Chapter Text
Perth had never been good at dealing with emotions. He understood them, of course, but he had always preferred to keep them at bay. It wasn’t the result of trauma, but rather a choice he made after losing that small fragment of life where he had once been genuinely happy. A past cruelly and abruptly torn away from him, leaving invisible scars that never truly healed.
“I won’t fall again,” he had silently promised himself while drowning the pain in alcohol and endless work. He didn’t want to feel that intensity again, not if the price to pay was losing everything once more.
But ever since Santa’s arrival, the wall he had worked so hard to build began to crack. Everything he had sworn never to do again—desire, care, yield to someone—seemed to falter just by having the omega nearby.
He ran a hand over his face, exhausted. It would be hypocritical to deny that his treatment of Santa had changed since discovering his true nature. That night when he had been exposed to his pheromones was still vivid in his memory. Perth had nearly dropped to his knees the moment the door opened and that sweet scent escaped, wrapping around him like a slow drug. His alpha instinct roared, demanding to claim him with such brutal intensity it terrified him. Only thanks to a willpower he hadn’t known he possessed had he managed to question him briefly before injecting a powerful suppressant to quell the chaos that scent had unleashed in his body.
The impact had been devastating. For days he had believed him to be an ordinary beta—scentless and without the telltale softness that marked omegas. That was why he hadn’t intervened when his men beat him mercilessly or tortured him by depriving him of food and water. Remembering what he had allowed them to do now made him feel sick.
A couple of soft knocks on the door interrupted the tangle of emotions in his head. He looked up just as his assistant walked in.
“Sir, the reports you requested,” William said calmly, setting a folder on the desk.
Perth gave a slight nod.
“How is he?”
William kept a neutral expression, though Perth caught a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“He hasn’t left his room, sir. Book has been bringing his meals there and staying with him, but Santa hasn’t wanted to resume his routine.”
Perth’s jaw tightened.
It was ironic: he had kidnapped him with the intent of using him as a pawn in revenge, and now he was protecting him as if he were something valuable that had to be kept intact. He was offering him privileges he had never granted to any prisoner before. He knew Santa hated that treatment; he made it clear every night when he greeted him with insults for invading his space. And still, Perth couldn’t treat him like just another hostage. Not anymore.
“We don’t harm children or omegas,” he muttered to himself, recalling the rule his father had engraved in him since childhood.
“Excuse me, sir?” William asked, tilting his head slightly.
“Nothing. You may go,” Perth replied, shaking his head as if to push aside an annoying thought.
William nodded and left quietly, closing the door behind him.
The office once again sank into that heavy silence that seemed to crush him, leaving him alone with his thoughts and with the growing certainty that Santa had become the weak spot he had sworn never to have again.
Many in the mafia world called him weak for following that code. Yet his father—despite all his brutality in other aspects—had shown that it wasn’t necessary to break the most vulnerable in order to wield real power. Genuine respect didn’t come from crushing those who couldn’t defend themselves; it was born from controlling the strong without having to prey on the weak.
When Perth decided to ease Santa’s treatment, he had naively expected some gesture of gratitude. At first, when he discovered it, Santa had used his best tricks of vulnerability to soften his character and get something decent to eat. But as soon as he regained a little strength, his attitude changed completely: he became surly, distant, and openly defiant. He didn’t show a trace of the docility and sweetness an omega was supposed to have. That was why, when he tried to escape, Perth didn’t hesitate to punish him. It wasn’t brutal, but firm enough to make him understand that trying such madness again would have consequences.
That same night, when he set about treating his wounds, it was the first time he saw the scars on his body. Not only the recent ones, but the ones that covered every inch of his skin, as if the omega had been carved out by blows. They weren’t superficial wounds; some were so deep that Perth was surprised Santa was still alive. While he slept soundly in his arms, Perth understood that Santa would never consciously show submission. That time he had allowed himself to be seen in need of care, but Perth sensed it would not happen again. It wasn’t mere stubbornness in denying his nature, but survival mechanisms seared into him after years of enduring the unbearable.
From the little William had been able to uncover, Santa was a secret even to the world itself. Officially, Surasak’s youngest son had died with his mother during childbirth—a carefully crafted lie that had been maintained in silence. No one spoke, not even after Surasak’s death. That was enough for Perth to deduce that the truth had to be much darker. He could only assume that Surasak, unable to accept that his youngest son was an omega, had turned him into his personal shame, molding him through torture until he learned to hate his own nature and forcing him to harden himself. He didn’t know if it had been a punishment or a twisted attempt to make him survive, but the truth was that, somehow, Santa had managed to stay alive all those years.
