Bian sat in the darkened store, hunched over on a pile of old cloth bags, his knees drawn up, fingertips stuffed into his mouth.
He was biting them again.
The taste of iron had long since coated his tongue. He didn’t even flinch anymore when his teeth broke skin. His fingertips were raw, and the metallic tang of blood lingered in the back of his throat, but he didn’t stop. His eyes were wide, ringed in shadows, fixed on the concrete slab blocking the front entrance. Every now and then, when a distant rustle echoed from somewhere outside—a breeze, an animal, maybe just his imagination—his head would jerk up, gaze snapping toward the sealed gap, pupils narrowing with suspicion and dread.
It had been a day.
Dican had left an entire day ago.
He was only supposed to grab a craft and come back. That’s it. With Dican’s strength and speed, it should’ve taken no more than a few hours, even if he was delayed. But the sun had set once and risen again, and there was still no sign of him.
The knot in Bian’s chest grew tighter.
He hugged his knees closer, pressing his forehead against them, his breathing uneven. A sour bitterness started spreading through him again—thick and choking.
At first, after he’d smeared that bonding medicine on Dican and made the prince bound to him, Bian had felt euphoric. Giddy, even. Like he’d finally won something the universe always told him he could never have. A powerful, proud Farian prince—completely under his influence, looking at him with that calm, affectionate gaze, shielding him, obeying him.
He’d laughed to himself when they were alone, floating on the thrill of it.
Dican had treated him like he mattered.
Said things that made the heat rush to his face and left his stomach fluttering in confusion and joy.
For a brief moment, Bian had started to believe it. That maybe it wasn’t just the medicine. Maybe Dican really wanted him.
A whole day.
Bian had spent an entire day alone in that cramped, musty store.
That completely changed him.
There was food. There was water. But the lights didn’t work. The tiny place was sealed tight with concrete and broken shelving, and the only thing that filled it—besides the smell of dust and rust—was the darkness.
And in that darkness, everything inside Bian slowly started to bleed out.
The first hour wasn’t so bad. He had been excited then, maybe even a little giddy. He sat on an overturned crate, legs swinging, staring toward the blocked entrance with a small smile playing on his lips. Dican would be back soon. He could already imagine it—those calm gray eyes, that quiet, serious voice. Maybe Dican would even lift him into his arms again, the way he had after that fight at the school.
He’d believed in that moment so deeply.
Then the second hour crept in.
Still no sign of him.
Now that fragile hope he held on had started to crack.
What if Dican had remembered what he did?
What if the binding had worn off?
What if he found out Bian had manipulated him—violated his mind and body just to gain control?
That’s when Bian began making excuses. "Maybe he’s just stuck somewhere," he muttered aloud to himself, more than once. "Maybe the Graylings got in his way, or the craft malfunctioned. That thing looked old anyway." He tried to laugh it off, but it came out thin and hollow.
But hours kept passing. The silence in the store only got louder. Time started to stretch, each minute feeling longer than the last.
Eventually, hunger clawed its way into his belly. Sharp, aching pangs that made his stomach tighten and his head spin. He stumbled around the back corner of the store, hands out, fingers brushing shelves he couldn’t see. Something slipped under his foot and he tumbled down hard, knocking over a row of old cans. They clattered loudly, echoing in the small space.
He winced, groaning as he sat up, scraping his palms.
A can of corn rolled toward his hand.
He tried to open it with shaking fingers. The old pull tab bent and refused to budge. His breath hitched as he forced it again, hands trembling harder by the second. "Come on," he muttered, his voice cracking. "Just open... please—"
He finally pried it open and a splash of cold liquid sloshed out over his fingers. He barely cared. He crouched on the floor, spoonless, dignity abandoned, and cried while he ate with his fingers. Cold corn. From a dirty can. Alone in the dark.
He kept glancing toward the slab, hoping maybe it would move. That a hand would push it aside. That voice would call for him.
But no one came.
And when the night finally fell again—sealing the room in deeper black—something inside Bian began to unravel.
He sat with his back against the wall, knees hugged tightly, arms around his chest. No more crying. No more whimpering. Just silent staring into the void of the room.
Bian dug his nails into his palms and let out a soft, bitter laugh in the dark. It was almost comical. All this time, he had dreamed of having someone look at him like he mattered. And when it finally happened he was ecstatic. But all that changed in a day.
What love?
What mate?
His fingernails dug into his sleeves.
None of that mattered.
Only power mattered. Power could keep him from being abandoned. Power meant control. If he had control, no one could leave him. No one could look at him with pity and walk away.
Gritting his teeth, Bian stared ahead.
He would keep Dican under the spell. As long as that bond held, Dican wouldn’t be able to reject him. Wouldn’t be able to choose someone else. Wouldn’t even want to.
Bian would become the most powerful ruler in Farian history—and Dican would be the key.
"Why would I have feelings for a fucking henchman?" he muttered to himself, laughing bitterly. His voice sounded strange in the silence. Like someone else’s.
He wiped his tears with the back of his hand, smearing a bit of blood from his fingers across his cheek. His lips curled up in a crooked, forced grin.
The night dragged on. He didn’t sleep.
Eventually, the morning came.
Thin rays of light started to leak through the cracks in the concrete slab. He sat still, the cold, opened can of corn in his lap. He clutched it tightly, staring at it as if it had betrayed him. His mouth was dry. His thoughts were louder than ever.
Dican better return. He better...
And then—
A loud grind of stone. Scraping. Shifting.
The slab was being moved.
A sharp beam of light spilled into the room, momentarily blinding him. He flinched and turned his head, blinking rapidly. His heart thudded in his chest. Footsteps.
Then a voice—calm, soft, familiar.
"Bian."
His breath caught.
He looked up quickly, squinting through the light. That tall figure was there, silhouetted in the entrance.
"D-Dican..." Bian’s voice came out high and trembling. He quickly slapped a shaky, fake smile onto his face. "You’re back."
He pushed to his feet and ran straight into the other’s arms, wrapping himself around the prince’s torso with a force that surprised even him. His heart pounded as he buried his face into Dican’s chest.
"I was so scared..." he whispered, clutching him tighter, lips curling in a wretched grin that didn’t reach his eyes.