Xanthos lay there, holding Shoji close, seeking warmth in his omega’s gentle presence. He wanted to sleep peacefully, to dream of better days. But dreams were not always kind, and this night, the haunting nightmare returned—like a ghost from a forgotten age, always lurking, waiting to strike.
The air in his dream was heavy and oppressive, sticking to his skin like a damp shroud. Xanthos, no older than eight, was chained to the cold, stone floor of a dim, suffocating room. The iron shackles that bound his small wrists had worn his skin raw, the flesh underneath bruised and swollen. Every movement brought fresh pain, yet he was too weak to care. His ribs were visible through his skin, his body trembling from starvation. His stomach churned violently, twisting itself in knots from the gnawing hunger that had long since surpassed any discomfort he thought he could endure.
Time lost all meaning in that prison. Hours, days, weeks—they had all bled into one unending stretch of torment. The only sounds were the scurrying of insects in the corners of the room, the faint tapping of their legs against the cracked walls. They came out of the shadows, inching closer, and Xanthos, desperate for any form of sustenance, reached out with trembling fingers. But the chains were too short. They were always too short. His fingers scraped the cold stone floor, missing their mark by mere inches, while his hope slipped further away.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to forget the room. To forget the hunger. To forget the bitter thirst that made his throat burn. But the darkness offered no solace. It only intensified the nightmare.
The silence was shattered by the echoing of footsteps—slow, deliberate, each step bringing a wave of dread that made Xanthos’s body stiffen in fear. He knew those footsteps. They haunted his dreams even now. Sharp, confident, and filled with the malice only one person could carry. His mother.
The door creaked open, and she appeared, silhouetted in the faint light from the hallway. Her figure was draped in rich silks, her jewelry glinting in the dimness, mocking the desolation around her. Xanthos didn’t need to look up to feel her disgust—he could feel it in the air, suffocating him further.
“You look worse than a rat,” her voice was venomous, slicing through the silence with ease. The sound of her heels clicking against the floor was the only other noise in the room besides Xanthos’s shallow, ragged breathing.
He didn’t dare move. He had learned, through painful experience, that any sudden motion would only lead to more suffering. His heart pounded in his chest, the beat echoing in his ears, but he stayed still. Waiting.
She approached him, her lips curling into a twisted smile as she gazed down at him. His once-vibrant eyes, now dull with exhaustion, met hers briefly before flickering away. His body screamed for nourishment, for water, but his soul screamed louder—pleading for this torture to end.
His mother reached into the pouch at her waist and pulled out a small, misshapen piece of bread. It was dirty, stale, and moldy—barely recognizable as food. She dangled it just out of reach, savoring the power she held. The smell of it—rotten though it was—made Xanthos’s stomach twist painfully, his mouth flooding with desperate saliva.
“Hungry?” she mocked, her voice dripping with false sympathy. She waved the bread in front of him, so close yet so impossibly far. His body trembled, his muscles twitching with the effort of holding still.
Then, with sudden brutality, she kicked him in the face. Her sharp heel collided with his cheek, sending a blinding pain through his skull. His head snapped back, and for a moment, everything went dark. When his vision returned, his mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood, sharp and bitter.
“Pathetic,” she spat, letting the bread fall to the floor beside him, where it landed in a puddle of filth. The insects wasted no time crawling over it, their small legs brushing against the food he so desperately needed.
But Xanthos didn’t cry. Not now. He had cried once, long ago, and she had laughed. He had learned that tears only fueled her cruelty. So he stayed silent, even as his body screamed in agony.
His mother knelt beside him, her sickly sweet perfume filling his nostrils, nearly choking him. She leaned in close, her breath hot on his face. “You’re nothing,” she whispered, her voice soft but filled with venom. “You’ll always be nothing. Just like your father.”
Her words, though meant to wound, didn’t surprise him. They had lost their sting long ago, yet they still carried a weight that suffocated him. With a final, mocking laugh, she stood up, turned on her heel, and strode out of the room. The door slammed behind her, the echo bouncing off the walls long after she was gone.
Xanthos lay there, his cheek throbbing, his lips stained with blood. His hands reached out for the bread, but his chains held him back, as they always did. He stretched as far as he could, his fingers brushing the edge of the crust, but the insects were already feasting. Defeated, he pulled his hands back, curling into himself, pressing his face into the cold floor.
The room closed in around him, his mind drowning in darkness. His stomach twisted in hunger, his heart twisted in pain. In that moment, he felt utterly, hopelessly alone. Worthless. Just as she had said.
Xanthos woke with a violent jolt, his body drenched in cold sweat, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. His mind reeled, his body caught between the dream and reality. For a few terrifying seconds, he wasn’t in their bed. He was back in that suffocating room. Bound by chains. Starving. Alone.
But the nightmare slowly began to fade, like shadows retreating from the morning sun. The soft, silver glow of the moon spilled through the window, casting a peaceful light across the room. Shoji lay beside him, curled up against his chest, his soft breathing a gentle reminder that this was real. Xanthos was home. Safe. Free.
He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying his breath, feeling the warmth of his mate against him. The nightmare clung to him like a second skin, its weight pressing down on him even now. He felt Shoji’s small frame rise and fall with each breath, and a wave of calm washed over him. He wasn’t alone anymore.
Xanthos exhaled slowly, his fingers gently brushing through Shoji’s hair. He leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to his mate’s forehead, careful not to wake him. Shoji shifted slightly, instinctively moving closer, seeking comfort in Xanthos’s warmth even in his sleep.
But as Xanthos lay back down, his arms wrapped protectively around Shoji, the darkness still loomed in the corners of his mind. His past, no matter how distant, still held him in its grip. Even now, with everything he had, the chains of his childhood continued to weigh him down....
To be continued...