And to think about Santa’s brothers…
A wave of contempt washed over Perth. For some inexplicable reason, none of them had defended him all that time, not even when they already had enough power to stand up to Surasak. That cowardice disgusted him.
Perhaps that contempt had influenced more than he cared to admit in his decision not to give him back when he had the chance.
He remembered clearly that first meeting with Aou, Pond, and Joong. He had hidden behind the argument that his revenge had to be paid at a much higher price, refusing to hand him over, although the truth was that Surasak’s alpha sons didn’t seem to understand at all how this world worked.
“Know your enemy well,” he murmured to himself, recalling another of the maxims that ruled life in the mafia… at least for those who wanted to survive.
If they hadn’t even been able to present a solid proposal, why did they expect him to hand Santa over just like that? Out of sheer compassion? From Perth’s perspective, they didn’t even seem to really want him; they only wanted to escape the legacy their father had left them. So, in an act of almost absurd overprotection, Perth had claimed the right to take care of the omega. He promised them he would be safe, but he did so under a subtle threat, and ordered them to return only when they had something better to offer.
Although the truth was different. From that day on, he had kept them under constant surveillance. He didn’t intervene either for or against them, but he watched closely whether they failed or managed to move forward. A part of him wanted the certainty that if they managed to clear their name, he could hand Santa over knowing he would have a “normal” life. He doubted they would succeed… but if they failed, then it would still be safer to keep Santa by his side. Even now, he also kept him hidden from the rest, although in reality no one had dared to ask who that aggressive guest was that he kept locked up.
He took a sip of his whiskey, letting the familiar burn scorch his throat.
It was monumental stupidity, and he knew it. Santa shouldn’t mean anything to him. And yet, for a long time now, everything he did seemed to revolve around him. The harsh wake-up call had come during that encounter at the gym. It had been like a slap in the face. What the hell was he doing? What did he expect to gain? He couldn’t allow himself to develop feelings. Not again. He had already paid too high a price for that, and the wound still hurt, reminding him every day that giving in to foolish emotions only brought disastrous consequences.
That was why he had decided to distance himself. To be rational.
He couldn’t—and shouldn’t—protect his enemy’s son.
But saying it was easier than doing it. After the incident at the gym, he buried himself in work up to his neck, filling his days with irrelevant tasks that barely required his attention.
The nights, however, were torture. He couldn’t sleep or focus, and he avoided Santa as if he were the plague, because he didn’t trust what he might do if he ever got too close.
Despite the distance he tried to impose, he still perceived his scent: faint, sporadic, almost imperceptible to anyone else… except him. And that was how he ended up looking for him with his eyes in every corner of the house, like a reflex that irritated him and, at the same time, calmed him. He bit his tongue until he tasted the metallic tang of blood to keep from asking his staff about him. And some nights—more than he would ever admit out loud—he ended up in front of his bedroom door, his hand hovering inches from the knob, tempted to go in… but in the end, he turned away, walked to his study, and locked himself in there until dawn so he could start the cycle all over again.
He could have imposed his presence, pretended nothing had happened at the gym, and carried on as if it meant nothing. But he knew, with too much certainty, that if he entered that room even once, saturated with the omega’s scent, it would be his complete undoing.
Mentally exhausted after days of fighting against himself, Perth let his guard down and made an unforgivable mistake. An ambush nearly cost him his life and that of several of his men. They managed to repel the attack, but Perth blamed himself for not having foreseen it, for allowing his feelings to cloud his judgment. He had been so furious with himself that, upon returning to the mansion, he could only shout orders, as if the noise were enough to cover the chaos inside him. His men didn’t look at him with reproach or with less respect, but Perth felt their eyes fixed on him, a silent judgment that only increased the weight of his guilt.
And then, though he had tried to avoid it at all costs, he saw him.
Santa was at the top of the stairs, watching him in silence. Perth tried to pull away, but the omega caught him off guard. He didn’t know how, but he ended up allowing himself to be dragged to his room so he could tend to him, even though his wounds were only superficial. It was a brief, tense conversation, but enough to give him painful clarity: Santa could say he wanted freedom, but he didn’t even seem to know for sure what it meant for him. What was clear was how lost he was, and how deep the damage he carried ran.
That was when the idea came to his mind: tempting yet absurd.
Let Santa escape.
Not hand him over, not cast him out. Just open the door, give him the chance to leave without making him feel discarded, without Perth having to utter a word. That way he wouldn’t betray his own promise of revenge, but neither would he crush Santa’s pride by handing him directly over to his brothers. He tried to carry out the plan in an improvised way, hoping the omega wouldn’t overanalyze it.
