CHAPTER 107: CHAPTER 107: CONFINED, BUT DEMANDING

Elias’s breath caught, shallow but controlled. "Because Matteo crawled out of the grave and decided to take a stroll toward Clarke’s house?"

Victor’s lips curved, not quite a smile. "Because the dissidents don’t waste effort on accidents. They’re opportunists. Matteo’s death was convenient; his survival even more so. Someone needed a spectacle, a walking corpse with enough history to rattle the edges of the map. And where does he head?" A pause, deliberate. "To the Clarke estate. That is not coincidence."

Elias’s fingers tightened on the glass until the condensation slicked his palm. "So I’m supposed to believe they brought him back just to parade him past my name?"

"Not parade," Victor corrected softly. "Test. They want to see if you’ll move, if I’ll flinch. Dissidents build their wars on ghosts, Elias, but the problem with summoning ghosts is that they rarely bow to new masters." His gaze sharpened, crimson bright and cold. "If Matteo’s walking again, it isn’t him you should fear, it’s the hand that decided where his feet would take him."

Elias’s mouth pressed into a thin line, the question catching before he could stop it. "And that hand wants me."

Victor leaned back, unhurried, as if the danger were a trivial matter on a long list he’d already triaged. "They want what’s bound to you. Your father’s blood, your name, your bond to me. Dissidents will try to use every one of those threads. But in the end..." his hand lifted, palm opening as if dismissing the very idea, "threads snap."

Elias looked at him, equal parts unsettled and infuriated by how lightly Victor spoke, as though entire factions plotting war were nothing more than pests scratching at the walls. "You talk about this like it’s a game."

Victor’s mouth curved again, but this time it was all teeth. "Only because I’ve never lost."

"I suppose I should get used to your massive ego."

Victor’s laugh was low, unhurried, the kind of sound that filled the quiet without needing volume. "Ego?" He leaned forward, forearms settling on the table with the lazy precision of a predator lowering itself to strike. "No, Elias. Ego is when men pretend they’re untouchable. I don’t pretend."

The words settled like smoke between them, sharp and heavy enough to sting. Elias arched a brow, meeting that crimson gaze with a steadiness he didn’t entirely feel. "And what am I supposed to call it then? Divine arrogance?"

Victor’s eyes warmed, dangerous and amused all at once. "Truth." His tone was soft, unyielding. "You’ll learn to prefer it to the pretty lies men like your father live on."

Elias exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease. "You make it sound like I don’t have a choice in learning."

Victor tipped his glass in Elias’s direction, a toast without wine, a vow without ceremony. "You don’t."

The waiter returned, breaking the tension with the quiet clink of porcelain and the soft pour of a pale-gold wine. Plates of spun sugar and dark chocolate were set before them, the air briefly filled with the sweet bite of citrus and bitter cocoa. Neither spoke while the ritual played out, the hush of service folding itself neatly over the jagged edges of their conversation.

Victor lifted his glass first, tilting it against the light, studying the way the liquid clung to the crystal before taking an unhurried sip. The faintest smile touched his mouth, unreadable, as though dessert wine was a far more dangerous subject than Matteo’s resurrection.

Elias lowered his eyes to the plate, fork poised but unmoving. The silence stretched, but this time it wasn’t heavy, it was something else, something quieter, laced with the faint hum of candlelight and the muffled sounds of the world outside their walls.

Only after Elias finally tasted the first bite, citrus cutting through the dark richness, did Victor speak again, his voice smooth as the wine in his glass. "Do you like it?"

It was a simple question, deceptively so, but Elias knew by now nothing from Victor was ever just about food.

"At this point I don’t know if I want to answer that."

Victor’s lips curved, slow and deliberate, as though Elias’s hesitation pleased him more than any straightforward praise could. He set his glass down, fingertips tapping once against the stem before stilling.

"That," Victor said, his crimson gaze holding Elias’s with unyielding patience, "is already an answer."

Elias arched a brow, the fork poised again in his hand. "Maybe. Returning to Matteo’s revival... Do I get to leave the mansion or I’m confined again?"

Victor’s expression didn’t shift, but the silence he let linger was telling. He leaned back, glass rolling slowly between his fingers, crimson gaze never straying from Elias.

"Confined," he said finally, the word too calm, too decisive. "Until I know whose hand is pulling the strings, you don’t step past my gates without me."

"I figured." Elias exhaled slowly, finishing his dessert. "Then I require snacks. And ice cream."

Victor’s brow arched, the faintest ripple of amusement breaking through his calm. "Require?" He let the word rest on his tongue like it was sweeter than the wine. "That sounds suspiciously like a demand."

"It is," Elias said evenly, chin lifting with the silver edge of defiance. "You confine me, I get compensation."

Victor leaned forward, elbows settling against the table, his presence heavy without needing to touch. "Compensation," he murmured, indulgence curling around the syllables. Then his mouth curved slowly. "If by snacks you mean the chemical experiments you hoard in your desk drawer, then no."

Elias’s eyes narrowed. "They’re edible."

"They’re insults to the word ’edible.’" Victor’s tone stayed soft, almost fond, which only sharpened the weight of it. "I’ll have my chefs make you something better. Ice cream included. Properly made, not whatever melted atrocity you used to call dinner at two in the morning."

Elias’s lips twitched, exasperation threading with something sharper. "So I’m locked up and micromanaged."

Victor tipped his glass in a lazy toast, crimson eyes glinting. "You’re kept alive and fed. I call that doting."

Elias stabbed his fork into the last bite of chocolate, chewing it like it might save him from replying. "You call it control," he muttered.

Victor’s smile deepened, dangerous in its ease. "Control and doting are the same thing when it comes to you."