HIS BROKEN SAINT

CHAPTER 5:THE HOUSE RULES

The tailor came at 10am sharp.

Three men in suits. Measuring tape. Fabric samples. They spread across Damien’s living room like they owned it. Maybe they did. Damien owned everything.

Elias stood in the middle of the room in just jeans and his hoodie. Bare feet on marble. 19 years old, but he felt 12. Small. Watched.

Damien sat in a leather chair across the room. Coffee in hand. Black. He hadn’t spoken since breakfast. He just watched. Eyes dark, patient, like Elias was a painting he’d just bought and wasn’t sure where to hang yet.

“Arms up,” one tailor said. Elias obeyed. Tape measure cold against his ribs.

Damien’s voice cut through the room. Quiet. Final. “Tighter.”

The tailor pulled the tape. It bit into Elias’s skin. He flinched.

“Damien,” Elias said without thinking. His name tasted like defiance. “He’s hurting me.”

Silence. The tailors froze. No one said Damien’s name like that. Not without permission.

Damien set his coffee down. No clink. He stood. Walked across the room until he was right behind Elias. Close enough that Elias could feel his heat through the hoodie.

“You’re 19,” Damien murmured in his ear. Only Elias heard. “Not a child. Not fragile. Stop flinching. And don’t say my name unless I tell you to.”

His hand came down. Not hard. Just a hand on Elias’s shoulder. Heavy. Claiming. The tape loosened.

“Measure again,” Damien told the tailor. Eyes never left Elias’s neck. “Properly this time.”

The tailor swallowed and started over. Gentle now.

Elias stared at the wall. Cheeks burning. Dad taught him soldier rules, not how to stand still while a billionaire watched every inch of him. He was 19. Old enough to owe 1.8 million. Old enough for this. But his hands still shook.

“Rule five,” Damien said suddenly. Not to the tailors. To him. “You will learn control. Starting now.”

Elias didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to.

The measuring took 40 minutes. Chest. Waist. Arms. Neck. Inseam. Each number written down like Damien was cataloging him. When they finished, Damien dismissed them with one nod. Money transferred before they reached the door.

Then it was just them again. Silence. Expensive silence.

Damien walked to the fireplace. Turned. “Come here.”

Elias stayed where he was. “Why?”

Damien’s eyes narrowed. Not angry. Calculating. “Because I said so. That’s reason enough for one year, Elias. You signed it.”

Elias moved. Slow. Each step felt like walking to a sentence. He stopped 2 feet away. Safe distance.

“Closer,” Damien said.

Elias moved. 1 foot away now. He could smell cedar and coffee and something darker. Power.

Damien looked at him. Really looked. Like he was counting the freckles under Elias’s eyes. The scar on his lip from a fight in Embakasi at 16. The way his throat bobbed when he swallowed.

“You’re thin,” Damien said finally. “You haven’t eaten properly in months. That ends today.”

“I eat,” Elias lied.

“No. You survive.” Damien’s hand lifted. Thumb brushed Elias’s jaw. Not a caress. An assessment. “For 365 days, you don’t survive. You live. My rules.”

Elias jerked his head away. “I don’t need rules. I’m 19, not 9.”

Damien’s smile was small. Sad almost. “No. You need rules more than anyone I’ve ever met. Because without them, you’ll work yourself to death for 200 shillings. You’ll skip meals. You’ll sleep on a floor in Embakasi thinking that’s normal.”

He stepped back. Walked to the desk. Picked up a leather-bound book. Black. No title.

“This,” Damien said, holding it up, “is the House Rules. Ten rules. For one year. You will memorize them. You will follow them. Break one, there’s a punishment. Break two, the punishment doubles.”

Elias’s stomach dropped. “Punishment? Like last night?”

“Worse,” Damien said honestly. No sugar. “Last night was warning. The rules are law.”

He opened the book. Didn’t read from it. He knew them by heart.

“Rule one,” Damien said. Voice flat. Final. “You eat every meal. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Across from me. No skipping. No ‘I’m not hungry’. You’re 19. You need food to function.”

Elias nodded. Small.

“Rule two. You sleep eight hours. No less. No working through the night on laptops for strangers. No nightmares alone. If you can’t sleep, you come to me.”

Elias’s head snapped up. “What?”

Damien didn’t blink. “You heard me. Nightmares, pain, fear. You don’t suffer in silence in my house. You come to me. That’s the rule.”