But once again, Santa surprised him.
He had the perfect chance to leave, to take advantage of that moment of “blind trust” Perth had given him, and he didn’t. Barely a couple of hours later, the doors burst open with a crash that echoed through the entire mansion. From the hallway, hidden in the shadows, Perth saw him run back and lock himself in his room, as if he had fled from something only he knew.
That unexpected return hadn’t figured into any of the scenarios Perth had considered.
Why would someone who claimed to hate him and who cried out for freedom return to lock himself up with his captor?
The question had been gnawing at his mind for hours, repeating in a loop that gave him no rest. And that night, when Santa faced him without hesitation, Perth understood one thing with certainty: he wouldn’t leave, at least not yet. Not until he resolved what tormented him, or until he discovered what to do with the freedom that, at some point, had been offered to him and he hadn’t known how to take.
“Perth?” Book’s voice interrupted his thoughts. He had stepped into the room with measured steps, as if afraid of disturbing the heavy air around him. “Did you call me?”
Perth nodded slowly, turning his gaze toward his butler. A decision had taken firm shape inside him, something that weighed on him as much as it relieved him: he would stop controlling Santa’s every move. He had understood that locking him up didn’t bring him closer—it only pushed him further away.
He would allow him to see the world beyond those barriers that had always been imposed on him. He wouldn’t free him yet, but he would give Santa something he had never had before: the chance to decide for himself what kind of life he wanted.
“Prepare everything for tomorrow,” he ordered firmly. “Proper clothes, documents, and whatever else you deem necessary.”
Book blinked, clearly surprised, though he didn’t ask anything.
“Should I inform Santa?”
“No. Just tell him I’ll be waiting for him first thing tomorrow.”
Book inclined his head silently before leaving.
Once alone again, Perth moved back toward the window. The dark silhouettes of the trees gave the setting a somber air. Maybe he was making the biggest mistake of his life—or maybe, just maybe, it was the first right decision he had made in a long time.
Santa spent an entire day without leaving his room. He shut the door firmly and asked Book, politely, not to let anyone else in but him. He kept the curtains drawn, leaving the room in shadows, as if the lack of light could give him some relief.
He couldn’t sort out his thoughts. It bothered him that he had stayed, it weighed on him to admit that he had come back out of fear, and it drained him to think that, even if he had another chance, he might not take it either. There was no escape. That realization hurt more than any blow. It caused him a deep conflict, because it forced him to accept how lost he felt and the harsh reality he had faced since Surasak’s death: now his life no longer depended on anyone else, his future was solely in his hands, and yet, he didn’t know what to do with it.
The next morning, three soft knocks sounded on the door. Santa recognized them immediately: it was Book. The man came in with a breakfast tray, just like the day before, and set it on the nightstand. There was steaming coffee and freshly baked bread, but what truly surprised Santa wasn’t the food—it was seeing Book open the wardrobe and take out a set of formal clothes, pressed and ready. He laid it carefully on the bed, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
“Perth expects you ready in an hour,” he informed, taking a seat in the armchair with the ease of someone who left no room for argument.
Santa looked at him without getting up, sunk into the sheets, his brow furrowed.
“Ready for what?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Book replied, with a faint, almost amused smile that carried a hint of mischief.
Santa clicked his tongue in irritation. Book could be unbearable when he got like that. He didn’t want to submit to an interrogation, and before giving Santa any more chances to keep asking questions, Book stood up from the armchair, gave him a curt farewell, and left without further explanation.
The room fell silent. Santa stared at the clothes for a long minute. He thought about ignoring the order, about staying in bed and defying him. He imagined Perth’s face if he deliberately disobeyed him; it was one of his few amusements, provoking him until he lost his composure. But he dismissed the idea quickly. Curiosity ended up winning: he wanted to know what Perth was plotting and why, after having ignored him for so many days, he suddenly wanted him close.
He forced himself to eat breakfast, though he barely managed. He took two sips of coffee and left the rest. He wasn’t hungry, only unsettled in a way he didn’t know how to ease. He dressed with mechanical movements, adjusting the suit nervously. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to buy a few seconds, but he knew he couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer.
When he went downstairs, he found him waiting beside a black car with the engine running. Perth was leaning against the rear door, impeccable in a dark suit, with the same serenity that always seemed to surround him, as if nothing in the world could disturb his balance. In his hands, he held a tablet and a thick folder, which he extended toward him as soon as Santa got close enough.
“For now, you’ll take William’s place,” Perth said with absolute ease, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell.
Santa blinked, incredulous. He opened his mouth to ask what the hell that was supposed to mean, but Perth didn’t give him the chance.
