Chapter 17: The Glimpse
Vincent wasn't supposed to be here.
He had only meant to cut through the east hallway, a shortcut from the south tower where the kitchen staff had just unloaded the latest shipment of wines. It was early—too early for anyone to be up—and he knew the mansion's corridors would be empty. Yet, as he rounded the corner, he froze.
The door to the west wing creaked open.
And out stepped Kian Fenix.
Vincent's breath hitched, his pulse stumbling, then steadying in a strange rhythm. Kian wasn't fully dressed, not by any means. His black lounge pants hung low on his hips, the waistband sitting dangerously close to the sharp curve of his pelvis. But what caught Vincent's attention immediately—what made his throat tighten and his heart stutter—was the upper half of Kian's body.
He was bare-chested.
Kian had clearly just come out of the shower; water droplets still clung to his skin, shimmering as the morning light sliced through the tall windows, casting soft glows against his marble-like body. His hair was damp, wild and dark, sticking in places as if he had hurriedly towel-dried it. The sheer perfection of Kian's body was stunning. His skin was smooth, glowing with an almost otherworldly radiance. Muscles—toned, defined—flowed down his torso with a strength that only Kian Fenix could possess.
But it wasn't just the flawless, sculpted physique that left Vincent rooted in place.
No.
It was the marks.
The bruises.
The evidence of something... raw.
Kian's body was covered in them. His chest, his collarbones, the smooth expanse of his neck—they were adorned with a series of dark, purpling marks, faint at the edges but unmistakable. They weren't just bruises from a fight, nor were they accidental. They were bite marks. Love bites. His skin was painted with the vivid reminder of something intimate—something personal.
Vincent's mind raced, trying to make sense of the image in front of him. He'd seen Kian in countless states of dress and undress before—always pristine, always immaculate. But this? This was new.
Was it possible? Was Kian—?
No. Vincent's thoughts stopped short. There was no way.
Kian Fenix was untouchable. No one had the right to claim him, to mark him. It was unimaginable. He wasn't the type of man who would let anyone leave such marks on his body. No one could.
Kian was too high, too perfect, too cold.
But as Vincent's gaze flickered back to the marks, his thoughts twisted. Could it be? Had Kian found someone who could make him break his own rules? Was there someone out there who had dared to take him in a way no one ever could?
A lover? A mistress?
It didn't seem possible. Kian never let anyone in. Never.
Vincent's mind replayed the marks, the bruises, the passionate evidence of a night spent in the hands of someone Kian had allowed close—too close.
He stared, entranced and slightly disturbed, his heart still racing. Could it be that Kian, in his quiet perfection, had found someone who had claimed him in the most intimate, secretive way possible? A lover hidden away from the world, someone who had been with him in a way that no one ever suspected?
But it didn't make sense. Kian Fenix wasn't the type to have such a secret. He was untouchable, flawless in the public eye. The idea of him hiding away in some forbidden tryst was almost laughable. Yet, there they were—those marks. Kian Fenix was not a man who got touched like that.
But was he? Was he more human than Vincent had ever realized? Maybe Kian had desires just like anyone else. Maybe he'd found someone—a lover, a companion—who could match his darkness, his isolation. After all, Kian was only human.
Vincent swallowed hard, trying to pull himself back to reality. No, this couldn't be. Kian had no secrets like that. He couldn't.
And yet, the image of Kian's half-exposed body, the marks that marred his perfect skin, remained etched in his mind. Vincent couldn't help but wonder: What if Kian was hiding a lover? What if there was someone who had been with him in the most intimate way, someone he kept hidden from the world?
It made sense, didn't it? After all, even someone as perfect as Kian Fenix might need someone to take the edge off, to release the pressure of being so untouchable, so perfect, so alone.
Just like his father.
The thought struck him suddenly. Dmitri, Kian's father—the most powerful man in the world—had a string of affairs, some of them public, others carefully concealed. Despite his legendary control, he, too, had desires. He, too, had been a man who sought someone else when the cold, ruthless exterior became too much.
Was Kian like his father, then? Was he hiding someone? Perhaps there was a secret lover who could satisfy the hunger that Kian's image demanded but never allowed to show in public.
Vincent's eyes lingered on Kian, his mind still reeling. He didn't know what to believe. He had never thought of Kian this way, never imagined him as anything other than the untouchable, flawless son of his father. But now, those marks—those signs of someone having dared to leave their mark on Kian's perfect skin—changed everything.
Vincent blinked, his thoughts caught in a tangle. What was he even thinking? His gaze was pulled back to Kian, who didn't seem bothered by the scrutiny. Instead, he smirked slightly, his expression unreadable.
"Anything you need, Vincent?" Kian's voice was low, steady, as if nothing had changed.
Vincent's throat tightened. "No. Nothing at all."
Without another word, Kian turned and walked past him, his bare chest catching the light as he moved. He didn't bother buttoning his shirt, his bare skin still etched with the evidence of something hidden.
Vincent stood there, frozen, heart pounding, mind still struggling to catch up with the images he couldn't erase.