Chapter 42
Sometimes I want, sometimes I don't, sometimes I ache, sometimes I won't…
Vale
Things changed after Vale lost his temper in the basement.
Kieran would appear in doorways now, hovering until Vale acknowledged him, like he was seeking Vale’s approval before settling anywhere in a room.
He would say he was going to get a drink, to nap, to go to the bathroom, and then he would wait for Vale to say “okay” before doing it.
He didn’t flinch when Vale grabbed his collar to pull him in for a kiss.
And then Vale took that phone call two days ago…
Two days ago, Kieran had chosen him. He knelt between Vale’s thighs, trembling, allowing himself to be vulnerable, as if he was silently asking to learn what pleased Vale instead of waiting to be taught.
The trust it represented should have been the most romantic moment of their entire relationship.
But the memory wouldn’t stay tender. Vale’s mind kept pulling back to the heat of Kieran’s mouth, the tentative exploration that turned hungry. The way he looked up with those brown eyes while his lips stretched around his cock, taking him deeper…
And then that soft, confused sound when Vale wouldn’t let him pull away, keeping him close and full and exactly where Vale needed him.
Not wanted him. Needed. Because all the love and lust he felt tangled in his mind until he couldn’t separate wanting to protect Kieran from wanting to consume him completely.
Both felt like worship. Both felt inevitable.
“Vale?” Kieran sounded nervous from his seat on the floor, his guitar in his lap. “I had an-n-n idea about... about c-connecting with people who like the music.”
Vale set down his coffee, giving Kieran the focused attention that always made him straighten with nervous energy. It looked like an automatic response, like a flower turning toward sunlight. “Tell me.”
“I kn-know the mysterious ast-ast—mysterious look works, and I understand why it’s important,” Kieran began, “but there are th-thousands of mysterious artists. What if Thorn was d-different? What if I could t-talk to fans online, answer questions ab-about the music? Or just... like their p-pictures of their cats? People like that kind of st-stuff.”
Vale’s throat felt tight, fighting against an unexpected well of emotion as he watched Kieran’s face, taking in the hopeful look in his eyes that made him radiant.
I never expected to fall in love with you. I expected to cultivate you, to shape you, to create something beautiful and profitable. I didn’t expect to want to give you cat pictures and fan interactions just to see you smile.
“Just ab-about the music,” Kieran clarified quickly, color rising in his cheeks. “N-nothing personal, nothing that would c-compromise what we’ve built. But I’m l-lonely with just—” He stopped himself, his teeth finding his lower lip.
Lonely with just me. Say it, sweetheart. Admit that I’ve become your entire world and it’s not quite enough.
“It’s an interesting proposal,” Vale said. “Direct engagement could build the kind of loyalty traditional promotion doesn’t achieve.”
Kieran’s face transformed with a hesitant smile.
“I would follow whatever g-guidelines you think are appropriate,” Kieran offered. “You could monitor everything, t-to make sure I d-don’t damage what we’ve created.”
“Give me time to consider the logistics,” Vale said, already planning the monitoring software that would let him experience Kieran’s unguarded thoughts in real-time.
“Thank you for c-considering it,” Kieran said, settling back with his guitar..
But beyond the practical considerations of control and monitoring, Vale found himself genuinely pleased that Kieran felt safe enough to ask for things.
Vale’s laptop screen displayed Alex Thayer’s latest desperate attempt—a blog post titled “The Rose Method: How Vale Rose Breaks Artists for Profit.” The writing was more coherent than Alex’s previous attempts in the past, still lacking concrete evidence but gaining traction in certain corners of the music industry where whispered rumors carried more weight than facts.
Poor Alex. Still bitter about discovering you weren’t exceptional enough to warrant my full attention.
Vale scrolled through the accusations, noting which details were accurate and which were Alex’s wounded imagination filling gaps in his incomplete understanding.
The sexual implications were pure fiction—Vale’s cultivation of Alex had been entirely about finding the emotion hidden under all that technical skill, but nothing like the deeper transformation Kieran required.
You were talented, Alex. Just not transcendent. Not worth the kind of education that turns broken boys into devastating artists.
The industry had already dismissed Alex as unstable—the substance abuse visible at networking events, the increasingly erratic social media presence, the way he’d accused three other producers of similar “abuse” when they’d simply declined to work with him.