“William and Est will handle the damages from the attack. I need you to take care of this.”
There was no explanation and no concessions. Just that dry voice, used to giving orders. Santa looked down at the tablet and folder, his hands tense, not knowing if this was a joke, another provocation, or the beginning of an even more dangerous game.
“Secretary?” Santa muttered, with a mix of sarcasm and confusion. “That’s what I am now?”
Perth didn’t respond. He simply opened the back door of the car, waiting in silence. The order was clear: get in.
Santa obeyed with a frown, sinking into the leather seat as he watched the guards take their positions around the vehicle, spreading out among the other cars that would escort them. The moment the door closed, silence took over the car. Only the purr of the engine kept the atmosphere alive, and that heavy stillness reminded him of a prison even more suffocating than his room.
They didn’t take long to set off. Perth settled beside him, almost brushing his shoulder, and gave the driver quick instructions in his calm voice without raising his tone. Then, as if Santa didn’t exist, he pulled out his phone and began speaking to someone on the other end of the line.
Santa couldn’t hear clearly, but every gesture and every word, heavy with seriousness, made him understand this wasn’t a casual conversation. There was that same icy calm Perth used to disguise the violence of the business he ran.
Santa pressed the folder against his lap, feeling the edges of the papers dig into his fingers. Reluctantly, he opened it and found pages filled with numbers, records of merchandise movements, names, and dates. At a glance, he already knew this wasn’t just any paperwork: it was the map of Perth’s business network, both the illegal ones and those that upheld the legal façade of the entertainment agency he had already investigated before that first, fateful meeting.
Disorientation hit him all at once. How had he gone from being a hostage in a mansion to sitting in a car with a damn improvised role as “secretary”? The absurd irony made his head spin.
“Study that. When you’re ready, I’ll answer your questions,” Perth ordered without taking his eyes off the phone.
Santa shot him a glare, but said nothing. Confrontation at that moment was useless; he had already agreed to get in the car, and they were too far along to turn back. Besides, would he really even be allowed to refuse? He drew a deep breath, swallowing down the anger burning under his skin, and lowered his eyes to the documents, even though each line unsettled him more.
The car kept moving forward. Santa turned his gaze toward the window, searching for air in the scenery. But what he saw froze his blood. He recognized the highway, the signs: they weren’t heading to the town.
A shiver ran through him.
“What…?” the surprise slipped out in a whisper. “We’re not coming back tonight?”
Perth ended the call, put away his phone, and only then turned toward him.
“No,” he replied with the calm of someone who leaves no room for debate. “We’ll be gone for several days.”
Santa leaned back against the seat, biting his lip in frustration. The mansion was his cage, yes, but at least it was familiar ground, a space where he could calculate his captor’s moves. Now he was being ripped away from it without warning, thrown into an even more uncertain scenario.
The green of the forest began to fade, and the gray of the city appeared through the window. Santa felt a knot in his stomach, anxiety crawling up his chest. They had left behind the gilded cage and, while that might mean an opportunity, it was the uncertainty that kept him on edge, his mind trapped between the desire to escape and figuring out how to endure this new situation.
He dared to ask, his voice tense:
“And what do you expect me to do, Perth? Do you want me to somehow be just another one of your subordinates?”
The alpha held his gaze for a few seconds, calm, with that unsettling composure that seemed impossible to break.
“I want to see what you’re capable of.”
Nothing more. No clarification. No promise. And that ambiguity was more disturbing than any threat. Santa would have preferred Perth to be clear, brutal even, rather than drag him into that gnawing uncertainty. But he already knew the alpha rarely gave explanations.
He stayed silent, documents still in his hands, feeling the road stretch endlessly beneath the wheels and, with it, the certainty that he was being pushed into uncharted territory where he didn’t know if he would remain a prisoner.
The first stop was the agency’s recording studio. Santa couldn’t hide his amazement when he saw the large building with its minimalist, modern design, the same elegant style as the house where he had been confined. On the façade, the T&R logo stood out in large, glowing letters. It wasn’t the tallest building in the city, but it commanded respect.
A few girls and boys crowded the entrance, on guided tours, snapping photos and mingling with what Santa assumed were artists from the agency. His stomach tightened at the thought of walking through that place full of curious eyes and cameras that could capture his every move. The last thing he wanted was to be exposed in public.
Luckily, the car drove straight into the underground parking lot, off-limits to anyone outside the staff. The relief was only a brief breath.
Perth stepped out first and opened the door for Santa, holding it with a chivalrous gesture that felt unbearable in their context. Santa looked at him with exasperation and got out without a word of thanks, pretending indifference even though he was seething inside.
