Unclaimed Mine

The cellar air tasted of copper and damp concrete, a stagnant weight that clung to the back of the throat.‎‎A single, naked bulb hummed overhead, casting a harsh, flickering light that carved deep shadows into the corners of the room.‎‎Alexander backed away, his heels clicking sharply against the floor, until the rough grit of the wall scraped through the fine silk of his cream-colored shirt.‎‎He was breathing hard, his chest heaving, the scent of his expensive, citrusy cologne clashing with the smell of mildew and old oil.‎‎Matthew stood three paces away.‎‎He hadn't moved a muscle in minutes.‎‎He remained a statue in a charcoal suit, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his posture a perfect imitation of the professional shield he had been for over a decade.‎‎But his eyes—usually flat, opaque voids—were burning.‎‎There was a frantic, starving energy behind his pupils, a hunger that had been simmering since he was twenty and Alexander had first bloomed into a reckless, golden youth.‎‎"You think I was protecting you from them, Alexander?"‎‎Matthew’s voice was a low, jagged rasp that seemed to vibrate in the small space. It lacked the deferential cadence he had used for years.‎‎The "Sir" was gone.‎‎The respect was gone.‎‎Alexander spat, a glob of saliva landing on the concrete between them.‎‎He tried to summon the arrogance that usually acted as his armor, the red-flag confidence of a man who had never been told no.‎‎"Get out of my way, Matthew. My father will have your head for this. Do you have any idea what happens to guards who forget their place?"‎‎Matthew didn't flinch.‎‎He took a slow, deliberate step forward. The leather of his shoes creaked.‎‎"I’ve known my place since I was fifteen, Alexander. I’ve lived in your shadow. I’ve breathed the air you discarded. I’ve watched every single person you let into your bed, every girl who thought she could touch what belongs to me."‎‎Alexander’s brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.‎‎"What the f**k are you talking about? I don't care who you watch."‎‎Matthew smiled.‎‎It wasn't a warm expression; it was a predatory baring of teeth.‎‎He stepped closer, invading Alexander's personal space, the heat from his body radiating through the thin fabric of the heir's shirt.‎‎"Do you remember Chloe? The blonde from the club three months ago? The one who suddenly stopped calling? Or Marcus? The boy with the lip piercing who vanished after that weekend in the Hamptons?"‎‎Alexander froze. ‎‎The air in the room seemed to thicken.‎‎"They just... they moved on. They left."‎‎"They didn't leave," ‎‎Matthew whispered, his voice dropping to a primal, guttural register. ‎‎He reached out, his fingers grazing Alexander’s jawline. ‎‎The touch was light, but the grip tightened suddenly, bruising the skin. ‎‎"I cleared the path. I pruned the garden. I spent years scrubbing the filth of other people off your skin. I was protecting me from them. Because I’m the only one allowed to touch you. I’m the only one allowed to break you."‎‎Alexander’s eyes widened. ‎‎The reality of the situation crashed over him like a freezing wave. ‎‎He tried to wrench his head away, but Matthew’s hand locked like a vice. ‎‎"You're insane. You're a f*****g psychopath!"‎‎"I am your shadow, Alexander. And the shadow always wins when the lights go out."‎‎Matthew slammed him against the wall.‎‎The impact knocked the wind out of Alexander, leaving him gasping, his head snapping back against the concrete with a dull thud. Before Alexander could scream, Matthew’s mouth crashed onto his.