His credibility had eroded to nothing, which meant these blog posts were little more than screaming into a void that stopped listening.
I gave you exactly what you could handle. It’s not my fault you wanted more than you deserved.
Vale’s phone buzzed with a calendar reminder he’d set himself: ‘schedule Dr. Henley’. Kieran’s “little seizures”, as he called them, were getting worse. The stress of their intensifying dynamic affected his epilepsy in ways that required adjustment.
I need to protect you from your own nervous system. Even as I push you, I have to keep you safe enough to survive your success.
The self-harm had evolved too—from nail biting to eyelash pulling to that concerning habit of picking at his scabbed knuckles when he thought Vale wasn’t watching. Tomorrow I’ll call Dr. Henley. Maybe he can adjust the Keppra dosage, maybe add something for impulse control—
Vale’s phone rang, displaying a number that tightened his jaw with irritation. “What do you want, Nox?”
“Valerian, my friend,” Nox’s oily voice slithered through the speaker. “I have an invitation for you. A private gathering next weekend, very relaxed atmosphere. No phones, no recording devices, just artists and producers sharing... creative insights.”
“I’m not interested.” Vale’s tone carried the kind of finality that ended conversations, but Nox pressed forward.
“Come now, don’t be antisocial. Bring your Bandaid boy—I’m sure he’d enjoy meeting other artists at his level. Unless, of course, you’re scared of letting him off the leash again.”
Vale’s grip tightened on the phone, murderous fantasies blooming in his mind. He could imagine exactly how Nox’s larynx would feel crushed beneath his fingers and picture the exact shade of purple his face would turn when those predatory vocal cords produced only silence.
I could make music from your dying breath.
Movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention.
Kieran stood in the office doorway in an oversized t-shirt that fell to mid-thigh, bare legs pale in the hallway light.
He rocked on the balls of his feet, nervous energy radiating from his slight frame while his eyes remained fixed on the floor.
A nightmare? A seizure? Or just couldn’t sleep without me?
“I have to go,” Vale said into the phone, cutting off whatever new provocation Nox was attempting.
“Think about my offer. It would be such a shame if your protégé missed opportunities because you’re too possessive to—”
Vale ended the call and set the phone aside, giving Kieran his complete attention. “Come here, sweetheart.”
He patted his lap in invitation, the same gesture that had become routine over weeks of evening conversations.
Instead of curling up sideways in Vale’s lap like a cat seeking warmth, Kieran moved to straddle him in the office chair.
That’s when Vale realized the oversized shirt was all Kieran wore beneath the collar—no underwear, no barriers, just warm skin and trembling determination.
Christ. You’re making another choice.
Vale’s hands found Kieran’s hips, steadying him while he read Kieran’s body like sheet music. His pupils normal—no post-ictal confusion, no flushing, no strange breathing patterns. His eyes shone with those beautiful tears that made Vale’s mind short circuit and devolve into filth.
“Kieran, look at me.” Vale hooked his fingers beneath the collar and tugged his face closer. “Are you here with me? All the way here?”
The tears spilled over as Kieran nodded, carving wet paths down his cheeks, and Vale wanted to follow them with his tongue—to trace them back to the ducts, to the nerves, to whatever the soft place inside Kieran was that made his trepidation so exquisite.
His hands ached to find the pressure points in those narrow hips, the places where bone met tendon met skin, and press until the wellspring opened again “I’m h-here. ”
Before Vale could ask the next question, Kieran’s mouth found his neck, his lips pressing against his jugular.
Electricity shot through Vale from the point of contact.
His grip tightened on Kieran’s hips, pulling him closer while Kieran continued that soft exploration of his neck—kissing, tasting, learning the geography of surrender in the only language he had left.
“I’ve almost g-got it figured out,” Kieran whispered against his skin. “The song. I c-can’t... I need…C-can you help me?”
Vale’s breath caught at the request. This wasn’t desperation or people-pleasing—this was Kieran connecting their intimacy directly to his artistic process like Vale wanted. He was acknowledging that the two had become inseparable.
You can’t create without experiencing through me first. I’ve become the lens through which you process everything, even your own desire.
“What do you need from me?” Vale asked, though he already knew. He just wanted to hear Kieran say it.