A pair of guards went ahead, positioning themselves strategically to escort them to one of the elevators. One of them pressed the button for the fourth floor.
The atmosphere as they stepped out of the elevator was a complete contrast: bright hallways, glass walls revealing trainees practicing to exhaustion, producers rushing back and forth with folders and headsets. The place was brimming with youthful energy and constant work.
As soon as Perth entered, everyone straightened and greeted him with automatic respect, as if it were a ritual. Santa followed close behind, clutching the tablet to his chest and staying alert in case he needed to take notes, feigning confidence even though the information in his hands was overwhelming. The numbers and figures felt like a foreign language, and still he forced himself to keep up.
“They want to increase investment in international promotion,” one of the executives explained, stepping forward with an eager voice.
Santa typed quickly on the tablet, then leaned slightly toward Perth.
“Requested investment, twenty percent in digital advertising,” he repeated firmly, reading what William had written down in advance.
Perth glanced at him sideways, assessing without saying a word. But Santa caught it: he had passed the first test.
What followed was a long discussion with directors and managers. Budgets reviewed, projects rejected, others approved with barely a phrase from the alpha. Santa took notes as best he could, occasionally checking what William had prepared for him just to avoid being a useless burden.
When they left the boardroom, Perth stopped in front of one of the training rooms. Behind the glass, a group of young people repeated the same choreography over and over. Sweat dripped down their foreheads and their breathing was heavy, but none of them eased up.
Santa watched in silence for a few seconds, then let out a comment meant to provoke:
“You look like a proud father watching your kids dance.”
Perth didn’t take his eyes off the training as he replied with icy calm:
“The difference is these kids generate millions.”
Santa raised an eyebrow and gave a wry smile.
“How touching, such a family business.”
He got no reply. Not even a smirk. Only coldness, as if he didn’t even deserve confrontation. And that indifference was what irritated him the most: he preferred clashes or anything over that wall of ice that made him feel invisible.
But he dropped the subject for the sake of peace as they headed back down to the parking lot to move on to the next commitment.
The contrast came with the next destination: a warehouse on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by cameras and armed guards. Inside, the air was heavy with chemical dust, mixed with the sharp metallic smell of rusty containers and sealed bags of drugs stacked in columns. Several beta men worked with precision, some scowling, others with their heads down, just doing their tasks. None seemed terrified, but they all moved with an almost military discipline under Perth’s watchful eye.
“Delivery scheduled for dawn,” reported a supervisor with coarse features and a rough voice, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“I want the routes checked and the report before ten,” Perth ordered, without raising his voice, though his tone was severe, and it was clear no one was willing to disobey.
The man nodded quickly, turning to give instructions to the others.
Santa took fast notes on the tablet, but he couldn’t shake the supervisor’s scrutiny burning into the back of his neck. There was distrust in his eyes, as if he were sizing up just how reliable he might be.
“And this one?” he finally asked, gesturing toward him with a curt motion.
“Today’s assistant,” Perth replied, not bothering to explain further.
Santa lifted his gaze with a crooked smile, savoring the tension in the air.
“Today’s. Tomorrow, who knows,” he shot back with deliberate irony.
The supervisor ignored him, seeing that his boss didn’t seem concerned about his presence, and went back to work. Perth didn’t correct him either. That indifference infuriated him, perhaps even disappointed him for not having any confrontation at all.
As he walked among the boxes, Santa thought of his father. Meetings filled with shouting, bottles shattering against the walls, and men forced to kneel with a gun to their heads. Under Surasak’s rule, fear was the foundation of everything. Here, by contrast, there were no shouts or fists pounding the table. Perth didn’t need to raise his voice or brandish a weapon to be obeyed. His presence alone, the way he watched every detail, was enough to make everything fall in line with his will. That difference unsettled him more than the drugs themselves.
The afternoon turned into a whirlwind of contrasts: meetings with businessmen in immaculate suits discussing concerts and advertising contracts, followed by negotiations in dark bars where clandestine distribution routes were planned. Santa had to switch on the tablet, jot down figures, memorize names, and catch gestures. Each task tied him further to a role he hated, an imposed part that made him feel less like his own master. He remembered with anger the days when he could train in kickboxing until his muscles ached, when his routine depended on his will and not on the schedule of a controlling alpha. Now it was all about respecting a timetable and following other people’s steps, under the lightest of surveillance.
In a carpeted hallway of a luxury hotel, rage overflowed in him.
“You’re just like my father. Everything has to be done according to your will.”
