sitting by the window, staring into the rain.
"You're awake," he says. Quiet.
Caelan can barely speak. His throat is dry. Pain blooms through his ribs.
Lucien stands. Walks toward him. His face unreadable.
"I don't want to look at you anymore," Lucien says flatly. "You remind me of who I used to be."
He drops a coat over Caelan's shaking body. Opens the door to the storm.
"Get out." Lucien said. His voice is cold like ice, leaving now room for argument.
Caelan doesn't respond. He can't. So Lucien turns his back and leaves.
"""
Outside the Mansion
Rain lashes Caelan's face. He stumbles through the back gardens. Collapses under a half-broken archway near the west wall.
Somewhere forgotten. Overgrown. Hidden from the eyes of Lucien's men.
There's no fire. No warmth. Just stone, wind, and pride.
He clutches the coat to his chest and leans back against the wall.
"I'm not done," he whispers. To no one but himself.
Rain seeps into his bandages. His lips are purple. His fingers numb.
But he refuses to die here.
He'll stay where no one sees.
He'll heal.
He'll remember everything.
And next time—he won't miss.