Elias looked at the floor. Dad died alone in a hospital. He’d learned to swallow pain.

“Rule three,” Damien continued. “You ask before leaving this property. You ask before talking to strangers. You ask before spending money. For one year, your choices are mine.”

“Rule four. You wear what I buy you. No more hoodie 3 sizes too big. No more hiding. You’re 19, Elias. You’ll dress like it. Like you belong here.”

Elias’s fists clenched. “I don’t belong here.”

Damien’s eyes flashed. “Rule five. You don’t say that. Not in my house. Not ever. You’re here. That means you belong. Until the contract ends. And even then…” He stopped himself. Cleared his throat. “Rule five stands.”

He turned a page. Even though it was blank.

“Rule six. You tell the truth. Always. To me. Especially to me. Lie, and the punishment is severe. I will know, Elias. I always know.”

Elias believed him. The way Damien looked at him felt like he could see through skin to the grief underneath.

“Rule seven,” Damien said. And paused. Long enough that Elias looked up.

Damien’s voice dropped. Lower. Rougher. “You sleep where I can hear you breathe.”

The room went quiet. Not expensive quiet. Terrifying quiet.

Elias’s mouth went dry. “What does that mean?”

“It means your room is across the hall from mine,” Damien said. “It means if you cry at 3am like you did last night, I hear you. It means you don’t get to break alone anymore. For 365 days, I listen.”

Elias shook his head. “That’s— that’s not a rule. That’s control.”

“Yes,” Damien agreed. No apology. “Rule eight. You call me Sir. In public. In private. Always. It’s respect. It’s structure. It’s what you owe me for one year.”

Elias’s jaw locked. Dad never made him call anyone Sir. Dad made him call people ‘Mister’ and ‘Ma’am’.

“Rule nine,” Damien said. “You don’t touch anyone without permission. No hugs. No handshakes. No one except me. For one year, your body is off-limits to everyone else.”

The word ‘body’ again. Elias’s chest tightened. He was 19. He knew what that implied. He hated that part of him was curious.

Damien closed the book. Held it out.

“Rule ten,” he said. Last one. Most important.

Elias didn’t take the book. “What?”

Damien set the book down. Stepped close. Invading space. 6 inches between them now.

“Rule ten,” Damien murmured. “When I call you, you answer. And from now on… I call you Mine.”

Elias froze. “That’s not my name.”

“No,” Damien agreed. His hand came up. Two fingers under Elias’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Elias is your father’s name. The boy who lost everything. Mine is your name here. For 365 days. For one year, you’re not Elias Wanjiku drowning in debt. You’re Mine. My responsibility. My debt to pay.”

Elias tried to pull away. Damien’s grip tightened. Not painful. Unbreakable.

“Say it,” Damien ordered. Soft. Terrifying.

“Say what?” Elias whispered.

“Say ‘Yes, Sir’.”

Elias stared at him. 19 years old. Proud. Grieving. Trapped. He thought of Dad’s truck. Of the loan sharks. Of the alley.

He swallowed. “Yes, Sir.”

Damien released his chin. But not his eyes. “Good. Now repeat Rule ten.”

Elias’s voice shook. “When you call me… you call me Mine. For one year.”

Damien nodded. Satisfaction flickered across his face. Then gone.

“One more thing, Mine,” Damien said. Testing the word. It sounded like sin and salvation at once. “Break any rule, and you’re punished. Break rule ten, and I’ll make you regret it for days.”

He turned away. Dismissed. “Go to your room. The clothes will arrive this afternoon. At 6pm, dinner. Across from me. Rule one.”

Elias stood there. Chest heaving. “Mine” echoed in his head. Not his name. A cage. A claim. A promise.

He walked to the door. Hand on the handle.

“Elias,” Damien said without turning around.

Elias stopped. “Sir?”

Damien’s shoulders were rigid. For a second he looked tired. Human. Not a billionaire. Just a man with 3 missing fingers and too much guilt.

“Rule seven,” Damien said quietly. “It’s not control. It’s because I couldn’t hear him breathe. Your father. In the car. Twelve years ago. I heard him stop. I never want to hear you stop, Mine.”

Elias didn’t answer. He left. Door closed.

In his room, he sat on the edge of the bed. 19 years old. Owned for 365 days. Called Mine by a man who’d watched his father die.

He touched his jaw where Damien’s finger's had been.

The House Rules. Ten rules. One year.

He had 364 day