Perth stopped dead in his tracks. The stillness of his body was more intimidating than any shout. He slowly turned his head, his gaze charged with restrained fury. Santa felt a spark of satisfaction. At last, he had provoked him, at last he had cracked that damn expressionless face that had accompanied him all day.
“Your father believed loyalty was achieved through intimidation. I don’t even need to raise my voice.”
Santa held his gaze, defiant, his heart pounding violently against his chest.
“That doesn’t make you better. Only different.”
Perth didn’t respond. He started walking again as if his words meant nothing. And that indifference, once more, burned Santa more than any insult.
Even so, against everything he had promised himself, he had to admit there was something about Perth that made him impossible to ignore. A cold, inexplicable force that compelled him to recognize what he should never feel: admiration. The very word shook him like poison coursing through his blood. He shouldn’t be there; it couldn’t break through in the middle of his rage. But it was. It grew, infiltrated his resistance. And that discovery scared him more than the idea of remaining a prisoner.
Throughout the day, Perth hadn’t watched him with the suffocating attention Santa expected. He gave him small spaces, brief moments in which he left him alone, though always under the discreet custody of two guards who made sure his every step stayed contained within an invisible perimeter. Santa could have taken advantage of one of those opportunities to escape. He could have run, looked for a way out, risked everything once more. After all, he was capable of overpowering a couple of betas without too much difficulty. But he didn’t. And that decision remained a contradiction he himself couldn’t fully understand.
He didn’t want to keep tormenting himself with that thought, much less in front of the alpha. So he poured all his energy into the task at hand. He immersed himself in the role of assistant, tablet in hand, going over the notes William had left to help him in the thick folder. The real assistant’s style was meticulous to the point of obsessive: schedules crammed with details, documents precisely classified, and reminders organized by color. Santa, with his rebellious nature, had at first thought all that order was nonsense. But as he read and tried to absorb the schedules, he discovered he could keep up quickly, even anticipate what was expected of him.
That efficiency irritated him. He didn’t want to be useful, didn’t want to prove he was up to the task of a role he hadn’t chosen. And yet, he succeeded. Every time he received a report and processed it swiftly, every time he solved a request without Perth having to repeat it, he felt a flash of pride that at the same time tasted like defeat. As if, unwillingly, he were validating the alpha’s control over him.
What truly unsettled him were Perth’s looks. Every time he came out of a meeting, his eyes sought him out. They weren’t fleeting glances or mere gestures of control, but an intense, almost inquisitive observation, as if he were trying to decipher something hidden within him. At first, Santa thought it was just another method of intimidation. But as the hours went by, that theory crumbled. There was something else in the way he looked at him: a shade of frustration, of bewilderment, even of restrained desire that Santa barely caught a glimpse of before the cold mask of authority sealed the alpha’s face once again.
That tiny crack, that small fracture in the alpha’s relentless character, was what stirred a dangerous admiration in Santa. Because Perth wasn’t only the ruthless mobster who kept him prisoner; he was also the man who held two worlds with precision—one legal and one illegal—who knew how to command without resorting to intimidation, who inspired respect in every gesture from his subordinates. And Santa, against all logic, couldn’t stop recognizing it.
Even so, every silence between them turned into a battlefield where neither yielded ground. Santa held on to his defiant attitude, making it clear he wouldn’t bow down, that he could fulfill the imposed role without becoming docile. But inside, doubt was eating him alive: how much longer could he sustain that façade without breaking? How long before he revealed that something in Perth was pulling him into dangerous territory, a world he feared he might not want to return from?
Lunch arrived as a strange reprieve in the middle of the day. The table was set inside Perth’s office: a spotless tablecloth, perfectly aligned plates, silver cutlery reflecting the light, and a meal far too lavish for what Santa was used to. Every detail seemed to remind him that he didn’t belong in that world.
He sat across from him, the tablet resting at his side. His fingers gripped the glass of water so tightly his knuckles turned white. The silence that settled was suffocating. Only the soft scrape of cutlery against porcelain could be heard, and now and then, the measured sound of Perth’s breathing. For Santa, that calm was unbearable, a void that forced him to listen to the echo of his own thoughts.
In the end, he couldn’t take it anymore. He set his cutlery down on the plate with a sharp clatter and lifted his gaze straight into Perth’s eyes, defiance etched on his face.
“What are you trying to do with all this?” he spat, his voice low but loaded with resentment. “Is this a test? A new game to see how much I can entertain you?”
The silence that followed was heavier than any answer. Perth raised his gaze with deliberate slowness and leaned his elbows on the table. His movements showed no annoyance, only that unbearable calm that defined him and that fanned Santa’s rage even more. He stared at him, as if trying to rip a confession out of him without uttering a single word.
