Chapter 23: The Art of the Hostage Situation

Leon stared. Actually, "staring" was a polite understatement—he was looking at Lucien with the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for studying a particularly dangerous opponent in the ring.

Lucien was standing in the middle of the living room, barefoot and damp-haired, wearing nothing but one of Leon's crisp white dress shirts. The shirt was massive on him, the hem hitting mid-thigh, but the way the buttons were fastened—crooked and missing the top two—offered a glimpse of pale collarbones and smooth skin that made Leon's throat feel like it was full of desert sand.

"The disposable underwear is a joke," Lucien grumbled, tugging at the hem of the shirt with a look of pure annoyance. "It literally slid right off. I'm pretty sure it was designed for a giant, not a human being."

Leon's grip on his glass of ice water tightened until his knuckles went white. Underneath that thin layer of cotton, Lucien was completely, devastatingly bare.

"Go back to your room," Leon said, his voice dropping an octave into a rough, dangerous territory. "Now."

Lucien blinked, his dark eyes wide and unfairly innocent. "But I'm not even tired. You said we could play games or watch a movie. Where do you keep the discs?"

Before Leon could stop him, Lucien turned and bent over to check the lower cabinet of the media console. The shirt rode up, revealing the soft curve of his waist and the tops of his thighs, glowing ivory under the apartment's warm lighting.

Leon's self-control, which had survived years of professional boxing and billionaire-level family pressure, finally snapped.

He crossed the room in three strides, grabbed Lucien by the waist, and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

"Hey! Put me down! Leon!" Lucien yelped, his fists drumming a useless rhythm against Leon's solid back. "What is wrong with you?! I was just looking for a game!"

Leon ignored the protests, his large hand resting firmly on Lucien's rear as he marched toward the guest room. He could feel Lucien's heart hammering against his spine—or maybe it was his own.

"You're done for the night," Leon growled.

"You absolute brute! This is a kidnapping! Again!" Lucien shouted, switching into a rapid-fire string of French and Chinese that Leon didn't need a translator to know was insulting. Lucien's fingers caught Leon's neck, nails leaving sharp red marks against his skin, but Leon didn't even flinch.

He dumped Lucien onto the plush mattress and hovered over him for a second too long, his gray-blue eyes dark with a hunger he wasn't trying to hide anymore.

"Stay here," Leon commanded, pointing a finger. "If you walk out of that door before you're fully dressed, you won't like the consequences."

Lucien scrambled backward, pulling the duvet up to his chin and glaring with the intensity of a very small, very angry kitten. "I'm giving you a zero for the day! Negative ten points! You're a tyrant!"

Leon let out a short, humorless laugh and slammed the door shut. He stood in the hallway for five minutes, chest heaving, leaning his forehead against the cool wood of the doorframe.

He was a dead man.

The next morning, the apartment smelled like something heavenly—rich, savory, and undeniably Chinese.

Lucien, now safely buried in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, sniffed the air as he crept toward the kitchen. His plan had been to act cold and indifferent to punish Leon for the "assault" on his dignity, but his stomach had other ideas.

Leon was at the stove, a dark apron tied over a simple T-shirt, expertly swirling a pan. "Morning," he said, not looking up. "Chicken soup noodles. Sit."

Lucien's resolve crumbled instantly. He slid into the chair, watching Leon set a steaming bowl in front of him, topped with a perfectly golden fried egg.

Across from him, Leon's breakfast consisted of a sad-looking pile of plain greens, two slices of dry toast, and black coffee that looked strong enough to restart a heart.

"Don't you want any?" Lucien asked, his mouth already full of silky noodles.

"Weight management," Leon replied, taking a slow sip of his coffee. His eyes lingered on Lucien's lips, which were glossy from the soup.

"Tragic," Lucien muttered, shoving more noodles into his mouth. "Your life is literally a tragedy."

Leon watched him eat for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching with the ghost of a smile. "I'm taking you back to campus after this. You have classes."

Lucien froze, his eyes darting toward the door. "Oh, actually, I was thinking of just taking the bus. Jamie—Honey—wants to grab lunch, so..."

"Lucien." Leon's voice was calm, but it had that 'The King' weight to it. "Are you avoiding me?"

"I'm a very busy art student," Lucien lied, focusing intently on his bowl.

"Finish the chapter for your econ review tonight," Leon said, sliding his phone across the table. "If you get through the practice problems without a single spelling error, I'll take you somewhere fun this weekend. Somewhere that isn't this apartment."

Lucien's ears perked up like a literal lamb's. "Define fun."

"It's a secret."

Lucien huffed, trying to hide his excitement. "Fine. But I'm still docking points for the shirt incident."

The drive back to campus was quiet until Lucien checked his phone.

"Oh my God," he whispered, staring at the screen.

"What is it?" Leon asked, eyes on the road.

"The campus forum." Lucien turned the screen toward him. There was a grainy photo from Halloween—the two of them in their matching vampire capes, holding hands in the square. The headline read: The King's New Favorite? Who is the Mystery Vampire?

"The comments say we're a pair," Lucien muttered, his face going nuclear red.

Leon glanced at the screen, then back to the road, his expression unreadable. "Are they wrong?"

"That's not the point!" Lucien squeaked. "Everyone is going to be staring at me now."

"Let them stare," Leon said, his hand reaching over to catch Lucien's and squeeze it. "It'll remind them who you belong to."

Lucien escaped the car the second they pulled into the drop-off zone, clutching his backpack like a shield.

He met Jamie at the usual basement wing place for lunch. Jamie was already three wings deep into a basket of 'Atomic' spice level, looking at Lucien with a predatory grin.

"So," Jamie said, wiping sauce from his chin. "The nightly calls, the personal chef service, the disappearing acts... and now the forum leak. Are you officially 'The King's Lamb' or are we still pretending this is a tutor-student thing?"

Lucien groaned, dropping his head onto the table. "It's complicated."

"Sweetheart," Jamie said, leaning in. "There is nothing complicated about a man who looks like that making you dumplings. He's totally fishing for you. The question is, are you going to let him catch you, or do I need to introduce you to some normal guys with less... homicide energy?"

Lucien looked out the window. "I think," he whispered, so low Jamie almost missed it, "it might be too late for that."