Santa held his gaze, jaw tight, back tense. He refused to yield.
“Are you going to answer?” he pressed, his tone harsher, almost provoking. “Or do you enjoy watching me lose my temper with your damn seriousness?”
The half-smile that curved on Perth’s lips completely disarmed him. There was no warmth in it, only an enigmatic nuance that ran over his skin like a shiver.
“What do you want, Santa?”
That simple question hit him harder than any threat. He blinked, bewildered. That stupid question again. One that left him breathless and forced him to face what he was trying to avoid. He had expected a plan, an order, even a reproach. But not that.
“I…” he began, but his voice broke before he could continue. He bit his lips, holding back, hating the feeling that he had lost control of the conversation.
Suddenly, the word “freedom” tasted like a lie.
Santa lowered his eyes to the plate, throat dry. Yes, he wanted freedom. But he also wanted to prove he wasn’t weak, that he didn’t break so easily. He wanted to survive anything. And in the darkest part of him, where he didn’t dare look too closely, lay the worst: that twisted attraction that kept him tied to Perth, disguised under the excuse of still being a hostage.
The alpha didn’t press him. He didn’t need to. With that single question, he had left him exposed. He picked up his cutlery again and kept eating as if nothing had happened.
“Finish. We have another meeting afterward,” he ordered, his tone dry and assured.
That abrupt change unsettled him even more. Santa wanted to shout at him that he wasn’t a toy to be thrown cruel questions at and then ignored. He wanted to throw the glass of water in his face, do anything to shatter that irritating calm. But he held back. He swallowed the fury, swallowed the helplessness, and sank again into a silence that now weighed twice as much.
When lunch ended, he picked up the tablet and forced himself to keep going, with mechanical steps, as if nothing had happened. But nothing inside him was calm. Perth’s question kept chasing him, repeating in his head like a shadow impossible to silence:
What is it that you really want?
Night fell with a strange weight on his shoulders. When the car stopped in front of a building of ordinary appearance, Santa was surprised by the sobriety of the place. There were no ostentatious signs or unnecessary lights, just a façade blending in with the rest. However, the moment he set foot inside he understood this was no simple building. The security was strict, though almost invisible: guards dressed as security staff patrolled the hallways and were also stationed at the reception, strategically placed cameras watched every angle, and a private elevator, activated by code, took them straight to the top floor.
The apartment unsettled him from the very first moment. It was as elegant as the mansion in the forest, though of course much smaller. Wide windows offered a panoramic view of the illuminated city, an endless horizon of vibrant lights. The furniture was arranged with minimalism: nothing in excess, nothing lacking.
Santa remained standing near the entrance, not daring to move too far in. He watched every detail with suspicion, trying to understand if this place would be his new cage. However, what unsettled him the most was realizing that the surveillance wasn’t centered on him. It was a network designed to shield the place itself, to make it impenetrable, not to monitor his every move. That difference unsettled him more than he was willing to admit.
He wondered, with an anxiety he disguised as irony, whether he could roam the place freely or if, as always, there were invisible limits meant to remind him of his true place.
Perth pulled him out of his thoughts with a simple gesture. He took off his jacket, folding it over his arm with a habitual air. Their eyes met for just a second before he nodded toward one of the doors down the hallway.
“That will be your room for the next few days,” he said in a neutral voice, leaving no room for replies. “At dawn we’ll resume work.”
Santa raised an eyebrow with a defiant expression, unable to contain the impulse.
“And what if I decide to explore a little before going to sleep?” he asked, with a crooked smile that hid more rage than humor.
Perth stopped in his tracks. He turned toward him slowly, his movements carrying that patience that seemed eternal and, at the same time, always on the verge of breaking.
“Do as you like,” he finally replied, without changing his tone. “This isn’t a confinement, Santa. But remember there are places where curiosity can cost you more than you imagine.”
The tablet Santa held against his chest became his makeshift shield. He didn’t want to admit it, but the warning sent a shiver down his back like an invisible mark. His body remembered all too well what it meant to provoke Perth too far.
Even so, his words remained his only weapon.
“Is that a threat or just one of your absurd rules?” he shot back, in a tone meant to keep him at bay.
“Call it whatever you like,” Perth answered, not even slightly bothered. His calm was more intimidating than any shout.
The silence stretched between them like a taut thread. Santa tried to hold his gaze, but there was something in those eyes that disarmed him more than he wanted to accept. They didn’t look at him as an assistant or as a hostage, but as an enigma he still hadn’t managed to decipher.
That intensity enraged him. And at the same time, it attracted him in a way he hated to acknowledge.
Santa scoffed and turned his gaze away with a sharp gesture.
“I don’t need your warnings, Perth. I’m not a child you need to set boundaries for.”
The alpha let out a brief exhale, closer to weariness than to provocation.
“Then behave,” he said firmly, closing the conversation.
Santa felt the urge to fire back with a cutting retort, something that would pierce through that façade of control, but the words died in his throat. The day had been too long, filled with pent-up tensions and questions he couldn’t answer. He was exhausted, and, though he hated to admit it, the only thing he wanted was a moment to himself.
Without farewells or explanations, each one headed to their own room. Santa shoved the door harder than necessary, as if that slam could put some distance between them. He let himself fall onto the bed without undressing, the tablet still in his hands. He stared at the ceiling in silence, trapped in the tangle of thoughts that suffocated him. Perth’s question at lunch kept chasing him like a shadow: What do you want, Santa? Now it was joined by the doubt of whether that apartment was a disguised prison or a strange refuge that forced him to rethink everything.
In the hallway, Perth stopped in front of his own room. He closed his eyes for just a moment, as if he too needed to shake off the weight of the day. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but the clash with Santa had left him unsettled. He wasn’t just another assistant or an ordinary hostage. He was a problem. A problem that couldn’t be solved with threats or a well-made plan. And deep down, that resistance was what kept him tied to him, like an enigma that kept growing.
Inside his room, Santa remained still for a few seconds, as if waiting for the hidden trap of the place to reveal itself. He scanned the room cautiously. It was spacious, sober, with a functional elegance that contrasted with the opulence of the mansion in the woods. The straight-lined bed was impeccably made, the white sheets gleaming under the artificial light. A plain desk, a discreet wardrobe, nothing more.
What truly unsettled him was the door. Just turning the handle was enough to get out. There were no locks, no guards posted in front of it. He could walk down the hallway and head for the exit without anyone stopping him. His heart gave an unexpected leap. He didn’t know what to do with that apparent freedom.
He moved with suspicion, scanning every corner with his eyes. He felt along the walls, the base of the bed, even the edges of the desk, as if searching for hidden cameras or concealed microphones. Nothing. No sign that he was being directly watched.
Then his eyes met the window. Tall, wide, perfect for admiring the city in the half-light. The urban lights shone like artificial constellations pulsing in the distance. He approached with cautious steps and pressed his palm against the cold glass. The icy touch forced him to draw a breath, but instead of calming him, he felt the oxygen clogging in his lungs.
A thought struck him without warning, so intense it nearly provoked a bitter laugh:
Why, being with his captor, did he feel freer than ever?
He forced himself to look away, as if that could erase the idea gnawing at him. But the question remained, anchored deep in his chest. He shouldn’t feel that way. Not with Perth. Not with the man who had ripped him away from everything he knew. And yet, the truth was undeniable: here there were no shouts or blows like his father’s, no restrictions constantly reminding him of the filth of his nature or painting him as someone who needed protection. What there was, instead, was something else. The strange way Perth treated him.
Perth didn’t please him or flatter him, but neither did he reduce him to obedience through violence. There was something in the way he looked at him that went beyond what was expected of a hostage or an improvised assistant. It was as if he expected something from him, as if he recognized him as someone capable of offering… something more. That expectation suffocated him and, at the same time, irritated him.
Santa pressed his forehead against the glass, letting the cold clear away the tangle of thoughts in his head. He tried to convince himself it was only the contrast that confused him: after so much confinement, any space without chains could feel like freedom. But he knew it wasn’t just that. There was something in the way Perth behaved with him, in the calm with which he listened even during his outbursts, that unsettled him more than any physical threat.
“It’s not freedom,” he murmured under his breath, as if trying to convince his own mind. “It can’t be.”
He pulled away from the window and dropped the tablet onto the desk, unwilling to check it. He let himself fall onto the bed, elbows resting on his knees, covering his face with his hands. The exhaustion wasn’t just physical; it was a fatigue born from his internal battle, from trying to fight emotions he didn’t know how to control. He knew he should hate Perth with every ounce of strength he had left, that he should be planning his escape instead of staring out at the night city.
But he did none of that. He simply lay back on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, while the uneasy echo of the question kept pounding in his head. Why with him, with his captor, did he feel that false freedom that terrified him so much?
The city glowed beyond the glass, distant and tempting. Santa didn’t move. For the first time in a long while, he chose silence, as if in it he could find some kind of answer, even if he knew it wouldn’t come right away. He just stayed there, trapped between fear and a strange sense of relief he couldn’t begin to understand.